And down here, the dark seemed more aware, pushing harder at the occlusive scar inside me. Despite my sputtering lantern, the whole wound now shone bright gold—the main scar, all the tributary smaller scars, and the light escaping from beneath. I could feel my sutures stretching, memories pressing for release.
I forced myself to mentally play Zep’s “Stairway to Heaven”—for the irony—which kept some of the old memories at bay as we climbed down this last stretch.
At last, we came to a large circular stone set in a deep groove. Rune engravings all across it. I traced the lock and the stone rolled left, grinding in its track.
At the door, Lady paused. “If your sutures tear completely, Jack . . .”
I nodded, took a long breath, and led my friends through the portal. We emerged on a rocky dirt plain. The desolate ground was hard and cracked, with dead holly and thistle patches every few yards. The plain stretched away into darkness, broken in the distance by the flicker of a small fire or two. A few people huddled around them. The brittle cold clouded our breath and froze the sweat in my clothes. My lantern offered a little light but, unfortunately, no heat. Worst of all, it felt like the darkness knew my very thoughts. Then a light flashed behind us.
We whirled and found ourselves standing just inside the edge of a circular plot rimmed by a faint amber glow. It was maybe twenty yards across and covered in frost. On the far side, beyond the circle, stood the Ward woman from the grotto, radiant in translucent blue and violet. In her hands she snapped great whips that shone crimson, amber, and evening sun. Facing her was the giant human form of Handel, impossibly dark and shot through with veins of gold.
The black figure raised his hands, twirled ethereal black whips in the air, and sang a loud harmonious chorus with its countless voices. My lantern sputtered. The Ward’s luminous body flickered.
Then the wraith lashed out, cords of darkness slicing the air like rotors. The Ward struck back with her threads. Their whips tangled, and a shower of amber light and darkness rained to the hard earth. The wraith wove more cords from its misty substance and snapped them down on the Ward, leaving dark cracks in her luminous body.
I tried to raise my lantern but couldn’t lift it. I tried to grab my knife, but my fingers had gone numb. I collapsed to my knees, overcome by memories of regret and relief that had not only returned but now came amplified by the depth of history. My sutures tore away.
The Ward was fighting for her life, and I couldn’t move. Paralyzed by the weight of my own past, the rawest moment of my life filled my mind, and I was forced to watch what I had tried so hard to forget.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The number and variety of thanaturgic beings, artifacts, and wisdoms in the Endless Dark exceed current understanding in the same way the complexity of Earth’s vast oceans is beyond human knowledge.
—Secretary Beaumont, audit report to the Convocation of Schisms
.. .I’m finally at Ardells with my backpack and guitar, waiting for Mama.
Chuey and the wet-laundry metal crew are with me for support. I worry Mama isn’t coming, then the old Dodge pulls up . . .
“Jack,” said Church, as if from far away. “Jack, are you all right? My boy, the Ward hasn’t much time?—”
. . . Mama sends her new family into Ardells and turns to me. From my backpack, I hand her the picture of us and the science fair certificate we won. I tell her we belong together, that we’re a good team . . .
“His sutures have torn away,” Lady cried. “He’s bleeding memory.
And the wound is getting too large to close?—”
. . . Mama shakes her head. So, I hand her my Young Historian bell. I tell her I’m not like the rest of the family, that I’m not at risk anymore, that the librarian says I have a future . . .
“Hold on, Ese,” Chuey called. I could hear him dragging himself toward me through the hard ancient soil.
. . . Mama smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile. So, I pull out the candle from St. Frances and tell her that I pray every Sunday, that this meeting is God’s answer to my prayer, and that we have a chance to start over . . .
“Jack, can you find some music inside you this time?” I felt Church’s breath on my face. “Something to stanch the flow. Fight, my boy, fight!”
. . . Mama’s eyes tear up. I grab my guitar and sing the song I wrote for her. It’s not done; it needs a few more words. But it feels right. I sing to ask her not to go away again . . .
“I doubt this will hold.” Lady’s voice. “Pray God it does . . .” She stabbed my shadow with her needle.
. . . When I finish my song, I wait for Mama to wrap me in her arms. But she puts everything back into my backpack and opens her purse. She pulls out a wad of money and puts it in my hand. “ You’re a good boy, Jack. You’re just notmyboy anymore. I’m sorry. I needed a fresh start. One day I hope you’ ll come to understand.” She’s crying openly now. I feel tears welling in my own eyes. “I will always love you, Jack. But it’s different for me now. I’m happy. And you need to find your own happiness.” Tears are hot on my cheeks. I try to give her the money back, thinking that will somehow reverse this . . . Mama hugs me, then walks toward Ardells. “No, Mama, please, don’t go. I’m a good boy now.” She opens the door and disappearsinside. “Mama . . .” I start to sob and drop the money on the sidewalk . . .
Lady plunged her needle into my shadow again, catching the flailing end of Essiene thread. Six rough stitches and my wound was mostly closed. Searing pain shot through my scar, but she’d at least stanched the flow. My flesh felt suddenly heavy on my bones. Sweat poured off my face, steaming and dripping on the frozen ground beneath me.
I didn’t know how to forgive Mama. Or even how to start. My third verse was as far away as ever. The words. The notes. Wembley wasn’t even a memory. And I still couldn’t move, didn’t really want to anymore.
So, I closed my eyes . . .
. . . Chuey is at my side. He puts his arm around me and says, “I think you had her right up until the end, man. But your voice sucks.” I laugh and cry at the same time. Chuey shakes me. “I got you, brother. And I have an idea for your chorus . . .”
