Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

“You’re wrong. Love isn’t some kind of chemical accident —it’s an expression of faith. Faith that somehow, despite the odds, there’s something more to life than living in fear and dying alone.”

“Ah, yes —’God is love’ and all that rot. Tell me, have you ever really stopped to think about what that means? Love is cruel. Love is vicious. Love inspires people to kill, to maim, to torture. Love ruins lives, fells cities, destroys civilizations. If you ask me, love’s not all it’s cracked up to be. But then, you shouldn’t have to ask me —you should only have to reflect on where love has gotten you .”

“I have no regrets,” I said.

“Then you’re a fool.”

We sat in silence for a while, me rubbing my limbs to restore circulation after God knows how long lying exposed to the cold night air, and Lilith dressing and roasting one of the carcasses that encircled our little camp. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the meat spit fat into the fire, and filled the night with its scent. I was so hungry, in fact, I didn’t dare ask what kind of meat it was, for fear it’d put me off my appetite.

Whatever it was, it was delicious, or I was hungry enough I couldn’t tell the difference. My throat hurt like hell with every swallow, though, thanks to the ball of feathers, bones, and flesh Lilith’d lodged in it while I was out.

I nudged the ball with my foot. Lilith watched me, but said nothing.

“The fuck is this, anyways?”

“Buzzard, mostly. Consider it a calling card of sorts. A focal object for the spell that brought you back from the depths of your skim-induced slumber. A spell that, you’ll note, has the pleasant side-effect of healing body as well as mind. You’re welcome, by the way.”

I tried to muster up a thanks. It wouldn’t come. “A calling card?” I asked. “A calling card for whom?”

Lilith frowned, as if considering not telling me. Then she sighed, her decision made, and the frown lifted. “I suppose, Collector, we’ve come far enough together you’ve a right to know, regardless of what my superiors may think on the matter. Two days ago, you asked me to call your Deliverants off, and I told you I could not —that they fell outside of hell’s dominion. Deliverants are creatures of the In-Between: the border that separates heaven and hell, life and death, being and not-being. The In-Between is both vast and membrane-thin, an infinity of nothingness contained in such a perfect join between worlds one can scarcely see the seam. The denizens of heaven and hell both are forbidden passage through the InBetween, and yet humankind must venture through it when they leave their world of rot and impermanence for the next —whichever next that proves to be. Which is why both sides are forced to employ your kind —and the filthy carrion creatures that assist you —to facilitate the journey. For you see, Deliverants are not the only inhabitants of the In-Between.”

Realization dawned. “Collectors. You’re talking about Collectors.”

“Yes.”

My thoughts turned back to the horrific visage of an old man, rendered in teeming, hungry insects. To a patch of earth dyed red with blood. To a horrid, rasping voice —which I now realized spoke a truth as terrible as the vulgar sketch of humanity from whence it came.

These creatures , it had told me, are but humble servants, lending form to that which in this realm is formless. Just as that decaying sack of meat you’re wearing lends you form.

Over you , it said, I have dominion.

“Lilith,” I said, bile rising in my throat as my repaired meat-suit crawled with terror and revulsion, “who did you call? Who put me back together?”

She hesitated for a moment, reluctance borne of fear. “It calls itself Charon.”

“And this Charon —he’s the ruler of the In-Between?”

“Yes. Are you all right, Collector? You look pale.”

How she could see that in the dark wash of predawn blue, the flicker of firelight, I don’t know —but then, I reminded myself for perhaps the thousandth time, Lilith is not so human as she appears to be.

It would seem neither of us are.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You look anything but fine.”

Fuck it, I thought. She’d been straight with me. I may as well return the favor. “This Charon,” I said. “I met him. In the desert, on the night that we last spoke. He damn near killed me.”

“And yet he came when summoned to heal you this night,” she said. “Most interesting.”

“He told me I had three days to return the Varela soul to him, or he would plunge me into Nothingness for all eternity. My guess is, he only healed me so I could complete my task.”

She considered it. “Perhaps,” she said, frowning. “Though I’m forced to wonder, why you? Charon could have just as easily called on any of your kind. I suspect there is a reason you, specifically, were chosen. Perhaps Charon’s developed a certain affection for you.”

I thought back to our meeting in the desert. To the biting anger in his tone, the seething fury of his assault. “Not likely,” I said.

“Then perhaps you serve a purpose in his plan. A being as powerful as he no doubt sees a great deal more of the board than do such lowly pawns as you or I.”

“Exactly how powerful is this Charon?” I asked.

“How do you mean?” Lilith replied, suddenly cagey, as though there were something in my tone she didn’t like.

“When we met in the desert, Charon claimed he was an Old God. That my God is nothing more than a pretender to the throne. A seditionist. A fraud.”

“And this troubles you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it does.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “But to me —to all of humankind —the very existence of a loving God is the greatest comfort we could ever know. Even,” I added ruefully, “for those of us removed from His good grace. And the thought that He might’ve stolen his throne —taken it through violence or deceit like a common criminal —robs me of that comfort. It makes him no better than the rest of us.”

“Oh, Collector, when are you going to learn? For all of your moralistic hand-wringing —about your role in this world, your perceptions of my actions, or the origins of your precious Maker —existence is not as simple as all that. There are no good guys, no bad guys —just a giant fucking mess, and a bunch of damaged beings trying to muddle through as best as they can. Perhaps your Maker did steal his throne. Perhaps Charon is lying —you’d be amazed at how many beings like myself have carved out a chunk of history passing themselves off as a deity to one religion or another. Only the Maker Himself could tell you for sure who’s been lying all these millennia, and in case you hadn’t noticed, He’s been quite silent of late. Either way, who are we to judge? We’re each of us nothing but frauds and liars. I mean, look at you! You fancy yourself a decent man, but if that’s the case, then how did you wind up here? How did any of us? There is one thing I do know, though: whatever Charon is, he does not abide insubordination. You’d do well not to cross him.”

“That much, I gathered.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

“Same as before,” I said. “Track down Danny. Find Varela’s soul.”

“Have you any idea where he’s gone?”

“Where worlds draw thin,” I muttered, remembering the inscription on his hovel wall.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Well, then,” she said, “you’d best go get that rotund dowsing rod of yours and find out. It seems you’ve one day left.”