Daniel Keohane - Margaret's Ark

“But why such bizarre seating? Why harnesses?” Questions asked by more than one person, and more than once, Margaret had to admit she didn't know the answer.

Nearly everyone in the crew now contributed to the added expense of hired security, on top of what it cost for the food and supplies. Margaret suspected more than a few withheld money, keeping something in the bank. A precaution. Margaret didn't like to think too hard on finances, but it was hard not to. Day-to-day work was taking on more of a material bent. The need for supplies, fine tuning the ship. Every day brought exercises in bringing the mast up from its mounting below deck, dropping it into the fitting from above, re-securing it below. Rigging the small sail, over and over. Routine upon routine. A routine she knew had to be done if they were to survive what was coming.

The days raced too quickly toward the end. Margaret fought a constant sinking in her belly. She was beginning to guess the answer to the questions of the harnesses, even before the dream, which came in the early morning hours of June 1st. Even before the angel David showed her in his frustratingly dramatic way, Margaret had begun to understand.

David had not intruded upon Margaret's dreams since the town meeting. She assumed that he finally came back to scare her, give her what he assumed was that last important push. When he did, nothing felt the same afterwards. The routine, the small talk at night onboard the ship, sent waves of fear through her.

Didn't they understand what was going to happen? Why couldn't she say, warn them? But the angel was firm in his command. “Say nothing,” he said. “Just know, and be prepared.”

In the dream, David said, “Now that June is here, the people will feel the pull of time more than ever.” He pondered his statement for a moment. Finally the angel smiled. The expression looked odd, that perfect face twisting into an almost bashful, boyish grin. He looked at her and said, “Sorry. I can be a bit melodramatic at times, can't I?”

Margaret laughed and agreed. When David began to walk across the star-lit yard, she followed. If it were possible, the angel looked anxious. No, that wasn't right. In retrospect, later that day, Margaret thought he looked nervous. Did angels in heaven have the same sense of time that she did? She hadn't thought so. Still, he seemed on edge more so this night than any other.

“It's been a while,” she said as they walked towards her old picnic table. In the waking world, it had been summarily dismantled and assimilated into the ark.

David nodded. “I come when I'm needed. You've been remarkable in what you've accomplished, Margaret. But there's more to come. I think you'll be ready for it.”

They stopped at the table. On it was a large curved bowl, colored in a light shade Margaret could not make out in the gloom. David gestured to it. “I'm here because I had promised you some answers. You need to understand, at least in a general sense.”

“Understand?” She knew what he meant, but felt the need to add something to the conversation. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her ears.

“Take the bowl in both hands.” He stepped away from the table. Margaret reached out and lifted it, holding her palms against the smooth surface. It was filled almost to the brim with water. Some splashed over the edge. The water was cold.

David's face was gone, lost in shadows. “Run,” he said, in a voice different than she'd become accustomed to. It was deeper, resonating through the water and bowl, through her fingers.

She stammered, “What?”

The voice repeated, louder, “Run.” The dark figure, which no longer resembled David, moved towards her. Margaret took a step backwards.

“Turn,” it said, “and run. Now!”

Margaret turned and ran through the yard. The water sloshed a bit, spilling across the back of her hand, then settled as she fell into a rhythm. She was running through the yard, slowing as she neared the street.

David with the dark featureless face was beside her. “Do not slow,” it commanded in an echoing voice, “Run. Do not turn, or stray from your course!”

She resumed running, faster, across the street, towards her neighbors' fence. She wanted to stop, but the figure remained beside her, behind her, beside her again.

She passed through the fence, through the shrubs and trees. She was a spirit in the night, racing through cars parked on the next road, through houses, sounds of late night television and an insect’s buzz, all passing behind her. She reached Route 101, passed through, screaming in terror as cars careened over her, past her, though her, and still she ran. Faster.

The world became a blur.

The dark figure was no longer with her, but she felt him, felt it , breathing on her, looming just beyond her vision. “Run,” it hissed, “Faster, faster --”

Faster and faster, the trees, houses, towns and images flashing, too fast, she was going too fast .

There were others now, vague shapes coming into focus, running alongside her to the left and right, solidifying. She turned her head but found it made no difference in her speed. Her legs pumped and blurred and were gone. The people beside her likewise were only blurs below the waist, each holding a bowl like hers.

She watched their faces, white, pale, black, ashen, men, women, naked, in suits, teenagers, old men, all with terrified expressions. Some of them screamed. Wispy, ethereal creatures loomed behind each. Tendrils extended like clawed hands the barest breath away from ripping them apart. Everyone turned and saw everyone else, saw what chased them across the world, realizing something darkly similar was behind them . They screamed and ran faster.

The water sloshed gently in her bowl. Margaret's blinding travels were so constant, her steps like flying, that the water remained mostly at peace in its container.

“Faster!” thousands of spectral voices screamed, and the world raced by, around and around, a quick flash and Margaret saw her house, or thought she had. It was gone. She was gone, across the world.

Her legs were getting tired. But how? This was a dream - had to be a dream - not real.

Something ahead, a billion figures far away but each clear among so many indistinct shapes. She saw every face, every hand raised in terror as Margaret and the others approached them. Then screams and screams and screams !

David stood in front of her, right hand outstretched. “Stop!”

Somehow, Margaret stopped, as did the others in front of their own angels. David disappeared, leaving only the screaming multitudes ahead of her. Her bowl remained firmly in her hands. But the water poured forth. More than should have been possible.

As one, the stream surged forward and enlarged, engorging itself on the very air, merged with thousands more pouring out of thousands of other bowls. The sounds of the multitude's screams were lost under the deafening roar of the water rushing madly over them. Margaret screamed, watched the water pour into a billion gaping mouths, wash over them. Then they were gone. All of them lost below the tide.

The sound cut out. Everything became black.

Silence.

Margaret fell forward, screaming without any sound. She lay in the blackness, not the world any longer. No people, no sound.

Grass under her face, glowing in the starlight.

She touched it, stared at a single blade, for how long she did not know. She dared not look up, afraid of what might be watching.

A breeze, slight and cool, played on her face. Margaret eventually looked around. The common. Not her yard. The ark loomed like a beached whale beside her. The ramp was down and David the angel stood at the bottom, face solemn.