But nothing is not what comes.
The pressure in my head builds. My brain feels like it’s going to explode. Like I’m going to faint. The pain is unbearable.
But eventually images flood to the surface. As though they’ve been long buried in the back of my mind—concealed, locked, hidden—and somehow only
now
I’ve managed to set them free.
And then suddenly I’m no longer in my cell.
I’m standing on a crowded street. People push into me from every direction. A sea of bodies trying to crush me. Drown me. Suck me under.
I fight to move through them. Shoulders bumping mine. Elbows jabbing into my rib cage. My hair is caught and my head lashes back.
Then the noise starts. A faint rolling thunder. A swelling rumble of deep booming sounds.
It gets louder, louder, louder. Faster, faster, faster. Like a parade of gigantic horses galloping through the air. Stomping on the clouds.
Until everything around me is vibrating. Pulsating with sound. Swelling. Heaving. Bursting.
I recognize this sensation. The influx of imagery. The formation of a scene.
It’s a memory. I’m certain of it.
But of what? I don’t recognize that street. I don’t recognize that sound. Or any of the faces around me. Is it something that happened when I was living with my foster family in Wells Creek? But then why am I only remembering it now? Why don’t I recognize what I’m seeing?
It can’t possibly have happened
before
that. On the compound. When I was at Diotech. Those memories are supposed to be gone. Erased forever.
Perplexed, I push myself back in, trying to grasp the swirling misty images and hold them steady in my mind.
Color starts to rain from above.
Blue. Red. Yellow. Green. White.
Tiny curling tufts of a material I can’t identify float down like crisp autumn leaves.
Everyone around me turns at once. Their gazes high. Their fingers stretched upward.
I turn and lift my eyes.
High in the sky, a series of strange markings begins to appear. Scribbled among the clouds. Symbols from another world.
And then … a hideous red beast with black-and-gold eyes emerges into the air. Swims effortlessly over the heads of the crowd. His features are distorted in rage. His jagged white teeth are bared.
I choke down a scream and start to back away, shoving through the swarm of people. Knocking down bodies. Until I finally break free from the mob.
I stumble down a deserted street, the raucous rumbling mercifully getting farther and farther away with each step.
I scan the empty avenue. Every door is closed. Boarded up. Every storefront bears the same unfamiliar markings. The same foreign symbols that I saw in the sky.
I come to a stop in front of a rusted metal stairwell, leading down, under the street.
An old man stands at the bottom of the steps. In front of a dirty blue door.
His skin is deeply creased. His eyes are dark and narrow—nothing more than slender slits cut into his face. His hair is white and thin, trailing from his head down his cheeks and into a long, colorless wispy beard that drips from his chin.
For reasons I don’t understand, I’m pulled to him. Forced to look. To meet his gaze.
He beckons me downward. Into his hole.
“I help you,” he says slowly.
My body wants to run. Keep running. Never stop running. But my mind tells me no. Stay. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I place one shaky hand on the grimy metal banister and start down the steps.
The image shatters, breaking into a thousand pieces that spin and splinter and fade into …
Nothing.
The memory is over. Leaving me feeling more confused and more disoriented than before. I fight to get it back. To pick up where I left off. To continue down that stairwell. But it’s no use. The harder I try to focus on the scene, the less clear it becomes. The more I try to hold the old man’s face in my mind, the more it slips away. Like trying to catch water in a net.
What does it all mean?
Who am I supposed to find?
Who was that man?
And how can he help me?
I feel anger welling up inside me. Hot, blistering rage that expels from my body in the form of boiling tears that dribble down my cheeks.
Because the truth is, he
can’t
help me. No one can. It’s pointless now. It’s too late. Zen is dead! I can’t change that. And tomorrow I will be dead, too.
I bang my fists against the wall harder and harder until the jagged surface breaks through my skin and blood trickles down my forearms. I scream and scream until my throat is sore and raw and my lungs are empty. I kick the ground over and over again until I fall down from pure exhaustion.
Through the blur of my tears, I see Lulu, Jane’s tiny doll, in the corner, where I dropped her after I was put back in the cell. I crawl over to her and stuff her cloth body down the front of my corset, pressing it close to my heart. Where my locket used to be.
Where Zen used to be.
Then I sink to the ground and wait.
15
ABSOLVED
I’m awoken the next morning by the sound of metal clanging against metal. I open my eyes to see a guard standing outside my cell, banging his sword between two of the iron bars in an attempt to rouse me.
“Last confession,” he announces with the same spite in his tone that all the guards use when they speak to me.
I push myself up and wipe at my face. “What?”
That’s when I see that the guard has not come alone. Behind him is a tall man dressed in a long black robe with a crisp white collar. A velvet hood covers his head and most of his face. I can only make out the tip of his nose and the curve of his strong chin.
“The priest has come to hear your last confession and bless your soul,” the guard explains.
I don’t know what any of this means but I soon realize that the man in the black robe is expected to enter the cell. The guard points his sword through the slats and uses it to nudge me to the far back corner. I watch with great interest as the door squeaks open and the concealed man enters.
As soon as he’s inside the cell, I feel a strange sensation come over me. A subtle undercurrent, pulling me toward him. I have a sudden uncontrollable desire to see his face. To peer under his hood. To look at him.
I duck and tilt my head in several directions but his features remain hidden.
“
Who
are you?” I ask. I’m gazing at him with such intensity that I instantly feel embarrassed. Foolish. I try to look away, but I just can’t bring myself to. This man—this hooded figure—has a magnetism that is making me dizzy. It’s unreal. Almost …
magical.
“My apologies, Sarah.” His voice is deep and smooth with hardly any intonation. As though every word, every syllable, holds precise equal value in his mind. And the way that voice says my name sends a warm shiver through me. I don’t only hear it. I taste it. Feel it. Smell it. It’s like warm bread coming out of the oven.
“I am a member of the clergy of the Church of England.”
Clergy?
Another word I’m unfamiliar with. I want to ask what it means, but I know this will only cause the guard to scowl even deeper in my direction so I keep my mouth shut.
However, the man seems to read my thoughts. Know my limitations.
“It’s a religious position,” he explains without prompting. “I am here to offer you God’s blessing and hear your confessions before you are executed this morning.”
Confessions?
Once again, my mind asks the question, but he answers.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me before you die? Any secrets? It is believed that if you die with a clear conscience you will go to heaven.”
The guard scoffs at this from the other side of the door.
Both of our heads pivot toward him and he wipes the smirk from his face.
“So,” the priest asks in his liltless intonation. “Is there?”
“No,” I say softly.
“Are you certain?” he prods.
I nod silently.
“Very well.” He walks toward me. The closer he gets, the hotter my blood feels inside my veins. As though it may actually start to boil.
I push myself back against the stone wall. Drawn to him and terrified of him at the same time.
“W-w-what are you doing?” I stammer, watching uneasily as he comes within a foot of me. I look up, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, but his oversize hood is draped low.
I could do it right now. I could reach out and rip it from his head. Gaze upon his face. My fingers itch and tremble with the anticipation of it.
“I’m blessing you,” he says simply. His voice mesmerizes me and I instantly lose my train of thought.
I follow his arm as it rises slowly and catch a glimpse of his right hand as it drifts toward my forehead. His skin is velvety. Young. Unblemished. The sleeve of his robe slips, revealing a hint of his wrist. It’s wide and smooth. With soft traces of light blond hair.
He seems to hesitate for a moment, his hand trembling slightly.
Then, after regaining control, his five fingertips connect with my skin and I feel a jolt of energy. A spark. Like something wonderful—beautiful, comforting, kind—is being transferred from his flesh to mine. And then back again. I close my eyes, absorbing it. Relishing this one glimmer of happiness. The first in days. Never wanting it to end.
I feel my grief miraculously lifted from me, like a blanket of darkness that’s finally been stripped away. A layer of grime that I’ve been struggling to see through, washed clean.
Everything before this moment feels like a long-ago dream that I’ve now woken up from. Refreshed. Renewed. A curtain of serenity drawn around me. As though the very source of my pain and agony and suffering has simply been blown away like dust from a neglected corner.
And then, as devastating as a stone wall crumbling around me, it’s over.
His hand is gone. His touch is gone. My tranquillity and reprieve are gone. The room feels darker, colder, emptier than it ever has before.
By the time I open my eyes again, the cell door is already being opened by the guard and the man in the black robe is stepping through to the other side. A world away from this one.
“Wait!” I call, rushing toward him.
The guard shoves his sword through the bars again, staving me off. I stop just short of its sharp point.
The door is closed with a
bang
. Locked. The priest turns back to me. “Yes, Sarah?”
There it is again. My name on his lips. His voice reaching through the bars to caress me. Comfort me. Hold me. It’s almost familiar.
“I—” But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I told him to wait. All I know is that I don’t want him to leave. Ever.
“Nothing,” I mumble, dropping my head.
Without another word, he turns and disappears down the long, dank hallway, his black robe billowing behind him. And even though I would do anything at this moment to convince him to stay, I have the disheartening feeling that he’s desperate to get away from me.
16
BURNED
The time has come.
I am extracted from my cage and marched slowly down the dark corridor. No one speaks. Either out of respect for the soon-to-be dead, or because there’s nothing left to say.
I am led out of the prison, through the throng of people, and finally onto a platform that rises out of a mound of chopped wood and dead brush. Extra ropes are used to bind me to the towering beam in the center, crisscrossing my entire body.
The portly man who originally arrested me is back. He’s standing next to the platform in another richly decorated silk doublet, speaking passionately to the crowd about God and the devil and a never-ending war between the two. His crooked yellow teeth snapping each word in half, spitting angry accusations in my direction.
Finally the torch is extended and a firestorm alights beneath me.
I close my eyes and think of Zen, offering up a silent apology. Begging his forgiveness for my failure. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Even though he’s gone now, I am hopeful that somehow my voice will travel through the strands of time, find a place where he still lives, and whisper it softly into his ear.
I open my eyes to the inferno that blazes below me.
The fire is hot and relentless, rising up from a thicket of smoldering ash. Lashing at my feet. Filling my eyes with smoky tears of defeat.
The flames hungrily stare me down. Like a wolf licking its lips at the sight of an injured animal. Savoring the promise of a feast. Taking its time before moving in for the kill.
The wood crackles beneath me. One by one, branches are crushed, incinerated to black dust in the path of the merciless blaze. I am its only target. The sole destination. Everything else is a mere stepping-stone along the way. A dispensable victim to demolish and cast aside as it fights its way to me.
I search my surroundings desperately for help. But there is none to be found. Silence answers my distress. Punctuated only by the mocking
fizzle
and
crack
of the flames.
They can’t let me die here. Their prized possession left to burn. To shrivel up. To turn to bitter ash. They won’t. I’m sure of it.
They will be here soon. They will stop it.
And for the first time in my shallow, abridged memory, I will welcome the sight of them.
The smoke billows up, cloaking everything in a sickly haze. My vision—normally flawless and acute—is gone. My throat swells and burns. I wrench my head to the side, coughing. Choking. Gagging.
One ambitious flame forges ahead of the others. Winning the race to the top. It claws at my bare feet with long, gnarled fingers. I curl my toes under and press hard against the wood at my back. I can already feel my skin start to blister. Bubble. Scream.