James Frey - Sky Key

Which is precisely what Eben ibn Mohammad al-Julan is doing right now. Crawling along the well-worn tunnel on his calloused elbows toward the ark.

Crawling there to do something no person has ever done in the history of history.

He thinks of Hilal as he moves. The Player is weaned from morphine and walking and talking, although the latter causes him much pain. Eben left him in his room, sitting in a chair, staring into a mirror. Hilal’s injuries have afflicted him with a twisted form of vanity. This is new to Hilal. In spite of his previous and unequivocal beauty, he was never vain. But now he cannot stop looking at his face, and is especially smitten with his red eye and its white pupil.

“The world looks different through it,” Hilal said just before Eben left him. The Player’s voice was raspy, as if his throat were full of ash.

Eben asked, “How so?”

“It looks … darker.”

“It is darker, my Player.”

“Yes. You are right.” At last, Hilal looked away from his reflection, turning that red eye on Eben. “When can I Play again, Master?”

Eben has given up on telling Hilal not to call him “Master” anymore.

Old habits die hard.

“Soon. You were right about the Event. It could have been prevented. Furthermore, the keplers intervened.”

“They are not supposed to,” Hilal replied bitterly.

“No.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You are going to keep Playing, but I want to see if we can gain an advantage first. Perhaps you can push back at the keplers, as well as do something that will help you deal with the others.”

“You’re going to open the ark …”

“Yes, Player. I’ll be back. Rest. You’re going to need your energy soon.”

“Yes, Master.”

And Eben left.

That was 27 minutes ago.

He is five meters from the end of the tunnel.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Knock-knock.

The leaden hatch swings into the room, and Eben pushes forward, tumbling into the chamber.

There is no graceful way to enter the Kodesh Hakodashim.

Like the ark it houses, the Kodesh Hakodashim is of specific dimensions. It is 30 feet long, 10 feet high, and 10 feet wide. Every angle in the room—where wall meets floor, wall meets wall, and wall meets ceiling—is a precise 90 degrees. The earthen walls are covered in thick panels of lead, and the lead is leafed in random-length strips of silver and gold. The chamber is lit by a self-powered and undying light of Maker origin, shaped like an inverted umbrella, that hangs from the center of the ceiling. The light gives off an even and pinkish glow with an unwavering 814 lumens.

Two-thirds down the long wall is a curtain of blue and red. In the 10' × 10' x 10' area this curtain creates sits the Ark of the Covenant with the Makers.

The hatch was opened by one of two Nethinim. The one who didn’t open the hatch offers a hand to help Eben stand.

“No thank you, brother,” he says, working his way to his feet. “Same-El, Ithamar,” Eben says. The two men are in their early 30s. Ithamar is an ex-Player, Same-El a trainer in industrial chemistry and Surma-style stick fighting.

“Master al-Julan,” they say in unison.

Eben holds up a hand and does something he has never done before—he closes the hatch and turns the bolt that seals the room.

He turns to the Nethinim.

“It is time?” Same-El asks, his voice shaking.

“Yes, brother. You two have the honor.”

Ithamar’s eyes widen; Same-El’s shoulders shudder. Both look as if they are about to buckle from fear.

But Eben knows better.

Opening the ark is an esteemed honor for the Keepers. The highest honor.

Ithamar breaks all protocol and grabs Eben’s hand and tugs it like a child.

“Can it really be that we are so lucky?” Same-El asks.

“Yes, brother.”

“We will see what Uncle Moses last saw?” Ithamar asks. “Touch what he alone was allowed to touch?”

“If the ark allows, yes. But you know the risks, brothers.”

Yes, the risks.

The Aksumites know all the tales and more. How the ark, if opened, will smite even the most ardent of adherents mercilessly and without fail. How it will unleash hellfire upon the Earth, and pestilence, and untold death. How it will run rivers of blood and scorch the sky and poison the very air, since opening it is not the will of the Makers.

The power inside is God’s and God’s alone.

Not anymore.

God be damned, Eben thinks.

“We are ready, Master,” Same-El says.

“Good, my brother. When the Aksumite line survives the end of ends, you will be remembered among our greatest heroes. Both of you.” He looks the men in the eyes, embraces them, kisses them, smiles with them, and then helps them prepare.

The Nethinim untie and remove their bejeweled breastplates. Ithamar hangs his on a peg and Eben takes Same-El’s and pulls it over his torso, a rectangle of 12 wooden blocks attached to one another with iron metal hoops, each set with a colorful and smooth oval stone, all of them different hues.

The Breastplate of Aaron.

Same-El ties it tight for Eben.

It—plus his faith—will be his only protection.

Ithamar pours holy water from a pitcher into a wooden bowl and kneels. Same-El kneels next to him. They take turns washing their hands and arms and faces, their dark, wet skin reflecting the pinkish light in swirling patterns. Eben’s head is already spinning.

He envies these two men, even if they do end up being sacrificed.

No, because they will end up being sacrificed.

They remove their robes and hang them on the wall and stand, naked, anticipating what is to come.

Eben hugs and kisses each of them one last time. The two men face each other and slap their own thighs until they are red. When they are finished, they slap their stomachs and their chests. They grab each other by the shoulders and yell at each other the names of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers and their fathers’ fathers’ fathers. They invoke Moses and Jesus and Mohammed and Buddha and ask for forgiveness.

Eben asks the same for both blessed men.

Finally, without looking at Eben, Same-El and Ithamar smile and turn toward the curtain. Holding hands, they go forward. Eben turns away and walks to the hatch and presses his knees into it and closes his eyes and covers his ears and waits.

It takes one minute and 16 seconds for the screaming to commence.

It is not joyful or enlightened. It is terrifying. These are two strong men, some of the strongest in the entire line, and they are crying like babes being torn by wild beasts from their mothers’ breasts.

Seventeen seconds later the air at Eben’s back becomes hot, and he can hear the curtain whipping and snapping like an untethered sail in a tempest.

The screams continue, they are desperate, tearing, shrill, final.

Then the light comes, so bright the lids of his squinting eyes turn as orange as the sun, and Eben is slammed into the wall by a heavy wind and he cannot move. His nose is smashed against the wall, which heats up like a stovetop, and he smells his own flesh cooking and hears his own heart beating faster than it’s ever beaten, like it’s going to sing out of his chest, and he too is going to die.

And still the screams, weaving the horror together like a searing thread.

Then darkness, and the air sucks back like a vacuum and the curtain’s metal rings clatter and clank and Eben, eyes still closed, tears freezing in air suddenly turned frigid, has to step back with one foot and then the other to steady himself. His robes pull toward the ark so hard that he thinks they will be torn from his body, or will spread out around him like fabric wings and fly him backward into the howling void.