She’s standing on the brink of a great chasm, a dark break in the ground that falls away into blackness. Her hands are bleeding and outstretched toward me. I reach out for them, for her, but she pulls away, leaping backwards into the abyss.
“Put it on; now we’re bound together.”
“Wake up.” The low voice is insistent.
My eyes open immediately at the command, and I sit up.
“Follow me.”
I comply without question.
“Through the door on the left, then down the hall. Follow the music.”
Once more I obey the instructions precisely, moving down the hall slowly, carefully, unsure of my exact intent. It is very dark, yet somehow I can still see the door at the end with perfect clarity. I reach this, push it open gently, and then pause. Nothing happens. I move through and start down the long stairs with renewed confidence. The music is much louder here and increases in volume as I reach the bottom. The stairs open up into a large, dimly lit room surrounded on all sides by row upon row of cluttered book cases covered in shadow. In the center of this room, I am surprised to see a large triangular rock chained to the ground, looming far above me into obscurity. The music seems to emanate from this rock. I begin to step toward it but come to an abrupt halt. There is a figure in the darkness moving eerily in and out of the light, in-sync to the music. I recognize him at once—Willus. His deformed outline moves quickly in odd, twitching movements as he circles something at the foot of the rock. Willus’ cackling, child-like voice sings along to the music—it is a song he knows well. I am at once repulsed but fascinated by the sound and find myself continuing to move rhythmically toward the bizarre scene.
“Stop.” The low, gentle voice has returned. I comply with it instantly. I have no choice.
“Go no further.”
A soft hand brushes past the small of my back and takes my arm in a firm grasp, steering me away from the rock.
“Be gone,” it commands again, and the cackling is instantly silenced, leaving only the soft music to murmur through the darkness.
I turn curiously toward the voice, but, despite the pressure on my arm, I see nothing.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“I am Death,” the whisper is returned, and it sounds oddly familiar.
“Paul?”
There is a low laugh. “No. Death. Don’t you recognize me?”
“No?” I reply, confused.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Am I dead?” I try to not sound anxious.
“No.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No. I’m here to help.” Death sounds amused.
“Oh. Good. Help with what? And where am I?”
“Everywhere.” He pauses. “Nowhere. You’re dreaming.”
“Dreaming—yes, dreaming.” I nod thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
“Listen.” Death’s voice is drowned out by a new sound that fills the chamber and, for a moment, overpowers even the music. It is a song, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. It’s like a ray of sunlight cutting through the dark. It has a powerful air to it, like thunder, yet remains as gentle as the hand clasping my arm. It takes my breath away, and, for a moment, even my own thoughts are drowned out by its magnificence.
YOU ARE READING
In the Tears of My Saints
Espiritual"I cry. That's all. And as I cry, the tears fall from my heart and change the world around me. They take pain, they take fear, they take horror and they destroy them. They gather up the bodies and blood, carrying them away toward the pit, flinging t...
