Elizabeth Hand - Waking the Moon

“You can save Dylan,” Robert said. “If we haven’t waited too long.”

“But how—where is he?”

I pulled away from Balthazar, and pushed Annie aside. “Do you know? Is he hurt? Because if you hurt him—if anyone hurts him—I’ll kill you with my bare hands. I swear to god by all that’s holy, I will—”

Balthazar opened his mouth to speak. But before he could say anything, Annie erupted into laughter.

“What?” I shouted, whirling to face her. “What’s so funny?”

“N-nothing,” she gasped.

“Because I’m not kidding, I’ll kill anyone—”

“That’s what I mean,” Annie said, and wiped her eyes. “I think that’s the point, Sweeney—”

She turned and stared at the two Benandanti. Then, to my surprise, she made a little bow. Her husky voice rang out as she announced, “Well, guys—whoever you really are, and whatever the hell you’re doing—

“I think you finally got the right girl for the job.”

I said nothing; what could I say? But at last Robert Dvorkin sighed and murmured, “We can’t wait. Are you ready, Balthazar?”

Balthazar turned to me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I stared at my feet and nodded. “I’m ready. But where is he? How are we going to find him?”

Balthazar took my hand. “This way, Sweeney,” he said, and pointed at the front door of the carriage house. Abruptly Annie was there between us, shaking her head furiously.

“Hey! If you think you’re taking her off somewhere—”

“No, Annie,” I said. Adrenaline and dread and exhaustion had pumped me up so that I hardly even felt afraid anymore. “This is—well, I don’t know what it is, but you better not come.”

“Don’t you dare —”

“Annie!”

“Let her go.” Robert’s calm voice cut through the anger. “One way or another, it won’t matter.”

Annie turned to him. “Oh, right, like I don’t—”

I grabbed her. “Shut up, Annie. Balthazar, tell me what to do.”

I looked into his eyes: those half-feral eyes, with their mockery and menace always waiting, waiting, like a patient wolf. I saw no mockery there now, or menace; but neither did I see any warmth. Only a cool, measuring regard, as though he were looking at a heated glass and wondering if it was strong enough not to shatter.

After a moment he nodded. “That way.” Once again he pointed to the door.

I shook my head. “That’s the front door of my house.”

“That’s right, Sweeney.” A very small smile appeared on his face. “Go,” he urged, and gave me a gentle push.

“But—”

“Go.”

All the bravura I’d felt moments before was gone. I felt sick and numb with fear; but then I thought of Dylan. Somewhere, Angelica had Dylan; but where? I could only trust Balthazar now.

“Okay,” I said. I walked toward the door, forgetting Annie stumbling behind me, forgetting Balthazar and Robert and even Angelica.

Dylan, Dylan, I thought, and reached until my hand pressed against the screen. Oh, Dylan.

The door bulged open, the bottom catching on the floor sill and groaning as I pushed. Dylan. Dylan. Then, with a sound like water bursting from a broken dam, the door gave way. Before me was a dazzling vista, gold and crimson and argent, nothing but radiance, and so brilliant I could not bear to gaze upon it. I closed my eyes and stepped forward. My hands flailed helplessly as I plunged. Before I could draw another breath I tumbled head over heels and struck the ground. I lay there for a moment, groaning.

I had walked through the Benandanti’s portal and left the carriage house behind, and it hadn’t killed me. Yet. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

I was at the Divine.

“Sweeney—”

I stumbled to my feet as Annie staggered up beside me. “Sweeney—how did—are we—”

“Yes,” I said, staring at the sky. “I think we are.”

We were on the porch in front of Garvey House. Wherever I looked, everything seemed to be in motion. Immense oaks lashed back and forth like saplings, their leaves torn from them and sent spinning upward. All the air was charged with the sound of wind, a terrifying roar like a thousand engines racing. A power line whipped through the air, finally wrapped itself around a toppled pole. On the narrow path leading to the building, whirlwinds of dust and grit churned furiously. A chair went skidding across the porch to crash into the balustrade. I grabbed Annie to steady myself, then pulled her after me down the steps.

“Oh Annie,” I breathed when we reached the bottom. “It’s the end of the world.”

Above us was a raging maelstrom like that I had glimpsed in my vision of Othiym. Only this was real. This was the sky. Like an endless sea of molten lead it flowed and boiled, iron-colored, streaked with waves of bruised green and violet. Lightning shot through the clouds, and as we watched a tree burst into blue flame, then, with a howl like a wounded leviathan, crashed to the ground.

“We have to go!” Annie shouted, pointing at the flaming wreckage. “Get off the hill!”

With a deafening boom the air exploded into white flame. I screamed and ducked, felt Annie pulling me down the path. Leaves and branches whipped my cheeks as I stumbled after her, until with a cry I looked up.

All the Divine was ablaze with lightning. Against this jagged splendor the Gothic buildings rose stark black, their towers and parapets rippling with phosphorescence, their angel guardians aglow. There were no people anywhere in sight, no lights on in any of the windows. I stared, speechless, half-deafened by thunder, like one of those stone figures brought to ground.

“What are we supposed to do?” yelled Annie.

I shook my head and shouted, “I don’t know.”

But I did. Because in all that raging tempest, only the Shrine was untouched. It loomed above the chaos of light and shadow, more the implacable sphinx than ever it had been: ponderous and silent, a behemoth waiting to give birth. Fox-fire flowed from its parapets, pooled like cyanic mist about its twisting stairs and the empty black eyes of its stained glass windows. The gilded stars burned a fiery gold against the lapis dome, and reflected within its curve was the most perfect white crescent of a moon, rising from volcanic clouds on the eastern horizon.

“In there.” I pointed to the Shrine. “He’s in there.” Annie nodded mutely as I started to run. “Come on—”

Beneath our feet the grass kindled. Smoke billowed behind us and I choked on the scent of burning leaves. To either side rose the Piranesian citadels where for two hundred years the Benandanti had kept their treasures and lore intact, with their winged granite sentinels outside. I could feel their eyes upon me now, those same blank eyes that had greeted me on that first afternoon so long ago; could see them crouched on balusters and columns with wings arched as for flight, their hands drawn up before them prayerfully. I ran, wiping my eyes against the smoke and heat, while before me the Shrine seemed to swell ever more monstrous, and the impassive angels watched.

Suddenly Annie shrieked. I turned and saw her pointing wildly.

“Sweeney!—”

The sky was filled with angels: black and crimson angels with coppery wings. From towers and rooftops and steeples they flew, launching themselves with arms outflung, hair aflame and their wings spreading behind them in glorious arcs, and all the air thundered with their cries. Voices like bells and voices like the sea, children’s voices and the groans of old men, exulting and lamenting and howling their triumph as they swooped from their pediments and made blazing Catherine wheels across the sky. I stared dumbfounded, too overcome by awe to feel afraid, until one careened through the air above me, so close that its fingers raked my scalp and I fell back screaming with pain.