Page 41

In a public restroom I heard the closing of the door to the handicapped toilet and the sound of him emptying his ostomy bag. And then the muffled sobs of despair.

I watched as he struggled through physical therapy that did nothing but seem to magnify his hopelessness.

I saw him stare, stare for a very long time, at a place on a freeway overpass where there was a gap between railings just wide enough for him to steer his wheelchair through. Below, traffic screamed by, cars and trucks, massive steel bullets that would certainly crush him to death as he hit the pavement.

He was picturing it. He was doing more than imagining it, he was working it out in detail: This is how I squeeze through the gap. This is how I pivot to the place where a fall will land me on the road rather than just tumbling me down an embankment. This is how it will feel as I fall. This is the sound I will make when I hit the pavement. This, if I still live and remain conscious, is what the onrushing tractor trailer will look and sound like as it bears down, unstoppable, this the view I’ll have of the driver’s horrified face.

Would he be struck by the massive tires? Or would he be scraped along the pavement by being dragged beneath?

May the goddess Isthil protect me from ever facing such a terrible moment.

I woke to the sound of tapping. Someone was tapping on the closed door of my bedroom. Perhaps it was morning, but I was not rested. I felt like my nerves had all been sandpapered raw. The connection to Trent’s punishment—a punishment that to him would last a lifetime—faded only slowly.

I went to the door.

“I made the coffee,” Messenger said.

“Trent?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

“Graciella?”

“Soon, not now.”

“Then . . .”

“There is a ceremonial matter. I am to attend, and so you must as well.”

“I’ll be ready in two minutes,” I said. So that was what had called Messenger away: a ceremonial matter, whatever that meant.

I don’t know what I expected. I certainly did not expect what happened.

Messenger led the way to the exterior door and opened it. But instead of opening onto the despised yellow mist, we stepped out onto a lawn that seemed to go on almost forever in every direction. It was springy underfoot, very like the grass in Brazil, giving a sense of both reality and strangeness.

I had an odd suspicion as soon as I was clear of my door, and glanced back to have confirmed for me the suspicion that my home was not there any longer. Whatever place I had just stepped out of was not visible now and had been replaced by that Brazil-quality grass, a field that rose and fell in gentle undulation. But as if this scenery revealed itself only to those who took the time to look more carefully, features arose into view: a stream crossed by a fantastic bridge; a distant volcano of impossible height, glowing at the top but emitting no smoke. And ahead of us, right where I should certainly have seen it upon arrival, was a structure that immediately reminded me of the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz.

No, it was not green, but it was unworldly, composed of sharp angles that made it seem to be a single giant, multifaceted crystal shimmering in faint hues of blue and green.

“Surrender Dorothy,” I said.

“What?” Messenger asked.

“Nothing. Where are we?”

“It would be difficult to explain in geographical terms,”

Messenger admitted. “We are nowhere specific, rather we are within the imagination of Yusil, goddess of creation and destruction. She is the great builder and destroyer, thus city and the volcano. She has created this reality for the ceremony.”

“What is the ceremony?” I asked.

“A trial,” he said flatly, “though guilt is already decided and only the sentence remains in doubt.”

We walked with the easy gait and blistering speed that is only possible in the time distortion of this Netherworld and soon were at a gate. I felt utterly abashed by the size of the crystalline wall that loomed above us. The gate was forbidding, but in a strangely styled way, with sharp spikes of crystal on all sides. The portal itself was open, and as we walked, the spikes around us seemed to notice our presence and grew a bit larger, as if preparing in the event that we made trouble.

The gateway opened into a tall tunnel that led in turn to a chamber so vast you could have stuffed Giants stadium into it with room to spare. It had the feeling of a medieval cathedral, but was filled with light. Even the tiles beneath our feet glowed softly.

At the far end was a stepped platform that rose and rose until it melded into a series of thrones.