MegaMax Studios

Chapter 53 of my novel "The Faerie Dusters" Will followed a plane, broad path; his new mind scared him, but he pressed on. His heart was screaming at him. Get your legs, it said, save Emma! He was afloat above the path; he moved easily along the way. It was a beautiful mental conduit, and a scary nothingness that reasoned with the older Will. Stay, it reasoned; rest, it said. Why the effort? The voice of reason scared him, for it commanded him not to try. It offended him, for it told him that Emma would be fine without him. Will hated the voice. Emma was in danger. He took the voice in his hands, and squeezed. He choked the throat of it until he had wrung the last drop of life from it. He threw it at his feet, and looked up. There, he saw what he presumed to be his soul. He could make neither heads nor tails of the creature, but Will felt certain it would be of more help than the inner voice. He reached; he grasped firmly; he hauled himself up and out of his mind. At once, he found himself before the panorama of blue sky and marching clouds. With a shudder, he thought the nothingness of his older self not so scary, after all. A gracious, quiet voice thundered through his being, tender in its inquiry. “Have you done nothing of which I commanded you to do?” Will realized that he had failed not himself, not Emma, but God. He fell upon his face. He trembled uncontrollably. That was the story of his life: he had never taken the steps he needed to take. He had always been a day late, and a dollar short. Now, he felt about as low as a man could get. He hated himself. He deserved whatever was to come, and as awful as it was to imagine that God could grind him to powder, God was, and always would be a righteous God. Will could see it no other way; in his heart he knew that God could do no wrong. The gentle voice shook him a second time. “Your new mind scares you.” “Y . . . yes, Lord.” “Let this encourage you. I have given you a mind that will not permit you to fail me. All that you need to serve me, I have freely given. Look within, my son.” Will cautiously complained, “But . . . I can’t move my legs . . .” “Don’t be afraid. Your legs will move.” “But, how?” pressed Will. “I don’t understand . . .” “Faith, Will; faith will move your legs. Now, hear me, for I shall not speak with you again until I speak with you face to face in my new world. I will bring this valley down, and I will cause the mountain to fall in upon itself. Go quickly to the cave that is south of you, and go between the stones.” Will raised his face to the sky. He pushed tears aside, and asked, “But, what about Emma, Lord? I love her.” The voice flashed like a hot bolt; the thunder of it threw him back. “I have put her life in your hands.” Will blinked, and the sky turned to muddy rage. He saw main street flooded; he saw Emma and the Doctor, Ned Burtram between them. They pressed against the current as they followed others toward Evans Hill. The torrent, like a snake, snapped at their heels. Each step was taken with painfully exaggerated care. Emma looked up; Will could see the hopeless horror in her eyes, as a wall of muddy water and sandbags struck the three of them like a fist. They were driven into the post and railing that fronted the jail. Emma wrapped one arm around the failing corner post; with her free hand, she held tenaciously to the Doctors’ vest. She struggled to keep her head above water. “No!” cried Will. The vision was gone. He found himself on the floor in Emmas’ bedroom. He thrashed wildly with all four limbs. It took but a moment to find his feet, and Will was off and running. He slammed through the door to the other room, and donned the long coat and hat. He raced down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the rain. The barn doors stood open. His boots flew from under him, and he hit the dark interior in a bone-jarring slide. He heard the shuffle and snort of spooked horses in their stalls. Which horse really didn’t matter; Will took the first one he came to, threw himself up on its bare back, and kicked it into a frantic gallop. He headed for the bridge. One hand locked in the tangled mane, the other hand holding his hat upon his head, Will bared his teeth into the pounding rain. He pushed his mount for all its speed. The cold and dismal light of dawn was barely detectable when Will pulled up just short of the bridge. His mount danced apprehensively in the frothing flood. Muddy waters covered the road, churning dangerously high. The muddy swell beat vehemently against the north face of the bridge, tossing a great wall of grey foam high above the ravaged roof. Will studied the water that ran through the bridge, and gauged the eastern exit. It was high, and the current perilously swift, but he was game for the effort. He had to reach Emma. The horse reared in fright, and turned to flee, as a terrible grinding noise accosted Wills’ rain battered ears. He turned the horse back around to look. What he saw was disturbing. As he steadied his mount, the west end of the bridge was pulled free. It swung south with the torrent, disappearing beneath the spray. Simultaneously, the east end lifted toward Will. It stood briefly on end before being instantaneously sucked into the gnashing maw of the raging river. Before Wills’ eyes, a whole covered bridge was horribly chewed into a thousand useless pieces. “Damn!” shouted Will, barely hearing the sound of his voice over the roar of the river. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” He turned, and drove the horse north, merciless in his urgency. The beating in his chest hurt. It was like the second hand in a large, brass clock. He cut through shallower waters; he made for the pond on his property. His land was higher than Evanston, and more northerly than Evans Hill. There was a small row boat tied there; that would be his ticket to town. He kicked for speed, veering toward his cabin, then turning north again at the shallow bend in the creek. The pond was a small lake; it was badly swollen. The old tree, to which the boat was tied, stood far out from solid ground. He eased the reluctant animal toward the tree, but its instinctual fear held him back. Time was running out. He slid from the horses back, and released it. As the animal turned back to land, Will was drawn under. He surfaced, paddled, turned and looked. There was the boat just a few feet from him. It was capsized. Will unsheathed his Bowie, and cut the rope. Panic pulled the little boat. Will could still see the images of Emmas’ plight; they had been burned upon his minds’ eye. Having righted the boat, Will rolled his hat into a pocket inside his coat. There was no time to lose; he raced to save the life of someone precious. With the zeal of a desperate man, Will heaved the boat over his head, and ran toward the river. His best hope lay in being far enough north for the current to carry him over to Evans Hill. He ran hard and steady, knowing what he must do. He played out the scenario in his head again and again. The single oar in the small boat offered little advantage, but he could use it like a rudder to steer the boat true. His greatest fear was coming ashore south of town. If he could just make it to Evans Hill, from there he might use the store fronts for handholds as he sought out and sundered his love from the greedy swell. He had run as far as he dared; he stopped at the swirling brink of mayhem to catch his breath. He gulped air through the driving rain. His body was cramped from his exertions, but his heart hurt more. No time, no time, he told himself. He pushed the boat out into the mad river; he threw himself inside, and immediately reached for the oar. He yanked it from its place, and thrust it into the raging, muddy beast. The rain hammered him. It numbed his senses, and pooled in the boat. Will could only hope, now - hope that his course was true, hope that his boat did not flounder and sink. He looked into rain for any sign of orientation; he beat his oar against the might of the flood. Like an open hand, the frigid limbs of a leafless tree appeared from the unrelenting greyness, and slapped his floundering craft. Sharp branches raked Wills’ face, first one limb, then another, as Will fought to keep control. For one breathless moment, Will lost all bearing. His boat turned in the swell, and threatened to go under. Will ploughed the current with his oar. He saw the great scary tree sink silently to his right, like a ghost slipping back into the grave. Will knew then that his bearing was true. He was happy, but his struggle was far from over. He gasped for air, and got rain water instead; his chest ached savagely. His small craft was quickly filling with water, and before him was only more of the same. The grey downpour was beating him into the river. To his souls’ delight, Will noticed a darker shade of grey. It was up ahead; it was, in fact, the hulking knob of Evans Hill, beckoning through the grey wall of rain. He could not make out the house, but he saw faint, wavering spots that might be windows. He fought his way toward the hill; shapes became clearer, and Will detected movement. Will laughed into the shroud of rain; he was that much closer to Emma. He cared not that the rain ran down his throat. He would soon be with the woman he loved. The craft banged into the hill; Will pulled it to ground and laid it over. Before him, now, was the camp of the townsfolk. They hunkered from the rain in ragged flapping tents that were no more than rags on poles. Some did not have that much; they huddled in the pouring rain, forlornly watching their livelihoods wash away. Will wondered why Evans House had not allowed them in. Will ran among the sodden townsfolk, through abating rain, calling Emmas’ name. He dared to hope. Beneath hastily erected shelters, he passed through a miserable collection of scared, wounded, and crying. They had their own problems; they hardly heard him above the rain. Will spied Emmas’ preacher, soaked and shivering, as he doled out what comforts he had. The preacher had been among the mob that laughed him from his soap box, and while he himself had not laughed, Will recalled the embarrassed pinching of his face. The preacher stood up from a trembling couple, and Will pulled him around by the shoulder. His eyes were hollow, and lost. Will shouted, “Have you seen Emma?” The short man seemed somewhat more diminished by the flood. He pointed a heavy hand toward a larger huddle further down the hill. Will narrowed his eyes in that direction. He made out several men standing at the edge of the water. They busied themselves hauling a wagon up from the flood. The wheels had been removed to make a raft of it. Will stumbled into the larger camp; he inquired of each wretch as he came to him. He got blank looks, listless shrugs, and cold indifference. No one had seen Emma. Will paused to watch the wounded who were carried from the wagon. Those who were hurt were carried up the hill; those who were dead were laid out with other corpses. Will noticed there were no sheets to cover the dead. It was then that he heard the wailing of mourners. He had been caught up in his own dilemma, too caught up to see the tribulation of the town. Now that he saw it, he felt for them. The wounded, the dead, and cowering survivors littered the dark hill. A knot formed in Wills’ stomach as he pushed through the clamoring crowd. He spotted the broad shoulders of Tooley Cox, a railroad man, and occasional customer. Tooley had sought him out when the duties of father and husband had threatened to overwhelm. Will listened to his complaints, and sold him whiskey. He saw him, now, as a smaller man, bedraggled and hunkering in a lean-to. Will moved to face him, and stopped cold. Will fell to his knees beside him; he was stunned to see the corpse of Tooleys’ twelve year old son, Timmy. Tooley clutched the small body in a bear grip of wordless grief. Timmys’ skin was unnervingly still and white; his open eyes saw nothing. Tooley turned his slack face up to Will. “Gone . . . gone . . .” moaned Tooley. Will wanted to cry. He knew Timmy to be a good boy, sweet tempered, gentle, and honest. It broke Wills’ heart to see him so cold and white. He stretched out a trembling hand to smooth back the hair from Timmys’ face, and close the wide, empty eyes. Poor Timmy! If he was a better man, he thought, he might be able to comfort this grieving father. But, what could he do or say to ease Tooleys’ pain? What could he offer to fill the void? Nothing, that’s what. Will pulled a heavy hand across his face, and stood to leave. Will found the sheriff sitting morosely on the planks of a makeshift raft. His face was gaunt, his expression hollow. Like the others, sheriff Hurt had difficulty answering. It was as if Wills’ questions brought them back to themselves, to the very place they did not want to be. Will gripped the big mans’ shoulder and shook him. He had to repeat the question. “Hurt,” he asked, “Where’s Emma?” The tired man behind the badge looked slowly up. His eyes took a moment longer to focus. He shrugged an apology, and said, “Behind me when the levy broke . . . Doc and Ned . . . I’m sorry.” Will had wasted too much time; his course lay down-current. Will raced back to his boat; he prayed in his heart for Emmas’ safety. He prayed hard, and the current took him. The river cast him at ripped buildings, at structures bent and swaying. His small craft settled into the middle of the flood, and Will heard from behind him a man shouting from the hill. It was Tooley. “He’s alive!” Tooley shouted. “He’s alive!” Although the rain had lessened considerably, the flood, unabated, raged on. Wills’ small boat turned in the current without control. He spun madly, and slammed into the groaning ruin of the old church. It was there that Will lost the boat. It was sucked out from under him. Will found himself dropping down main street with nothing more than a piece of church wall to stay the breach between life and death. Muddy water filled his throat. He clawed his portion of the church in hopes of remaining upright, as the angry river hurled him past the unfinished courthouse, then punched him through the north corner of the jail. That same corner was swept along beside him, and hammered him brutally when he fell into the brick edifice of the bank. The saloon flashed by - in halves. The river gagged him, as he sought purchase among the detritus. He continued to scratch and claw a route along the surface, while the black clouds of unconsciousness thundered at the outer edges of his perception. A roughly vertical post came into view; Will took it. He reached with both arms, and hugged it to him with desperate strength. Sputtering, he pulled himself to the top balcony of Fergusons’ Feed and Grain, now but two feet above the swell. The balcony rippled from the force of the current beneath it. He was glad to share his rippling raft with a scared, wet gopher rat. He spit mud, and stood to get his bearings. The balcony, suspended by its northern brace, bobbed dangerously on the flood. Across the way, Will could see the roof of the school. A gnarled and ancient oak leaned away from the school, reaching for the orphanage nearby. It came quite close. There stood one matron and five clinging children on the roof of the orphanage. Emma stood in the boughs of the oak. Having advanced as far as possible, she was still unable to reach across. She reached into the boughs above her head, seeking a way to leap from the tree to the roof. Will had just focused his eyes on her; he had just filled his lungs to call her name, when the orphanage collapsed. The roof spun away into the froth, with a sickening silence. The matron reached to embrace her charge, and they were gone. The corner of the roof went down, and five small, wide-eyed faces disappeared. What was left splintered away into nonexistence. The roof of the school followed, struck the tree and passed around on either side. Only the great old oak was left. Emma watched the roof vanish. One good woman, and five dear children died before her eyes. She felt the tree quake and watched the school roof follow down the river. It was all too much. Why must the innocent die? She turned her face into the pouring rain, and vented all the anger and frustration of wasted life. Will called to her. “Emma! Emma!” She turned to find the voice that called her name. Her foot slipped. He called in alarm, “Emma!” She wrapped her arms about the thick limb, and steadied herself. She wiped the hair from her face, and looked through the rain to see Will on the balcony of the feed and grain. She wasn’t at all surprised. This was just one more thing to tick her off. Why!? Why did he have to come? She did not want to see him drown, too. Will shouted, “Hang on, Emma. I’ll get you.” “No!” she called back. “I’m comin’ over.” “You’ll die!” she screamed. “You old fool.” “So, I’m a fool. Stay put.” “Will,” pleaded Emma, “you’ve got a mission. I’ll just be in the way.” Will answered, “I love you, Emma. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without y’.” She knew there was no arguing. Will would try to get across, and die in the attempt. Emma could not bear to see him swallowed by the flood. She would have to jump fast, before he could think of a plan. Before he could collect himself enough to jump in after her, she had to jump in. She had to do it - to save him. She shifted her weight; the current tore viciously at her feet. Will seemed ready to jump; she paused; she needed to distract him. Emma shouted over the rain, “You knot-headed old man. Even if you do get across, just where do you think we’ll be going from here?” “You might have a point,” he answered. “But, I really don’t care. Sounds like more naggin’ t’ me.” “Wait, Will; just wait a minute. Save yourself. I have no place in your life any more.” “Damn, if that’s true!” Will countered. “You just stay right there.” He readied himself to jump. “Will. Will!” Emma pleaded. “Remember the vision. There has to be a sacrifice. That’s the only way you can go on: if I die.” Will clenched his fists, and shouted back, “No! Hell no!” “You know it’s true.” The rain slacked; it would have been quiet, if not for the roaring flood. Will said, “All I know is we live or die together. Y’ hear me?” “Okay, Will. Okay. Just don’t jump.” Her heart raced; the taste of fear was on her tongue. In a sad sort of way, she was happy the rain hid her tears. She instructed, “Go inside, and see if you can find some rope.” “Now, y’ see?” Will cheered. “That’s why I need y’. Hold on.” He spun on his heels; he had to search the top floor of the feed and grain. He had to be quick. He took one step, and a whisper touched him. It ran through him like a cold fire, saying, “I love you, Will.” Fearfully, he wheeled. Lightning seared the air just over him; thunder shook his bones. With illuminated clarity, Will saw the very thing he feared the most. Crouching on the limb, Emma stepped into the swell, and vanished. Wailing to match the thunder, Will bolted to the end of the balcony and took flight. Maddened heartbeats seemed eternities long; the brassy bile of failure burned his throat. The raging river received him with a slap that filled his mouth with cold mud. It stopped his ears and scrubbed his eyes. Blind and desperate, Will drove himself into the flood. He kicked with his legs, he reached with his arms, he groped with his hands, and he forced the pain in his lungs to a back shelf in an unsuspected closet of his mind. The rivers’ soul deep roar shook his bones, and addled his brain. He was lost in a thick brown tumult, but fear pushed him relentlessly forward. It was not the fear that one feels for oneself; it was the fear of failing someone cherished and dear. Will feared for Emma. Every second, every heartbeat mattered painfully. His body screamed for air. Then the miracle happened. It was a miracle beyond the telling. Although his senses failed him, he knew in his heart that he held Emma in his arms. He hugged her tightly to him, and kicked hard for life. He kicked and kicked, and the rest followed quickly. Will did not think; there was no time for that. Will simply did what there was to do. That, too, seemed miraculous to Will. He broke the surface of the flood and gulped sweet air. He loosed himself from its cold grip, and brought Emmas’ head above water. Finding a willow root in his hand, Will thankfully crawled up from the surging mud, drawing his love from deaths’ maw, one foot at a time. Lightning scorched the sky, and thunder rocked the earth, but Emma lay before him like cold white marble. Will drew her up into his arms, staggered to the cave and fell. He prayed a ragged prayer. “Please, God . . . let her live . . . let her live.” Will gave no thought to the rekindled fury of the storm, nor to the fateful course that brought him precisely to the cave. Mind and heart bent to one clear and critical point: Emma must live. He had come so very close to pushing her away, to leaving her, to losing her. It could have happened, but Will was thankful it did not. Instead, Will had discovered a love that was deeper than the flood, a need that burned hotter than any bolt from heaven. If Emma died now, how could he live? He knelt beside her, placed her head gingerly upon his lap. He desired Emmas’ life more than his own, and his ragged prayer became a desperate chant. “Let her live let her live let her live . . .” There was a sudden spewing of water from Emmas’ lungs that brought a joyous smile to Wills’ haggard face. He raked the tears from his eyes, happy to see her returning rose. She rolled to her hands and knees. She wretched painfully, while Will held her, loudly gasping the thanksgiving that sprang from his heart like a thousand burning brands. He relished the life that coursed through his love, as Emma fell back into his arms and struggled against the darkness to make sense of it all. Will could feel her confusion; Emma turning to face him, fell into his arms and drank of his comfort. She squeezed him into her bosom as if she would never let him go. To be alive, to be together: that was cause for joy, but, they had to go. He whispered into her ear, “We have to go.” The earth shook beneath them, and dislodged dust rained down. On the ledge, behind Will, Emma spied the bundled gun and fiddle. Reaching with the swiftness of instinct, she took it in a tight-fisted grip, even as Will was pulling her to her feet. Will clutched Emmas’ hand and pulled her through the lightless cave, taking a course that memory alone dictated. The vibrations of the violent earth moved up through their feet to their knees. Behind them, stalactites broke free from the high vaults, and fell with an ominous, nearly continuous roar. Will and Emma raced through the darkness. Ahead of them, a pool stood out against the hard black mask of doom. It seemed to faintly glow. On an island at the pools’ center, four black pillars rose up through a mist. Leaping, Will and Emma landed, with a splash, at the edge of the rocky mound. Behind them, the ceiling fell in. They scurried up the hill, and threw themselves between the stones. The roar of the collapsing cave ended. Silence slapped their eardrums. Emptiness bathed them in pastel greys. Doom, like wild snapping dogs at their heels, suddenly vanished. It no longer existed. In fact, nothing existed. Then, they fell to the ground in a painful heap. In the flash of an instant, a new and solid reality materialized. It knocked the wind from them. Will thought he saw the sand of a taunting, remorseless desert; he reached for Emma, and lost consciousness.