Dividing Earth Part 17

They spoke of their race until someone knocked on the door. Ordinarily, Daniel could sense someone coming long before they arrived. Disturbed, he went to the door and pulled it open.

And met his son.

Daniel did his best not to react. The boy was tall, his shoulders broad, his eyes clear, glittering with intelligence, and his smile, although he was noticeably nervous, was beautiful. Daniel leaned his bulk against the door frame, looking down at the boy, and asked, "Can you guess my two questions?" The boy, whom he knew was called Montague, shook his head. He looked suddenly terrified, and it was all Daniel could do not to put his arms around him.

The boy, in a boyish soprano that was soon to change, said, "My name is Montague Greer, sir."

"Montague, why are you here?"

The boy peeked inside; once he spied Sarah, he stepped back. "I came for her."

Daniel looked over his son, and his heart broke: Montague loved the girl. Or thought he did. "Do your folks know you're here?"

Looking up with frightened eyes, Montague shook his head.

That's when Daniel saw the lights. He looked up, thought for a moment they weren't there, but then he saw them deep in the woods, moving. "Who knew you were coming?" he asked, his heart racing.

Montague turned. "No one, sir."

Sarah stood up behind Daniel. "Do you smell that?"

"Come in, boy," said Daniel. He watched the lights draw closer, divide and multiply, become torches, and the shadows men. Along with the fire, the men carried muskets. Nathaniel led them. The brothers made brief eye contact, and the reverend grinned. Daniel stepped back, closed the door, and sighed. "They mean to kill us," he said, scarcely believing it even as he said it. "They mean to kill all of us."

Sarah had been standing near the back of the room, but now she stepped forward. She took a deep breath and Daniel glanced back at her. "What they mean to do," she began, speaking through clenched teeth, "and what they will accomplish are two different things." Her eyes were afire.

Daniel turned back, went to the window. His brother was surrounded by townsmen. They were all pointing at his cabin, listening intently to Nathaniel, their torches raised high. Then the preacher yelled it. "Light it!" His face was illuminated like a Jack O'Lantern by the fire. "Light it!" And the men moved.

There was a second when everyone inside the cabin looked each other in the eye and had the identical thought, Perhaps they won't follow his order. But then Daniel looked out the window and the men were closing in, their torches raised, the fire consuming them destined to be transferred.

4.

The fire spread quickly, and Montague rushed to the door, pushed on it. He backed away, staring at his hands. "It's hot," he said, a wild look of horror coming over him. Crying, he began to scream for it to stop.

The flames ate up the sides, then reached for the roof. The eating sounds grew louder, burning smells sharper, and fiery ash began to drift down. He began to cough as the smoke poured in. He screamed for Sarah and she yelled back so he reached out and grabbed a hand, but it was Daniel's hand, the witch's hand, and for a moment he didn't know what to be more frightened of. He let go, breathing in shallow gasps now. The tears were soot on his cheeks. His eyes were gla.s.sy with terror. Then he thought, Heat, it goes up. He went to his knees.

When he looked back up he saw a strange thing. Daniel and Sarah were standing in the middle of the smoky cabin, seemingly conversing, oblivious to the smoke and the fire that reached through the open windows with yellow and blue fingers. Then his eyes began to sting and he closed them, sinking closer and closer to the floor.

After a time he heard a voice, and it seemed far off. "Hold on, son," the voice said, and then arms fell over him-thick, weighty arms winding around his torso. For a moment, he thought his ear drums had burst, because it grew quiet, the screams and shouts outside the cabin fading. Then he thought that perhaps he was dying because he could no longer smell the smoke. He held on to the arms, tried to open his eyes, which were wet with ashy tears and sweat. The idea that he was dying was confirmed by the appearance of a cloudy sky, violet and tinged with red. He thought he cried out but he couldn't hear his own voice. The sky blackened, vanishing, and time seemed to pause. Or perhaps, he thought, I am now dead. There was nothing beneath his feet, and dark all around him. Still, he felt Daniel's arms; the witch was breathing into his ear. Maybe we're all dead.

Slowly, things began to reappear. As if a great and giant hand were painting it around him, objects came into being. He heard a gasp, a voice. Or it might have been the sound of the world being born. Then he felt wet gra.s.s under his feet and closed his eyes a second, thinking, He's moving me. Somehow he's moving me.

When he opened his eyes again he was surrounded by a forest. The witch's hand was on his shoulder. "Lovely, isn't it?" said Daniel.

5.

To her astonishment, the fire and smoke were not affecting her: She calmly watched the blaze at work, marveling at its power.

The ceiling was bubbling, caving in spots, and she knew the whole thing would soon come spilling in. By the back window the fire licked inside, setting the books aflame, and she went there, touched a blue-white flame, bringing it before her eyes. The fire danced on the tips of her fingers. She felt it, understood her skin would register a burn tomorrow, but knew it wouldn't be as bad as one on a normal man. She tilted her head and closed her eyes, thought of her father and mother, and of how they were gone now, lying on a table somewhere back in Tempest, perhaps in a common, shallow and unhallowed grave outside of townm and how the man who'd caused this was standing just outside this cabin's walls, the fierce light of a fire he'd created flickering in his eyes as the blaze reached for the vault of heaven. The heat enveloped her hand and she started for the door, her eyes still closed. She opened them and kicked at the door, which fell off its hinges, then strolled from the burning house, leapt off the stoop, landed solidly in the dirt and stood there, a ball of white flame circulating around her fist. The men stared at her with wide eyes. A few lifted their muskets. Sarah shrieked and punched her burning hand into the air as the fire behind her ate, crackling with hunger, its wooden nourishment crumbling in its jaws. She tumbled to one knee, smashing her fist into the earth at her feet.

In pieces, the house came crashing down.

Still on one knee, Sarah looked up. The preacher stood before his mob, watching her. Although a pale flame still swirled around her hand, she no longer felt it; she felt only a white-hot fire within. Her mouth snapped open and shut, her hands began to tremble. Suddenly, her back arched. She closed her eyes to the night sky and heard a scream. It was hers. There was a clatter of dropped rifles as the men fought, too late, to retreat. Then one man moaned. Another screamed. Sarah cried out; foam began to creep from her mouth. With another howl, she lurched forward. One by one, weapons began to drop into the dust. The preacher shouted for them to pick them up, to attack, but then he fell silent, his eyes growing large. A smile that felt somehow wicked spread over Sarah's face. It was good, watching it.

Nathaniel Durham stood before his men, the beginnings of a seizure playing over him: his hands fisted and opened, his face contorted, his body twisted violently. Then he fell still, and when he opened his mouth, Sarah thought it was to scream. But for a moment she saw only blackness. Then a blue light at the back of his throat. Then a flame burst from his mouth along with the most final, horrible scream Sarah had ever heard, and she thought, The scream they deserve. A holy fire burned through his cheeks, his chest, his thighs, and then Nathaniel Durham was on fire, a conflagration taking him from the inside out. The mob joined him. It was as if their insides had been coated in kerosene and set inside a furnace.

They were all burning.

Sarah stood, the flames dancing in her eyes, and her smile vanished. She stepped back. They were running and rolling on the ground, and their voices, before only a ma.s.s of sorrow, broke apart into a series of raw, lonely cries, as if their lament was an afterthought. She looked for the preacher, but couldn't distinguish one from the other, and she continued to back away. With every step the thought beat like a heart, It was wrong. There were reasons, she supposed there were always reasons, but she hadn't fixed a thing.

Her parents were still dead.

Sarah turned, picking up her pace, suddenly wanting to be free. She broke into a run, feet slamming into the dirt that wound away into this expanse of land they now called America, and something inside her, she would later think, had changed.

Part Three: The Door.

"The dead have highways."

-The Books of Blood, Clive Barker.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Intersection.

1.

Robert awoke late in the morning, stumbled into the bathroom, stared at the scale a moment, then stepped into the shower. This morning he didn't vomit, and in a half hour was clean and dressed.

He went down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister, and trudged outside to get the mail. Pulling out a stack of envelopes, he shuffled through the top two-junk mail he let fall to his feet-and came on his pay stub. Next was a credit card bill-which he dropped beside the junk-then a letter announcing parent-teacher day at his daughter's school (another dropee), and finally a yellowed envelope bearing his name and address in fading ink. There wasn't a return address. He flipped it over. And stumbled back, inadvertently dropping the letter next to the others. A wind kicked up, and everything took flight. He yelled at the wind and, bent over, waddled through his yard, picked up envelopes, cursed, tossed them back into the air, and rushed over to the next white rectangle to catch his eye.

He'd almost given up when he saw it facedown in the driveway, and he lifted a finger, as if to say Ah-ha! and ran to it, scooped it up. He couldn't take his eyes off his name; the writing, so delicate, elegant even. His mind felt empty. Slowly, he turned the envelope over, and the name came into view; his head felt emptier still, and all he could do was stare. Contemplation seemed far off. Then he said it. "Mom?"

He sat alone in his office. He'd been studying the back of the envelope, which bore his mother's name and the address of the house where he'd grown up. He had yet to open it. "Impossible," he murmured, laying it beside the letter-opener.

He leaned past an open-faced book, grabbed the phone, dialed his father's number. Juanita answered. She seemed overjoyed to hear from him, but sensed he hadn't rung for her, and called for Jimmy. He heard birds, a breeze, laughing adults.

"Son?"

"Hey, Dad."

"What's wrong?"

"How are you?"

"Peachy. How's Veronica?"

"She left."

"Jesus."

"And I'm sick, Dad. Real sick." There was a pause. The laughing stopped, the birds silenced, the breeze quieted: His father had moved inside. Robert had never seen their home, had never visited Puerto Rico. He'd always meant to.

"Tell me," Jimmy said.

"Like mother was."

"When did you find out?" Jimmy's voice was weak now.

"Not long ago."

"I'll be there tomorrow."

"Not yet, Dad. I'm going to pull through, I promise."

"Don't f.u.c.k around. You have a little girl, and apparently no wife. I'm coming up."

Robert paused. "What about Juanita?"

"Just me."

"Are you two-"

"We're fine. You need me. She'll be fine without me for a while."

"Okay."

"Anything else?"

"Oh," said Robert, more dazed than ever. "I got something strange in the mail today."

"What?"

"It's postmarked October of 1970."

"Mail never was any d.a.m.n good."

"It's from Mom."

"Someone's jiggling your meat."

"I haven't opened it."

"Christ, but you were always dramatic. Open it."

Robert slid the knife into the top of the envelope, tore it end to end. His heart throbbed at the root of his throat. It was one piece of paper. He took it out, held it to the window's light, unfolded it, but there was nothing. No ink, no impressions, only a blank sheet of paper. "She didn't write anything."

"Son?"

"Yeah," said Robert, oblivious, staring at the blankness.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Robert hung up, glanced around his office, took out one of his mother's diaries, thumbed through it, comparing the writing to that on the front of the envelope. It was a perfect match. Dumbfounded, he stuck the paper into the diary, and put the volume back into place.

Later, the doorbell rang twice, and he exited his office. "Just a minute!"

"Company!" cried Jennifer, racing down the stairs. She reached the door first, and her enthusiasm suddenly waned. She backed up.

"What's up, baby?"

"It's the law and order," she said. Robert let her stay up too often, watching cop shows.

"Alright," he said, joining her at the door. He opened it on two uniformed men. "May I help you guys?"

"Robert Lieber?" the cop on the right asked. He had greased hair, a uniform devoid of jewelry, and his right hand shook by his hip.

"Yes," said Robert.

"May we come in?" asked the other man. This officer, though no older than the other, was obviously walking the rookie through this.

"Sure," he answered, motioning them into the foyer, where a couple of couches sat facing each other, a coffee table between them. "What's going on, fellas?"