John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

Symbols he didn’t understand covered it in neat rows, and though some of the ancient parchment was stained, none of the ink had faded at all.

As he gazed at the indecipherable words, he realized that whatever they were, they were meant for him.

Only him.

They had been buried for a very long time — he couldn’t even imagine how long — and they had been waiting for him. And when the Holy Mother had seen that he was ready, she had guided him to the place and given him this gift.

The boy replaced the scroll and the lid.

His finger traced the crucifix on the lid. Except that it wasn’t really a crucifix at all — it looked more like the place where a crucifix had once been, but had been pried away, like a stone removed from its setting. He held the box closer to the light and examined it more carefully. Yes, there had once been a cross attached to the lid, but it was gone.

But where was it? Perhaps if he prayed very hard, the Holy Mother would lead him to the crucifix, too, and then he could put it back in the lid of the box, where it belonged.

“ Ave Maria, ” he whispered. Then, cradling the box, he moved to the window and gazed out at the statue in the grotto at the far end of the courtyard. The moon was full, and the face of the Holy Mother was bathed in a light as silvery as the box he held. Above her, millions of stars filled the night sky.

“I will learn to read this, Holy Mother,” the boy whispered. “I will learn to read this and do whatever it is you wish me to do.”

KUWAIT † 1991

Yellow.

Everything was yellow. Not just the desert; not just the sun. Everything.

The sky.

The heat itself.

All of it — yellow.

It had been bearable until a few moments ago. Until then the sky, at least, had been blue — a pale blue, not the brilliant blue of the sky at home, but at least the right color. Then, only a few moments ago, it had changed. The wind had picked up, a stain had spread across the sky, a stain the color of camel urine.

As the sandstorm raced across the desert the convoy ground to a halt, the transport trucks themselves seeming to hunker low to the ground against the howling force that swept toward them. It came at a terrifying speed. The men who couldn’t see it — the ones deep at the front of the truck, where at least there was a layer of canvas to protect them from the pale yellow nightmare — even they looked as if they were trying to shrink within themselves, to withdraw their extremities as might a turtle, were it so foolish to be caught in a gathering maelstrom.

But as the yellow wall surrounded the convoy, then caved in upon it, there was a strange beauty to the storm — a beauty so rare that the man in the very back of the truck rose from his defensive crouch, his hands gripping his camera. Swinging his legs over the back of the truck, he dropped to the ground, then scuttled into its lee. The wind was blocked just enough by the truck for him to straighten up, but its force was still strong enough to tear at his face.

He ignored the pain, pressed the shutter release.

He could feel the camera vibrate slightly in his hands as the film advanced.

Twisting first one way then another, he kept his finger on the release, catching one yellow image after another. Then, in the corner of the viewfinder, he thought he saw a shape.

A man?

He turned toward it, trying to center it in his lens, but even as the image began to shift, he realized his mistake.

Realized it, and tried to rectify it.

Too late.

The force slammed into his chest as he dropped to the ground.

The camera fell from his hands, bounced, and skidded under the truck.

Peering down at his chest — which somehow didn’t seem to hurt at all, despite the force of the blow — he wondered what it was that had struck him. A moment later, as a dark red stain blossomed on his khaki shirt, he knew.

He tried to speak, but his words sank in the blood that filled his mouth, and when he tried to spit, the howling wind slashed back at him, adding dust, grit, and sand to the mix of blood and saliva.

As he tried to swallow the whole grotesque mixture, fast enough at least to catch his breath, the truth of what was happening slowly sank in.

He was dying.

Dying here in the desert with the wind and sand howling around him. He cried out for help, but knew it was already far too late.

A sense of calm began to overtake him, as if the eternal tranquility of death was already embracing him.

He choked, coughed again, and struggled for the next breath.

A breath that seemed hours — an eternity — away.

Make peace.

The thought came softly to him amid the twin storms that were now raging around him, one as his organs struggled to survive, the other bent only on grinding him down into the sand that surrounded him.

Make peace.

There was no pain at all, but now his mind refused to focus. Too much of his attention was being demanded by his failing body, when already his spirit knew there were more important things at hand. His body suddenly seemed to be nothing more than an inconvenience, interfering with all that was truly important.

He had things to do.

He needed to pray.

He needed to make peace.

Yet this was not the way he was supposed to die.

Not so young, not with so much left to do.

But it was happening again.

He was dying like his father had died.

Like his grandfather had died.

The roar of the storm faded from his ears as his mind began turning away from his body until he finally knew that his ruined body and its discomfort were no longer of any concern to him at all. He felt a softness, a lightness of being.

Make peace.

Though almost beyond his control, his fingers made their way to his chest, to the crucifix that had been worn by all the generations of his family.

The crucifix that was supposed to have protected them.

But it had never protected any of them.

Never helped any of them to survive, to see a child grow up, a grandchild born.

With the last of his physical energy, he tore the thing from around his neck.

Then he felt hands on him, and a soldier’s face was close to his, shouting over the howling wind.

But it was too late.

Far too late.

He pressed the crucifix into the soldier’s hand, and felt eternal peace begin spreading through his soul.

“ Protect…, ” he whispered. “…son…”

He closed his eyes and gave himself to death.

2007

RYAN MCINTYRE PICKED up his cereal bowl, held it to his lips, drank down the last of the sweetened milk exactly the way he had for at least the last fourteen of his sixteen years, and pretended he didn’t notice his mother’s disapproving look. With a glance at the clock, he stuffed the last half of his third slice of buttered toast into his mouth then stood up and picked up his empty bowl and plate. He had just enough time to grab his books and get to the bus stop.

“Do you have any plans for after school today?” his mother asked.

Her tone instantly put Ryan on his guard. “Why?” he countered, as he put the dishes in the sink.

“Because we’re going out to dinner tonight, and I’d like you to be home by five-thirty.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his day cloud over. But maybe he was wrong. “Out to dinner?” he echoed, turning to face his mother. “Just us?”

Teri McIntyre turned to meet her son’s eyes. “With Tom,” she said. “He’s taking us both out to dinner, and I’d like you to be home by five-thirty. Okay?” There was a tone to her final word that betrayed the knowledge that she knew it was not okay with Ryan at all. His next words confirmed that knowledge.