Wade Ogletree

        

         The two women took chairs askew to each other, neither antagonistic nor intimate. The patient, a pretty but severe brunette, clasped her hands in her lap and looked expectantly at the other, expectantly but otherwise composed, a struggled and hard-clung composure that revealed the fragility of its existence in subtle nuances of her eyes. The doctor smiled warmly, her youth and lack of severity, two of her strongest weapons, presenting themselves as qualities ill suited to the task. They sat together in the patient's house on an evening after work. Except for the ever-present symphony, the world outside lay dormant.

         "How was today?" the doctor asked.

         The patient's eyes moved to that place where memory is recalled. "I thought there would be more sympathy, it being my first day back. It's easy to forget that I've not been totally singled out."

         The doctor scribbled down the words, not singled out, and thought them a good sign. She felt warm, and her heart still beat a little too hard to be ignored. She thought that, perhaps, she should have taken the elevator. For five weeks, she had made these evening visits, three times a week in the beginning, now two. For five weeks, she had bypassed the elevator and taken the stairs. At first, she had excused it as a need for exercise. She had told herself that her fear was making her stronger. That excuse, though, was wearing thin. The days of locking herself away in her apartment, wasting away with grief, were over. She had a life again. She was busy, needed, and tired. It was time to start using elevators.

         Maybe next week, she thought. Of her patient, she asked, "How did they treat you?"

         Her patient shrugged, looking first uncertain and then helpless. "I don't know. It felt like they'd all been drained, zombified. The day was nothing more than a series of tasks to be muddled through, and whether I came or went had little bearing."

         "That must have been difficult for you."

         "I thought getting out, I'd feel less alone, not more."

         In the next moment's silence, a horn blared several streets away, reminding them, again, of how muted the city had otherwise become. Earlier that day, the doctor had stood alongside the Rhone and watched the great fountain shoot its blast like exhaust from a rocket on its way to the moon. She found herself missing the tourists who should have filled the streets. Even the Ferris wheel stood still and unused. The city traffic sped through empty streets. Some forty percent of the populace had fled, and those who remained were slow to move on with their lives. They hid themselves behind drawn shades. With the lack of normal human activity and the noise that would bring, the music sounded even louder, filling the void with its inhuman praise.

         Where did the people think they could go? Where could there be refuge from this madness? The epicenter had been here, outside Geneva, near the Swiss-French border, so the city had suffered more than its share of losses, but that was all: more than its share.

         She changed the subject. "And your husband? Any more sightings?"

         The patient settled back, and, as a show of discomfort, her focus drifted away from the doctor's face. "Not today. His mother says he came to her in her bedroom the other night, and yesterday morning he was in our garden."

         "You saw him?"

         The patient took a moment to brush an errant strand of hair away from her face before nodding. "He spoke to me."

         The doctor smiled, a trained release to repress the more warranted reactions. "What did he say?"

         "Some of the others have died."

         "Died?"

         Again, the patient nodded.

         "Have you told anybody this?"

         She shook her head. "I haven't much felt like talking."

         The doctor scribbled a note on her pad: Some have died. "Did he say anything else? Give any details?"

         "The fighting's gotten worse, now that the enemy knows they're still mortal. More forces have gathered, on both sides. He thinks the war has moved its focus here, to Geneva."

         The doctor continued to scribble down notes, then, remembering her job, looked up and asked, "How does that make you feel?"

         "I'm frightened, but none of it really seems to bother him. That makes me feel better, like it'll all be okay. He said there's no sadness when a warrior dies. You can't go where he's gone and see what he's seen without becoming a believer. He talked to me about Jesus again, saying He's the reason why there's no more sadness. To live is Christ, he said. To die is gain."

         "And what do you think about that?"

         She turned her head to stare out the window, as if to better hear the resonate praise lifting up out of the earth. "I don't know. Maybe there's something to it. I suppose there's got to be."

 

 

         The elevator rumbled into the cool, cement-walled depths of the earth, taking Dr. Sophie Bucher one hundred meters beneath the Swiss-French border. Sophie closed her eyes against the memories that came roaring up out of the unseen pit beneath them but could not keep them from coming.

         She and her husband alone in a hotel elevator, on their way to the lobby—on the first floor the doors had opened and a nervous-looking man had stepped in with them. One floor, from first to ground level, that was all it took. The knife, the wallet, the blood. The man had slashed at her, and she would have died, too, had her husband been a little less brave, a little less cunning. With the knife buried to the hilt in his gut, he had held it there, refusing to let it go. Then the elevator doors had opened, and their attacker had fled.

         She opened her eyes again. Her escort watched her cautiously but said nothing as the elevator continued its descent into the heart of the Large Hadron Collider. As the season drew near to winter, this particle accelerator, the largest machine in the world, lay dormant. Drawing as much power as a small city, it only ran in the summer months when the energy costs were the least expensive.

         Even through its walls, she could hear the rocks sing, a muffled sound, barely on the edge of consciousness, but there all the same, a reminder now that the physicists might wait much longer than for another summer. Their machine might never run again.

         She smiled at her somber escort and concentrated on her breathing. She reminded herself that there were greater things to fear than elevators, but the reminder did little to help.

         That morning she had made her report to CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, presenting what she thought was breaking news: some of those who had been translated were now dead, not by means of the process but at the hands of what they found on the other side. The CERN officials had received her news and given her news more startling still. Something from the other side had stepped over and was waiting for her at the Atlas detector.

         The elevator stopped, and she stepped out into a cavern the size of Notre Dame. Before her, blue and white scaffolding stretched upward, surrounding the Atlas detector. Though she had never before seen it, she had, of late, become somewhat of an expert on the Atlas detector, as had much of the world, but that did nothing to comfort her in its presence.

         Her escort quietly stayed behind while she stepped out into the open. She paused a moment and checked her hardhat, as if that might serve some measure of protection against what she faced. The conceit of such a thought made her smile.

         Atlas was a general-purpose detector, designed to measure the broadest range of particle processes. When the particles, accelerated along the twenty-seven kilometers of tunnel, collided within the Atlas detector, whatever form the resultant energy or particles might assume, Atlas was designed to detect and measure it. In doing so, its creators had hoped it would reveal the science of the beginning of the universe, and perhaps the superpartner particles that were the dream of string theorists, and perhaps, too, however remote the chance, microscopic black holes.

         The black holes would evaporate almost instantly, losing their energy through thermal radiation. Were all this to happen, and it could only even begin to happen if the universe contained large extra dimensions, the evaporated black holes would leave behind all the particles of the Standard Model in equal numbers. It was to be an unmistakable fingerprint left for the detector to read, if, in fact, such an event were ever to occur. It took most of the world by surprise when it did, and even then, no one could have predicted what happened next.

         It was, they believed, an interaction between two or more of those short-lived black holes. Cooled to 1.9 Kelvin, just above absolute zero, colder than the void of space, the magnets had sped the particles until chance won out and they collided. Chance, though, was not yet through. Two or more black holes, the products of these collisions, traveling at speeds that outpaced their evaporation, met up with one another in a collision beyond anything previously hoped or feared.

         The media compared it to a quake in space-time. A multiple-dimensional ripple shot out from the epicenter, there at the Atlas detector, and wherever that wave crossed this dimensional plane, people vanished from the face of the earth.

         Sophie took in a sharp, gasping breath of air and stared into the face of the creature. It sat, perched upon the scaffolding, staring down at her. Bird-like and yet seemingly human, it balanced perfectly on the blue railing, and though it was six stories above her, she had to shield her eyes from its radiance. In the gloom of the giant, cement pit, the creature reflected light from another world.

         It opened its mouth to speak and whispered in her ear. "Don't be afraid. You are safe here and have been called for a purpose."

         The nearness of the voice startled her, and she turned toward its apparent source. The creature stood there, so close that she could have touched it, dared she reach out her hand to try. She glanced upward again, to the scaffolding and the blue railing six stories above, but the spot where the creature had crouched, waiting for her, was now empty.

         "You are about to obtain a new patient," it said. "She is stiff necked and rebellious. She lost a son in the accident and now she wants to bring him back."

         The light, that reflected light from a source she dared not imagine, prickled her skin with its radiant heat.

         "All my patients are like that."

         "No, not like this one." It retreated several paces, giving her some relief from its brilliance. Clothed in light, its features were indistinct. She saw it more as movement beneath a glowing veil, like a great shark beneath the surface of dark waters, and like the shark which the sea suggests but will not quite reveal, the creature moved in strength and beauty and the remembered fears of all men's dreams. "There are physical laws for the spiritual realm," it continued. "They both protect and define the life you know in this world."

         "What does this have to do with my patient?"

         "In bringing back her son, she could destroy your world."

 

 

         The mother-in-law raised her hands and loudly sang the praises of God. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling, obviously enjoying herself. Sophie could see that this was no rehearsed mantra. She spoke from the heart and with conviction.

         "Dear, gracious Father, Giver of life, Wonder of the ages. Praise God, glorious King, awesome Savior, precious Lord."

         Sophie waited. Her patient had warned her this would happen. The mother-in-law had taken to the habit of breaking out in praise whenever the mood hit her. The rocks, she insisted, would not sing in her place.

         Curious, Sophie focused on the earth's own droning praise but could detect no change in volume. Still, she thought it might make an interesting experiment. If they gathered enough people to sing in coordinated praise, would it produce a measurable reduction in the earth's resonating field?

         Resonating field. The comfortable familiarity with which she used the term surprised her. Five weeks ago, she had laughed off the label as a shallow attempt to deal with a disturbing phenomenon. Shallow or not, though, she had adopted it. The endless chorus that woke them in the mornings and laid them to bed at night was simply a resonating field, a cross-dimensional vibration triggered by the Event. The label quantified the phenomenon and put her at ease, raising fewer troubling questions.

         They had gathered in her patient's apartment: Sophie, her patient, and her patient's mother-in-law. Had she known nothing of these two women, she could have guessed much just by seeing them together, here. Gret, the daughter-in-law, was a modern yet reserved woman, a fact that was reflected in her home's minimalist decor. Brigitta, however, was old-fashioned and flamboyant, an incongruous pairing of traits, thought Sophie, but if there was anything that defined the tall, blonde, beautiful, and aging Brigitta, it was incongruity. Sophie wrote that word by Brigitta's name in her notebook. Long ago, by Gret's name, she had written the word: rigid.

         Finally, Brigitta took a deep breath, laughed once in pure delight, and settled her attention on Sophie as if she expected something. Seeing the joy and peace on her face, Sophie felt compelled to echo that praise. Her self-conscious awareness of what other people might think nearly stopped her, but Brigitta was certain to approve, and that was all that mattered. On that, the creature had been very clear. She was Sophie's first priority.

         Sophie threw back her head and cried, "Hosanna to the Son of David!" She had heard that phrase echoing along the streets for days, and now she realized how badly she had longed to join in. The voice outside the walls remained as strong as ever, but she could feel her voice connect with it. She felt, almost saw, the vibrations, as if the very space around her warped and undulated with these waves of praise, and in that warping of space she felt a presence, a closeness, an assurance of grace and love and hope and joy. She remembered the scripture: "He inhabits the praises of His people." When tears threatened to fall, she remembered herself and her surroundings and stopped. The silence fell like a veil of mourning.

         Brigitta studied her intently. "You felt it, didn't you? You could see the barrier beginning to crumble."

         Gret was obviously uncomfortable, looking as if she wanted to crawl inside her own skin and disappear. "It's Brigitta," she explained. "Somehow, she's the crux of it."

         Brigitta edged forward on her chair. "I think it has something to do with how close I was to my son when he disappeared. Inches, that was all that separated us. I figure you can't come that close and escape its touch. That dimensional quake, or whatever they call it, it got a part of me, too. Somehow, I'm connected to the other side."

         Sophie considered this revelation thoughtfully. "And you think this connection expresses itself when we vocalize the praises of God."

         "Gret tells me you are a church-going woman."

         Sophie nodded.

         "You sang the hymns this past Sunday. Did you experience anything like it?"

         Thinking about it now, she realized she had, if only on a smaller, more subtle scale, but it was the same feeling, the same connection to God she felt in nearly every expression of worship. That, she realized, was huge. Whatever the cause of the phenomenon, be it Brigitta or not, it was simply a magnification of what worship was.

         She countered her own excitement with the creature's warning: In bringing back her son, she could destroy your world.

         The warning had seemed so authentic at the time, but how could she have doubted so great an apparition? In hindsight, there was room to question. The messenger was unproven. The only word she had for an extra-dimensional being clothed in light was angel, but there were fallen angels as well, and the Bible warned that the devil's messenger's could appear as beings of light.

         Someone wanted Brigitta stopped. That was all Sophie really knew.

 

 

         Sophie rode the elevator again into the depths of the earth and found it no less harrowing than before. The elevator doors, though, eventually opened, releasing her from her cage, expelling her before the Atlas detector. Again, the creature had insisted on meeting her here, and Sophie found that intriguing. She wondered if the creature chose the subterranean chamber for privacy or if it were somehow limited in its ability to cross over. Atlas was ground zero and, conceivably, now the weakest point in the barrier between worlds. She realized that if all the creature wanted was privacy, it could come to her in her bedroom. She doubted more than ever the creature's origins and motives. The trip down the elevator shaft had become a descent into hell.

         She stepped out into the cavern, but this time she could not see it waiting. Fear settled upon her stomach in waves. Instinctively, she began to softly sing a hymn. Worship had become a much more vital part of her life in the last couple of days. She sang in the car and at home, never again repeating the earlier experience with Brigitta but appreciating worship so much more because of it. Now, to her surprise, she could once again feel the resonating field of her own voice, and in that field, in that warping of space, she felt the very presence of God.

         Then she felt something else moving behind her. The unworldly light cast its glow upon the distant walls, and she felt the heat of it upon her flesh. The hymn died in her throat as she turned to face the creature, now circling her like a caged lion.

         Its voice washed over her. "You are running out of time."

         She found the strength to speak. "We are making progress."

         "She has not yet changed her plans."

         "Brigitta is a headstrong woman. She will not change overnight."

         The creature whirled to face her, and for an instance, the brilliance blinded her. "It would go faster if you stayed focused."

         The anger in the hissing voice pricked her nerve endings like fire. She cried in alarm, but as she tried to scramble away, the creature suddenly moved and was before her again.

         "There is no point to your conversations," it scolded. "We do not care about her life in Lucerne. She intends to break through the dimensional barrier, and it cannot hold up to another assault. Your people do not understand the crisis you have created. Every last one of you will die!"

         The stinging voice fell silent, and Sophie found herself on the floor, curled into a protective ball. The heat and the light told her the creature had not left but had backed away, giving her room, possibly aware now of the effects of its anger but most likely awaiting her reply.

         She searched desperately for an answer that would not risk the creature's wrath. "It's all I know to do. Brigitta's worldview is defined by what she experienced in Lucerne. She only left the city to move to Geneva when her son moved here. It was a chance to be near him again."

         She paused, trying to gauge the creature's reaction. It remained silent, but still she could feel it pacing behind her. She continued. "There's a famous carving there, The Lion of Lucerne."

         "You spent over an hour on that alone." Its voice was controlled now, barely more than a whisper.

         "That work is significant to the way she views her son's predicament. Are you familiar with it?"

         After a moment's pause, the creature admitted it was not.

         "Lowendenkmal, the Dying Lion, was carved in honor of Swiss mercenaries who died in the French Revolution. At that time our men, who were by law bound to serve, were leased out to foreign governments. Louis XVI employed some of these troops, and when the revolutionaries stormed the Tuileries, the king ordered our men to lay down their arms. They obeyed and were slaughtered."

         "And what does this have to do with her son?"

         "She sees a parallel between those troops and the people now fighting in your war. They've been conscripted against their will to fight a foreign battle, and the way Zwingli sought to bring home the mercenaries of his time, Brigitta wants to bring home the people of ours."

         "This war is not as foreign to your people as you would like to believe."

         "What do you mean?"

         "If anything, this is your war, and we are the soldiers fighting in your stead. By an accident of your own making, some of your people have crossed over and find themselves in the thick of the battle. I say it is about time. Let them take up weapons and fight and die. This is your world and your fate we're fighting over. Let them play the part they've been given, and be grateful that you were not sent instead. They will fight, and they will die, every one of them. No one can stop that now, not your patient, not anyone."

         She nodded vigorously and found that she very much wanted to believe, wanted this fearful creature to be on her side, not against. The words sounded so sweet, so true. It was a warrior fighting in her place, a servant of God locked in spiritual warfare with the enemy. It was, exactly, what she wished was true, but somehow, at the core of her being, she knew better. The creature was lying.

 

 

         After her debriefing at CERN, Sophie drove aimlessly through the streets of Geneva. At last, she stopped before a great, stone church. It was not her own, but she knew this one kept a small prayer chapel open. When she turned off the engine, the city fell quiet.

         Off a garden courtyard, the chapel doors opened to a rectangular room filled with double rows of abbreviated pews. From behind the pulpit, a small stained-glass window cast a muted finger of light into the room. The glow, she realized, came from an electric light.

         She took a seat in one of the pews, said a brief prayer, and then opened a hymnal. She sang parts of several songs but none of them with the intensity of before. Her nerve endings ached with the memory of the creature's words. She looked up from her hymnal, seeking the white plaster ceiling for some sign of heaven. The artificial, stained-glass sunbeam offered only a shallow mimicry of the connection she had felt in her earlier praise, first with Brigitta and again at the Atlas detector.

          She thought of the Lion of Lucerne. The carved beast lay fallen on the scattered shields and weapons of battle. She remembered clearly its pained face as it reared its head to take one final breath, and she could almost believe that the beast knew the cause of its suffering. Caesar had placed it in death's way and then settled back to watch. Though he had the power to save and release, he chose instead to do nothing. Perhaps he enjoyed the spectacle. Perhaps it bored him. Either way, the outcome was the same.

         She remembered the hot fire of the creature's words as they rolled across her back. The hymnal dropped from her hands, and she bowed her head against the next pew and cried. She asked why she had been the lion to God's Caesar, dropped into battle while He watched, but the question found voice only in her heart. The creature, she knew, was listening.

         The Lion of Lucerne. She had seen it last with her husband. The beast's sorrowful face captured the pain, frustration, and despair that would define her life after his death. The lion was forever frozen in that last emotive moment and so, in a way, was she, immersing herself in her patients' lives while pulling away from her own.

         God, you had the power to save him. The pain of those words opened scarred wounds in her soul. She had spoken them before, turning, like Job, to God in anger, defiance, and the belief, the certainty, that she deserved better. That certainty had died as the words left her lips. God had given His own life for her husband. She had the promise that, though dead, he still lived.

         She grabbed hold of the pew in front of her, as if something might yank her away before she was ready to go. I trust you, a deliberate, careful affirmation. But now what would you have me do?

         A fragmented scripture came to her: We do not wrestle against flesh and blood but against the rulers of this darkness.

         She saw again the shifting image of the creature beneath its veil of light. I know, but I lack the strength.

         The weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God.

         The demand upon her, she realized, had not changed. God required only one thing: faith.

 

 

         Worship had become a regular part of their sessions together. This time, though, was different.

         Their voices intertwined, and Sophie felt something open, just a crack, and for a moment, the boundaries between them faded. She knew both Brigitta and Gret in that moment, saw into their psyches with a clarity that was every therapist's greatest dream, and knew, too, that she was as open and bare before them.

         Brigitta's husband left her when their son was still young. She raised him on her own after that, earning her living by waiting tables at a little restaurant within walking distance of the Lion of Lucerne.

         Gret was working on her Master's at the University of Geneva when she met the man who would be her husband. He brought her home to Lucerne to meet his mother and to see the carving. The park could have been an idyllic, were it not for the constant throngs of people. He told her of hurried lunch breaks with his mother, when they would run to the park and enjoy a cramped picnic. She loved the reflecting pool and even appreciated the heartbreaking beauty of the lion. Somehow, in the mood she was in, it even struck her as romantic. That night, on the train ride back, he asked her to marry him.

         Gret loved him because he was the one person who could free her from her rigid defenses. She trusted his spontaneity. The very sound of his laughter could put her heart at ease. Without him, the world had turned cold and sinister. She withdrew again, trying to protect herself like a turtle in its shell.

         Brigitta's bubbly spirit hid the pain and loneliness she had never wanted her son to see and now would reveal to no one. He was the source of her abounding, optimistic energy. Without him, she lived her life by habit. If she were to stop for a contemplative moment, she had no idea who she would discover herself to be. Deep down, she feared she would find nothing remained beneath her frenetic mask.

         Sophie felt her own perspective change. Before, the physical experience of the resonating field and the intense awareness of the proximity of God had overwhelmed her to worship's more subtle nuances. Now though, in joining Brigitta and Gret in impromptu praise, that awareness of the living God washed over her wounded soul. Love, mercy, and grace coursed through every cell. The night before, God had seemed so distant, the Caesar to her dying lion, but now she knew He was closer than a husband's embrace. He was and always had been.

         She saw now the difference between this and any worship she had ever experienced. She felt now their purpose. The praise was meant to do more than reveal the closeness of God and more than remove the boundaries between them as people. It was the means by which Brigitta intended to reach beyond her own dimensional space and bring home her son.

         The praise died on Sophie's lips, and she felt herself begin to tremble.

         Brigitta cried out with fresh fervor, "He is alive and forever on Earth He'll reign."

         Sophie closed her eyes and fought the memory of the creature's words, burning like lashes of fire whipped across her back. The remembered warning came anew, as if spoken now beside her. In bringing back her son, she could destroy your world.

         This creature, this demon—for demon it certainly was—had never questioned Brigitta's ability to cross the dimensional plane and bring back her son. The warning had been in the consequences of that action. She looked into Brigitta's face. Her eyes were closed and her hands raised. She sung though a smile of delicious joy.

         "He is exalted. Yes, He is exalted on high!"

         Sophie knew her duty. She had to stop this. CERN would demand it. Whatever the creature said, as far as CERN was concerned, was God's word to her. Figuratively. Yet, literally, she thought, God's word was saying something quite different.

         There was nothing to fear in the worship of the Living God.

         Still, if her time in the creature's presence had taught her anything, it was that great and fearful forces existed beyond their dimensional plane. She could hardly imagine the possibilities if they breeched the barrier between worlds.

         She felt again the open lives of Brigitta and Gret wash over her. She saw them studying the Bible. Gret, a new believer, learned the basics of the faith while trying to keep up with Brigitta's deeper studies. Brigitta's main concern had been the interplay between the dimensions. God and the angels appeared quite often, frequently taking on the appearance of men. Demonic apparitions seemed more limited in their scope. They entered the bodies of men and beasts, but rarely appeared outright. The devil, however, had appeared to Jesus.

         Sophie doubted her own conclusions. She had, after all, seen the creature outside the Atlas detector. Did that not mean it was more likely to be an angel than a demon? The doubt did not last long. The creature had revealed itself too much this last time, and it was no agent of God. Brigitta's studies were too limited and too young to formulate a strict demonology, and even if her conclusions proved correct, Atlas was the epicenter of an event that had changed many rules. Perhaps it was, already, a small gateway between worlds.

         Brigitta's voice took on a hint of desperation. She and Gret were not reaching the breakthrough on their own. Sophie could see now their previous attempts. They had attended the Sunday service of the largest church they could find, but despite their best efforts, the only one to notice any difference was an elderly lady in the back row who started crying and was ushered outside by the deacons.

         Masses of people singing hymns did little good. They needed the right people, those who felt the presence of God in their praise and worshiped Him in Spirit and in truth. Besides themselves, Sophie alone had displayed a facility for both. If they were to reach beyond the veil, they needed her participation. To stop them, all she had to do was keep quiet.

         Gret and Brigitta must have sensed her resolve, for in that instant they fell silent. Outside the walls of the apartment, the earth's resonation field continued to sing its praise, echoes of the songs once sung within.

         Gret rose to her feet and looked down upon Sophie, her face pulled taut in anger. A button had come undone at the throat of her sweater. With shaking fingers, she refastened the button. "I want you out of my house," she hissed.

         Sophie lowered her gaze, nodded, and was about to push herself up from the chair when suddenly Brigitta's hands were upon her, gently holding her in place. "No," she said. "Not yet."

         Brigitta, on her knees, held her hands upon Sophie's. "You're wrong," she whispered, "about the lion."

         Sophie blinked in surprise. "About the what?"

         "For a moment, there, we were trading thoughts. I'm sure you experienced it, too. I hate to imagine what you saw in me." Brigitta smiled and actually laughed softly. "The last thing I saw in you was the Lion of Lucerne."

         Sophie shook her head. "I don't remember that. No, I wasn't."

         "You visited there with your husband," she insisted. "The lion, you think it represents all the pain of sorrow in life, the struggle and the loss, and you are the lion, lifting your head in agony, looking for some sign of the God you know is there." She gripped her hands firmly. "Sometimes you find Him. Sometimes you feel so alone."

         Sophie wanted to pull away, surprised by how much the words hurt, but Brigitta would not let go.

         "You are wrong, doctor. That is not what the lion means."

         Sophie averted her eyes, no longer able to hold Brigitta's gaze. "When the revolutionaries stormed Tuileries."

         Brigitta cut her off. "Not that, either."

         She looked back into Brigitta's face. "What then?"

         "The lion took all that pain and misery upon himself, because it was too much for you. He took it and died in your place. The pain you see is yours, but because he's taken it, you can let it go."

         Sophie felt herself begin to tremble again, but this time not from fear. "Let it go?"

         "He died that we might live, so live."

         The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the God to whom they sung, that eternal moment of pain was His to bear.

         Let it go. If that was the meaning, then could they not let go of this as well? Those who crossed over, they were gone. Why should they think it was their place to bring them back? Let them go.

         Almost as if Brigitta could still read her heart, she said, "The victory is ours. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

         Again, Sophie thought of the creature, moving with hatred and anger beneath its cloak of light. Victory did not belong to it. It was hers because of Him who delivered it to her.

         Gret turned away. "What does it matter? We've tried. We were wrong. It won't open."

         "We could try again," Brigitta insisted.

         "We have tried again. It's not enough."

         It took a moment before Sophie could bring herself to speak. "There's one more chance, a place where the barrier between worlds has already been breeched, if we're willing to take the risk."

 

 

         The surface buildings, in the midst of a few warehouses and several small farms, were too nondescript for the secrets that lay buried beneath. The guards allowed Sophie and her guests entrance without question. At the doors of the oversized elevator, the three gathered in private and prayed. Around them, the earth's resonating field still sang the praises of God.

         Sophie called for the elevator, and the doors rumbled open. They looked at each other: she, Brigitta, and Gret. Brigitta began to sing, haltingly, with a weak and quivering voice, and soon the others joined her.

         They rode the elevator down. The concrete walls muffled the voice of the earth, and their own voices only managed to warble in fearful whispers. They could even hear the pneumatic hiss of the car's descent, until suddenly the hissing and the elevator both jerked to a stop.

         The lights flickered and died, entombing the three of them in darkness. "It's okay," Sophie said. "We're going to be just fine." The words came to her as naturally as breathing, but she believed little of it.

         "This is not okay," Brigitta whispered.

         "It won't help to panic. Just stay calm."

         "I'm not panicked, and this is not okay."

         A hand touched Sophie's arm, making her jump. Gret drew close to her. "Maybe we shouldn't have stopped singing."

         The absence of their song now struck Sophie. She was in mid-breath to start anew when the creature attacked, and she was not surprised at its coming. The moment she heard the silence, she had known it was too late. In the darkness, she saw nothing, but the floor tilted beneath her feet. Metal screamed. Gret's fingers dug into the flesh of Sophie's arm. Brigitta shrieked.

         Like a mother trained to hear the emotion within her children's cries, Sophie understood the horrible scream that echoed inside the small car and then fell away. It was not a silencing of the scream but a Doppler shift as Brigitta's body plummeted down the shaft. Crumpled in a corner of the car with Gret, Sophie tried to shut out the sound of the scream that had begun in terror and then ascended in pain, but then the distant, plummeting scream became a song, of all things, a song. It lasted only a moment and was so faint that they would have doubted its existence, had it not been for the resonating field that briefly rippled through them.

         Then it was over, and they were alone in the dark.

         She wanted silence, so she could hear the creature's movements, but silence was deadly. They sang. Before she had felt—had almost seen but only felt—the vibrations of her voice, that warping, undulating space that had moved with the waves of praise. Now, though, as their voices grew stronger, she could actually see the waves like ribbons of light streaking across the elevator and disappearing into some impossible distance. In this new light, they saw the twisted metal and the missing floor. Now seeing what she already knew, that Brigitta was gone, exacerbated the feelings of loneliness and vulnerability, but she felt again the grace that flowed through her song, not coming out from her but reaching down to her. Again, she remembered the scripture: He inhabits the praises of His people. God was with her, she reminded herself. She was going to be okay.

         Then she felt the creature's presence. It did not appear in a dazzling array of light this time. The glow from their own praise revealed nothing, but she felt the creature come. When Gret drew in closer to her, she knew she could feel it, too.

         Then it spoke, and again she felt its words like fire across her skin. "Your songs will not save you. For all their flash and show, in the end, they're nothing but words."

         Gret yelped in pain. For a moment, she cowered in silence, but at Sophie's nudge, she again lifted up her voice.

         The creature laughed, and the sound of it burned deep into Sophie's flesh. It slid up to them, unseen, and ran its fingers menacingly through her hair. "You have no idea what depths of pain await you."

         She felt those fingers slip beneath her skin and play against the vertebrae in her neck and backbone. Instinct screamed for her to recoil from the searing pain that erupted from its touch, but her body would not cooperate. Her muscles froze. Her voice, her breathing, and even the beating of her heart ceased. She felt every cell scream for the blood now deprived it. Seconds passed, and she became acutely aware of her own limits, of the proximity of her own death. That death, though, would not come. In the creature's embrace she remained aware and in ever increasing pain. There was nothing left but to die, and, had she the voice, she would have begged for it come.

         With the pain came despair and then anger. She remembered how close God had felt in her worship, but now He was gone, leaving her frozen in this last moment of pain. This was it: that last, emotive moment. She was frozen, like the Lion of Lucerne, in a moment of eternal agony.

         Then she remembered Brigitta telling her she was wrong. That was not what the lion meant.

         But I am here, she thought, suffering. Not God. Me. I thought the power of worship, freed by this accident of man, would protect me. I thought I would be safe.

         "They were just words," the creature whispered once more.

         Just words. No. It was worship. It was praise. Those who worship God shall worship Him in spirit and in truth.

         Were it possible, she would have sunk to the floor. At least partially, it had just been words. They had come in wielding worship like a weapon and uttering it like a witch's spell. Outside, right now, the very rocks were praising God, but that meant nothing to Him. Worship, from man, was meant to be something more.

         God, she thought, if I had the voice to worship You once more, I would tell You I'm afraid and that You're greater than my fears; that I'm not the person You've called me to be, but You're greater than my failings. You are everything.

         Sophie thought she was dying.

         The pain ended, left her as if it had never been. The creature disappeared with it, and then the fabric of her world split open. It started as a distant pinprick of light. For a moment, she saw it grow. Then the universe folded in on itself, and she found herself in a realm of light and shadow.

         Then there was grass beneath her feet, and, to her left, a reflecting pool. Beyond that stood the great stone face into which the Lion of Lucerne had been carved. The walking paths were empty. The park, indeed, the whole city was silent. Nothing moved.

         She thought of Gret and Brigitta, but instantly her fears were calmed. She knew, as if she had seen it herself, that they were safe, and not only safe but reunited with Gret's husband, Brigitta's son. Then, just as certainly, she knew why she was here.

         She scanned the park and hesitantly, almost fearfully, called out her husband's name. Then, to her own self-loathing, she realized that she did not want to hear him answer. She wanted him back. She missed him so much it hurt, but if this was only to say goodbye, it would hurt worse and hurt forever.

         She could not speak such a dreadful hope and asked, instead, for what she knew she could not have. For a moment, a slight breeze broke the absolute stillness of the park. She turned to the reflecting pond and noticed the niche into which the lion had been carved. The stone shield and spears, upon which it had fallen, remained; but the lion was gone.

         The breeze blew again, this time whispering, "It is done."

         She took a deep breath and told her husband goodbye. The park lawn beneath her feet became the fields on the border between Switzerland and France, now dotted with the hundreds who had come home from the other side. The silence broke with sounds of praise and worship, and it took her a moment to realize that the earth was still and quiet, as the earth should be. Instead, the people sang.

 

 

Copyright 2007, Wade Ogletree

Wade Ogletree lives in Fairhope, Alabama, where he is a Real Estate Agent and the associate pastor for Calvary Chapel Fairhope.  He runs an online fiction critique forum and magazine at < betterfiction.com > and has published works in Fantasy Magazine, Abyss & Apex, Alegory Ezine, The Sword Review, Dragons, Knights, & Angels, Haruah: Breath of Heaven, and others.

  

 

Cover: "Abandoned"

Once busy, alive, and new.  But no longer.  The outpost rusts into a forgotten past.

Created in Bryce 6 and Paint Shop Pro

Copyright 2007, L. S. King

A homeschooling mom, and a grandma, L. S. King taught martial arts for years, and also coached gymnastics. She loves Looney Tunes and the color purple, and adores Zorro, which might explain her fascination with swords and capes. When on the planet, she lives with her husband and youngest child in Delaware.

She is one of the "Overlords" of the e-zine Ray Gun Revival found at < www.raygunrevival.com >, which also features her space opera serial Deuces Wild.

Visit her website Loriendil's Dreamland at < www.loriendil.com > to read her published short stories, her blog, or to catch up on back stories of Deuces Wild.

 

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