Alexei had wings. They were feathery and huge, extending on either side of his body.
He had no time for astonishment as somehow they lifted him upward, forward, floating—flying?—over the heads of his brothers. He grabbed his father around the waist, fully expecting it to be a useless action, but he wrestled Papa from the grip of his brothers and swooped upward. Surely he would not be able to hold him, or they would plummet into the alley below if he did.
His father shrieked and struggled. Papa began to burn, his skin to sizzle. Alexei folded the tips of his wings in a shield against the sunshine. Papa clung to him, panting, weeping. His brothers gaped up at the two of them. The crowd in the alley yelled, pointed, running to keep pace as he flew higher, and higher; the pastel washes around him deepened to crimson, indigo, emerald green: stained glass. The soft tolling became a chant he and his brother monks sang at Easter, the Resurrection:
Let my prayer arise. Lord, I have called to thee...
For an instant, he was in the monastery, in the stillness and joy, and it was before. All was right with his soul.
“With my soul,” he said aloud. He moved his wings, and they flew higher.
“Alyosha, Alyosha,” his father murmured, clinging to him. “What is happening? Where are we going?”
His father began to glow, and then to burn, flames dancing in his hair, over his face. But he didn’t seem to feel it. The tips of Alexei’s wings caught fire. Orange flames, blue, the purest white.
“Fear not,” Alexei said. In Holy Scripture, the first words angels said to those who saw them.
Having risen from sleep, we fall down before thee.
He flew higher still, and everything that was not of God was left behind. Blazing like a comet toward the golden sun, the smile in the whirlwind, the gates ofheaven.
THE NECESSITY OF PRAGMATIC MAGIC
by Jennifer Brozek
Maureen stood near the museum’s front door. As the only paid docent for the Stewart Historic Museum, she was part greeter, part information desk, and part receptionist. Today, she waited for the postwoman. Her first tour didn’t start for an hour and that was if anyone showed up on a Monday morning. Not likely, but she always put on a good face for the museum.
Kulwinder, the small Indian mail carrier who worked the downtown area of Kendrick, walked up with an armful of boxes. Maureen hurried to open the door for her, dragging a small cart behind.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Kulwinder said as she settled the stack of boxes onto the surface provided.
“What happened to your pushcart?”
“Wheel fell off. Wouldn’t you know it? I have to fix it later. How come...?” The postwoman gestured to the museum cart.
Maureen’s eyes wrinkled as she smiled. “Had a hunch and I’ve learned to listen to them after all these years.”
“Good woman’s intuition.” Kulwinder gestured with her chin. “One of those packages is from Egypt. Marked ‘Important.’ ” She hesitated. “Feels funny.”
Tilting her head, Maureen asked, “Funny-haha or funny-bad?”
The postwoman realized what she’d said and shook her head. “Don’t mind me. Just an odd day.” She hurried away with a backward wave of the hand.
Maureen watched her go, then considered the cart of mail. People who said things “felt funny” were usually right. That, coupled with this morning’s intuition, meant that the “important” package needed a bit more attention than usual and she would have to keep an eye on it. She wheeled the cart to the main curator’s office. Raven, the curator’s secretary, wasn’t at her desk, but the curator’s office door was open and Mr. Harold Sperling was in. As usual, Harold was knee-deep in the unending museum paperwork.
She knocked on his doorjamb. “Mail’s here. Something interesting.” The distracted man looked up. He had the impatient look her son often had on his face just before he moved out. Maureen smiled. “It’s from Egypt.” She pointed at the brown, well-taped box. “But if you’d rather I just put it in your mail slot...?”
He sighed and wiped his face with a hand. “No. I need a break anyway. Bring it here.” He gave her a wry smile as she wheeled the cart over. “Got one of your feelings?”
Maureen shrugged. She kept her opinions to herself. Harold was open-minded—one had to be when living in a special city like Kendrick—but it was best to keep some things to herself.
Harold picked up the “important” package and peered at the return label. “Hmm. No name, but Egypt. I’m not familiar with the area. I wonder if this was supposed to go to the Kendrick Museum of Art and Science. No harm taking a look. Then I’ll giveSusan a call.” He shrugged, picked up a box cutter, and began to cut open the tape with careful, tiny movements. It took a full minute for him to cut enough of the package tape to open the box. As he put down the box cutter with one hand, he grabbed a pair of well-used cotton gloves with the other, putting them on as a force of habit.
Inside the box was a paper-wrapped object, surrounded by straw. The object, heavier than it appeared, thumped to the table. Harold paused, tilting his head as he frowned at it.
“What is it?” Maureen leaned forward to see it.
“Oh, you’re still here. Well then...” Harold shook his head as if clearing it. He untied the string, letting the paper fall away. Inside was a worn stone tablet the size of a large book. Covering most of it were whorls and swirls of decoration. They seemed to come from the bottom right corner of the tablet, where the rough figure of a man appeared to play a pipe.
