Two Books in One - Ominous Love and Paradox - The Angels Are Here (27 page)

“It’s okay, Kate, really. I’m more than happy to help out, it’s the least I can do.”

Kate smiled. Then in two steps she was against him, hugging him. “Thank you so much.”

He didn’t return the gesture; he didn’t think he would be strong enough. His own arms hung limp by his sides.

Kate pulled away, and blushed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…  I am just so… grateful,” she said in a small, embarrassed whisper.

“No, I’m sorry, Kate, you just took me by surprise. Here, let me help you put these dishes away.”

In her room, Grace smiled; it was the perfect Friday night, the perfect beginning to the weekend. Well, almost.

“No more school for two whole days, Champsie,” Grace said.

Monday felt like a million miles away. More importantly, Grace felt happy because her mother was happy. And Wade was back. She thought about Wade for just a moment, and then let her thoughts slip slowly from her mind. Silly thoughts, impossible, crazy thoughts.

She picked up her hairbrush and jumped up and down on her bed singing along to
Avril
, waking Champ from his blissful sleep.

He yapped excitedly, joining in, or was he angry with her for waking him again?

Sometimes it’s impossible to determine one from the other. Masks camouflage the faces of both good and evil. Keeps hidden what is a truth and what is a lie.

A gentle breeze stole carefully through the open bedroom window. The curtains fluttered with the brief interruption, then fell still. A silent prophecy translated by air draws the pending storm, hovering menacingly on the distant horizon—closer.

Outside, the thorny fingers on a crimson bougainvillea scrape angrily across the glass windowpane.

Grace didn’t notice the bedside lamp when it began to dim, and then flicker.

Yes, it was the things that you didn’t hear, didn’t see, lurking in the shadows at night, that you should be most afraid of. 

Chapter 16—Boxing Day

Year: 2004 AD

“Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la, la la la la,” Grace sang as she wiped the sleep out of the corner of her eyes and swaggered into the lounge room to join Kate and Wade.

“What’s for breakfast, and how did Boxing Day get its name?  That’s what I want to know.”

“Hush, for a moment Grace,” Kate said, her eyes not shifting from the images of destruction on the television screen.

Wade was sitting on the sofa beside her with his elbows resting on his knees. He was wearing his boxer shorts and a t-shirt from spending another night on the sofa.

Kate and Wade were both transfixed by the television screen, hanging off every word spoken by the young TV news reporter.

“There was no warning system in place; thousands of souls have been lost…”

“What’s all this about, what’s happened, what’s been lost? Has Angela or Josh called yet?  We’re meant to be catching up at his place after breakfast,” Grace asked.

She walked over to the Christmas tree to tap some of the brightly coloured fairy lights. They started to blink, fast then slow, off then on. 

“No. Not yet,” Kate replied, still staring at the television, and shaking her head, shocked by the terrible catastrophe that was unfolding in front of her.

“I love Christmas, so pretty... Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” Grace pushed herself up on her toes but wasn’t quite tall enough to adjust the Angel sitting precariously on the top. She dragged over a chair and climbed up on it. “That’s better, Hope, can’t have you falling off your perch now can we.” She jumped down. “So, does this mean I have to get my own breakfast?”

“Shh,” they both said this time.

Then Kate said, “There’s leftovers in the fridge, help yourself.”

The National Nine News reporter continued with his ongoing dialogue. “Disposing of the dead to try and save the living… No one saw it coming until it was too late.”

“What’s too late,? Grace asked, pulling the fridge door open to gaze at the vast array of leftover food from Christmas day.

She scooped up some custard on her finger and stuck it in her mouth. “Hmm… custard for breakfast.” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother, then washed it down with a mouthful of water straight out of the jug.

“Shh…” Kate said, then turned the volume up. “And don’t eat all the custard for breakfast. And use a glass.”

Mothers, Grace decided, really did have eyes in the back of their heads.

Images of death and devastation filled the television screen.

“Officials in Indonesia, Sri Lanka and India have all reported death tolls in the thousands, and the figures are expected to rise significantly over the next few days. A UN emergency relief co-coordinator has said that this may be the worst natural disaster in recent history.”

Grace stood frozen at the open fridge door; she felt her hands curl into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palm, breaking the skin. An ice-cold shiver ran up her spine. She trembled and let herself sink slowly down to the kitchen floor. She shoved the fridge door closed with her foot, rattling the contents on the shelves.

“You okay in there, Grace?” Wade called over his shoulder.

“Sure,” she replied from behind the kitchen counter, out of sight. She pulled her knees up under her chin and hugged them tight against her chest.

The reporter continued.

“Other stories tell how a father in
Sri Lanka watched on helplessly as his entire family was swept away by the sea. Health experts are now fearing that many more could die as diseases like Typhoid, Cholera, and Malaria spread rapidly throughout the affected areas.”

Grace tucked her head between her knees.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She felt herself being pulled away, back into the past. Back into Juliette’s past. My past. Grace squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to drive away the ringing in her ears. Then came the deafening silence and the blinding white light,
whoosh
. Grace was gone… and I felt the presence of another life pouring into this body that Grace and I shared.

Chapter 17—Hells Bells Toll for Thee

Year: 1755 AD

My eyes are closed tight, trying desperately to hold on to my wavering sanity. The words of a Christmas carol swim around in my head.

Tis the season to be jolly… 

I pinch my arms, hoping that the pain will keep me connected to the present.

Troll the ancient Yuletide carol. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

My mind is being torn between two worlds—two parallel universes?  I’m not sure. The accumulated energy from the past and the present collide head-on at a million miles per hour in my skull. The persistent struggle for existence in the confined space meant for one.

See the blazing Yule before us. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

I can hear the shrill laughter of a child reverberate from my throat. An old man is cussing. Hens are clucking angrily in response.

My vision starts to focus and forms ghostly blobs of light and dark floating in front of me. Then color starts to filter through and the images become more distinguishable.

I hear feet running. Then I realize they are my feet, running weightlessly along a cobbled path. Someone rushes past me, more laughing. I feel the brush of their skin on my arm. Loose strands of dark hair tickle my face as I run. I giggle. My long skirt flaps around my legs.

“Wait for me,” I call out as I run. I run faster, gasping for breath, trying to catch up. I smash into the old man who is fussing over his clucking chickens.

He curses again. I don’t know if he is cursing at me or his squabbling chickens in their small timber crates.

Shame on him, he should know better. There is never a good reason for blasphemy on a day like today. What would God think about that?  All hell would surely break loose to punish that man and his chickens.

He could curse all day long, if he wanted, at those bickering chickens—or me, for that matter. I didn’t care, not today.

It was 1755, and Lisbon was preparing for one of the year’s biggest religious celebrations, All Saints’ Day. The city was alive with activity and preparation for this auspicious occasion.

A light breeze tousled my hair as I sprinted down the cobbled path after
Leon. He was so fast on his feet; I didn’t think I would ever catch up.

The market place was a hive of activity, teaming with color, people, and livestock. All the usual festivities orchestrated for this day.

Papa used to say, “If you haven’t seen Lisbon, you haven’t seen beauty.” He was right about that, Lisbon was beautiful, especially on a day like today.

Papa is in church today, like so many others, but without Mother. She is unwell with the fever and has stayed at home, in bed. My sister Maria is taking care of her. She was a little annoyed to be missing all the festivities. And she wanted so much to attend the Holy Day Mass.

My mother had told her to go, but Maria, being the saint that she is, said that she couldn’t possibly go while mother was in such a state.

Not me, I wanted to be outside with my brother, Leon, on this glorious day. Even the earth beneath my feet moves and vibrates with excitement as I run. Bells rejoice without the touch of human hand from every Cathedral and Church across the land.

God is in his glory, marveling at his perfect creations on this extraordinary day.

I hold my arms out wide and spin myself around as I gaze up into the bright blue sky. I feel giddy with the joy of being alive. I am blessed, that is what my mother said.

“You are blessed, little one, to have such a wonderful life. We all are, now run off and have fun. Leon, take care of your sister.”

My mother was right. Mother usually was. Later, I will say a prayer for her in church.

“Come on, Tareja,” my brother calls. “Hurry up.”

Suddenly, there is a horrible noise, like an angry roll of thunder. Not from the sky, but from beneath my feet. The ground vibrated again, only more violently this time. Then nothing. But within moments it erupts again with a fierce intensity.

“Leon, Leon, something terrible is happening,” I scream.

He feels it, too; I can see the terror widening his big green eyes as he runs toward me. I run into his arms and we stand there, clutching each other, as the earth trembles all around us.

“I want Mama,” I sob. “We have to find Papa, to take us home.”

Then the buildings around us start to disintegrate. Little bits at first, then whole pieces of walls come down. Beautiful Cathedrals and churches fall, too. The House of God becomes the House of Death. Death, fear, panic - condemnation is everywhere, stalking us.

Huge cracks beneath my feet split open. The bowels of the earth begin to swallow up people, buildings—Lisbon. Nothing, no one is spared.

Everyone starts running, pushing and shoving in a desperate fight for survival. I lose my grip on
Leon’s hand. I have lost him. He has been shoved away by the swarming crowd. I see the old man and his chickens. He is being trampled to death by the hooves of a shiny black stallion. The stallion rears up and tosses his glistening head back and forth. His wild eyes bulge in shock at witnessing his own barbaric act.

The man’s chickens, freed from their crates, are flapping madly around him in a panicked frenzy. Some are crushed by a stonewall as it splits in two and comes smashing down. Their round beady eyes pop out of bloodied eye sockets and hold on by just a thread. Some are headless and run around in a panic, in a desperate search for their heads, I imagine.

Voices bellow and cry out in the escalating chaos. A massive church bell flips perilously down the narrow street, relentlessly crushing all in its path.

It reminds me of a parasol that I saw once being tossed down the street by the breeze. End over end it went, cart-wheeling and bouncing into the air, until a dashing young man snatched it up and returned it to his blushing companion.

The bell flips, then hangs above me, vibrating. Everything around me seems to stop for a second, then continues in slow motion. I want to scream but my voice is too slow to respond. I close my eyes and crouch into a ball and fold my arms protectively around my head and knees. It won’t help; I know that. It is purely a reflex reaction, but right now, that’s all I’ve got.

I wait for the crushing impact. I feel the weight of the massive bell get heavier as it slowly comes down on my back. I am paralyzed with fear.

Then I am free. Leon has seized my elbow and pulls me out from under it.

I hear the sound of the bell as it smashes to the ground behind me. The cobblestones erupt from the massive impact and explode into shards of flying missiles.

Leon keeps a tight grip on my arm as we run into the charging crowd. We run as hard and as fast as we can.

“Run,” voices scream out. “Run to the harbor, away from the buildings, hurry.”

If we hadn’t run, if we had just stood there, we would still have been swept up, or drowned, by the swollen river of human bodies as they fled.

We cling to each other desperately when we reach the safety of the harbor. I stand trembling in my brother’s strong arms as chaos shakes, screeches, and crashes beneath and around us. 

Then the earth stops. And one by one the bells stop toiling as they too, sit broken and spent, on the ruptured earth.

Dust and smoke billows high in the sky, obscuring the sun, turning the beautiful blue sky into a deathly grey ghost. I cling desperately to
Leon’s slender body as tears forge a muddy stream down my face.

The grey cloud slowly disperses, exposing the once beautiful city, obscured now by the ugliness of destruction and death. Giant flames jump and lick hungrily at the heavens, like ravenous demons aroused by the suffering.

I hear cries and gasps from the living. Painful moans from the dying float aimlessly in the smoldering remains.

I worry about Mama, Papa and Maria; what fate has befallen them?  What sounds are forthcoming from their lips, if any, I wonder. My heart breaks. My legs crumble. I sob unashamedly at my brother’s feet.

The crowd, exhausted and dirty, falls to their knees, too, and gives thanks to God.

“Oh, God, our Father and Savior, who of thy goodness has watched over us and protected us against the hatred of evil. Let us give thanks and pray.”

Then, instantaneously, an eerie hush descends, and everyone starts pointing out to sea.

A young man jumps to his feet.

“Look, even the ocean runs from death,” he calls out boastfully.

He was right; the ocean, and all that sat upon it, was running away, too. Like it was being sucked down a giant plughole faraway at sea.

“We must go find Papa,” Leon said, pulling me to my feet. We had barely escaped the clutches of hell, and now we walked hand-in-hand toward the Devil's new playground—Lisbon.

But the Devil was not done.

Within minutes, giant waves spewed from the harbor. Few escaped the fury of the massive waves as they surged forward, devouring the city as it lay beaten and burnt in its path.

Leon
holds me tight; I hold him tighter as the wall of water pushes, pulls and slams us into walls, bodies. I take a breath of air—and saltwater. I gag and throw up. A fist of water smashes my body against the side of a submerged building then pushes me down. I feel Leon’s hand slipping from mine, and I panic. I try frantically to hold on. I see the sorrow in his pleading eyes, asking me to forgive him. Forgive him for not being stronger, for letting me go.  I see his lips forming my name. But only bubbles of dirty water gush from his mouth.

I search in the water, kicking and grabbing with my outstretched arms, reaching for him. But
Leon is gone. Debris and a mountainous wall of seawater propels me farther away. I fight for breath and voice. I receive neither.

My lungs are filling with dirty, salty water. I don’t mean to, but I gulp in more water, eager to find oxygen—life.

Dead, broken bodies with faces frozen in terror float grotesquely past me. I feel my soul fighting to escape the confines of my drowning body as it gulps painfully for air. I kick and struggle to hold on to every last moment of my dissipating life.

Images and memories of being a fetus in my mother’s womb wash over me like a warm stream.

I see a girl, an Angel I think, with the most beautiful blue eyes. She is swimming toward me, and I knew then that my time on this earth had come to an end.

I let go of my body and allow it to drift silently away, it rocks to-and-fro gracefully in this watery grave. I thought how peaceful I looked in death. How beautiful, as my hair falls free and hovers placidly around my face. My colorful skirt billows out around me, like a flower coming into bloom. My arms are open wide, longing for a nurturing embrace.

I keep watching my body drift farther away as I float up. Up, toward the bright light that illuminates my heart, my eyes, and my soul. I am gone now, I suspect – forever - from this place, this family.

But I am not alone; I see the faces of thousands of lost souls, young and old, that have also perished on this day. We are immersed in a mass of glistening bubbles. Like a bouquet of rainbow coloured balloons held together by a long golden thread.

This day would be recorded and forever remembered as the Great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755.

I can still recollect this life, this death, as if it was yesterday. I taste the rancid seawater as it filled my mouth, burned my lungs, and choked me to death. I still feel the weightlessness of my soul as it separated and drifted away.

The elements - Earth, Fire and Water - had indeed been unrestrained when they unleashed their fury on their unsuspecting victims.

Astonishingly, the only remaining element that could have assured my survival on this day—was absent.

Tomorrow, on All Souls Day, the Faithful will pray. They will pray for the dead seeking sanctification and moral perfection, prerequisites for Souls seeking entry into Heaven. They will kneel, bow their heads, and say a prayer for me.

For I am dead. Again.