part four of four of the heaven breaker series
Soon, he would be facing his demons. The bleak dry lands of his soul pleaded for everlasting mercy, for a drop of water, exemption from his sins. A futile effort, he knew. But before then, he must tread lightly. The downward spiral staircase to hell does not treat strangers with much generosity.
And there was little generosity he deserved left.
The steps his feet fell on made echoes that reverberated through to his bones. The pitch-black darkness rendered him blind. Odell tried his best to hold his balance, and not to fall unceremoniously into the gorging pit. Wherever the pit was.
Or wherever the pit led to.
He continued down, his hands holding railings that did not exist, but the action of clinging to fantasies comforted him, so he did it anyway.
Wind did not blow in the stairwell.
There was no life.
No light.
No feeling.
There was only darkness and the ever-descending spiral downwards.
Odell started to sweat.
Have faith, he heard Mr. Morning say. I am with you. He spoke directly to him, from inside his own mind. Like their consciousness were melded together with an invisible tether.
When does this end? Odell asked.
Soon, answered Mr. Morning. Your heart shakes, but fear not. The only path through is forward.
I’m scared to fall.
If you fall, I will catch you.
Odell continued, his steps being the last remaining semblance of his own sanity. The stairwell curved right, always right in a clockwise manner. Even without vision, Odell could discern that much.
Right, he thought, following the path.
He remembered the fish he caught on the day his father died. It was a codfish, simple and humble and strong. The night was dark then too.
Right.
He remembered the way it wriggled in his hands. How it fought for its own life and almost died. Almost.
Right.
The fish turned and flipped and dove back into the water, swimming with its freedom secured, as Odell looked on silently. How honest it is, the life of prey, he thought. Maybe he released it from his own grip. Maybe he did not want to be a killer, to be a predator that brings misery to the world. But no, he was destined to be a hunter, the most heinous hunter of all.
Right, he considered for a second. No… No I go forward. This time, he did not turn. He moved forward, not adjusting his course. He felt his stomach sink and his knees turn shy. But he kept moving forward.
He thought of the codfish, and what it felt when it bit the line, when its hope turned to ash. Can a fish dream? Can it dream of a world where it is not hunted but cared for.
Then he fell.
The rustling of a wild river woke Odell up. He found himself lying down on a soft meadow. Rich green grass surrounded him. Above, the sun shined brightly. Hotly. He had missed the sight of color.
Rising, he sat.
“You’re awake,” someone from behind him called. “Here, have a drink.”
A person approached him and handed him a clay cup. Inside it was water, or at least it was what looked like water. Odell chose not to take a sip.
“Come on, it’s not poison,” said the person. He had pale blonde hair, the color of sand. He wore a white sleeveless shirt, padded with dust and dirt. His cloth pants were the same.
“Where am I?” asked Odell. He surveyed his surroundings. Beside him rushed a crystal-clear river. Rocks jutted from its middle, making white water. The last thing he remembered was that he was falling.
He must have already fallen.
“You’re in hell, mate.” The person smiled. “I saw you falling from the sky. Well, less of falling and more of gliding, nimbly by the wind. That made it easy to catch you, even without my wings. Do you not remember who I am?”
Odell’s memory flashed before him like a bolt of lightning striking the side of his skull. “Raphael,” he answered. He shot him with a bullet straight to the heart. His death must have been instant. “How are you alive?”
Something’s changed with Raphael though. Something innate. Almost like he was less grand and more normal. He didn’t speak with the same ascendancy that angels did.
“How are you alive more like, because I know I most certainly am not,” Raphael replied. “Hell isn’t regarded as a very alluring vacation spot for the living.”
“This is hell?” Odell asked. “It looks—”
“I know,” Raphael said. “Now, drink. I am not in the business of killing my killer.”
Odell took a deep swig, finishing his cup in three gulps. The descent must have made him thirsty. He felt his legs gain strength; his arms revitalized. His thirst, now gone.
He stood. Compelled to follow the river, he walked towards it.
“Where are you going?” asked Raphael. Odell was past him now. He didn’t know the answer to his question, but his feet moved naturally, on its own. He knew he had to keep moving—
“Forward.” It was not Odell’s voice that spoke, but it was his mouth that moved. Raphael eyed him piercingly, skeptical, but he walked beside him regardless.
The two of them walked onward until they reached an open plaza. A square space of pavement lined the ground, circled with small huts made of wood and leaves. There were no buildings or castles or intricate feats of infrastructure, only a glass fountain that served as the plaza’s center.
Odell stepped out of the water and onto the hard hot tiles of the plaza. From the huts came people, some with blonde hair, some with brown hair, and some with black hair. They wore the same clothes as Raphael did, a white sleeveless shirt and cloth pants. Some of them, those hard at work building other huts and structures, had taken off their shirts.
“Here we are,” announced Raphael. “Meet the—"
“Angels,” Odell finished. Some of them noticed Odell and Raphael, first only a couple, then more. The angels walked towards them, curiously and slowly.
Eventually, a crowd formed.
Odell did not want to speak. He did not have that kind of lust for attention. But he knew he had to, as Mr. Morning had told him so.
“Why are you in hell?” he asked. A bad start, he thought as immediately as he said it. Odell had a thought why they were.
No one spoke, with nothing but the wind giving him an answer. No one made a sound spare the spatter of water from the fountain and the river. Until someone did.
“Ironic for you to ask that, angel hunter.” The man who answered filed himself to the front of the crowd.
The angel Met wore no shirt, so it was easy to see the scar on the chest that Odell left him with. In his right hand, he clutched a sharpened wooden stake. “If heaven’s gates are closed then where else do we go? Let me ask you the same question, mortal. Why are you in hell?”
Murmurs spread across the crowd. Odell could feel their apprehension, their reserved anger. The volume of the murmurs grew. Some of the angels left, walking away with shaded looks of contempt.
He could not blame them. Even Odell himself thought it silly that he, of all people, would be the one to mend this wound. “None would be better,” Mr. Morning had told him on the rooftop. “It must be you.”
Then let it be me, he thought. Then a voice inside him responded.
Wait, said Mr. Morning. Let me, first.
Let you what?
Let me handle this.
His body moved independently. His feet trailed backwards, away from the crowd, and towards the river. The angels observed him closely, their eyes doubtful and filled with distrust.
He felt water droplets spray on his heels. He was near it now.
And so Odell closed his eyes, placing his feet on the water, one after the other. He didn’t know why he did this, but he knew it was right.
His legs wobbled, and his feet reeled on the water’s fluid surface. The wetness and wildness of the river reminded him of the times he’d spent on sea. Never did the sea welcome him with open arms.
Never like this.
The water under his feet embraced him, balancing his stance, not giving in to the weight.
On flowing water, he stood.
For some reason, Odell knew it would happen, but the act still felt surreal. Water swept and swirled beneath his feet, caring and stable. “O’ ye of little faith,” he said. Odell was conscious of his own body, too conscious. He could still see through his own eyes and feel through his own skin, but he could not open his own mouth or move his own limbs.
He had awareness but not control.
Someone else has taken power. Someone of great strength. Only temporarily, Mr. Morning whispered to him.
“It is you.” Met knelt immediately. “Author of Life.” All the other angels followed, Raphael included. Those who left turned to see the commotion, only to kneel all the same.
“I hope the lost paradise has treated you all kindly,” Mr. Morning announced.
“It has,” answered Raphael. “Lord, I thought you were gone.” He raised his head to look, his voice breaking. “But you are here.” He shed a lone tear, hiding his face from everyone else, embarrassed.
“I have never left.” Mr. Morning left the river and wiped the tear off of Raphael’s cheek. “But I must not linger for long. We have but little time.”
“We will do as you command,” an angel said, his head bowed.
Odell stood above them now. From this position, he could see the angels’ backs, those of whom without shirts. Scars lined them, where their wings should be.
“It is not a command,” Mr. Morning corrected. “All but a request.”
“We will do it regardless,” urged Met.
“Then rise,” requested Mr. Morning. It was then that Odell found himself in control again. He wriggled his fingers, making sure they were his.
All the angels rose, all of them looking at him. Him, who is unworthy.
From the right, one angel walked closer, making his way to the front of the crowd. When he reached Odell, the angel bowed his head in respect, before lifting it again. He looked different. More at peace, and no sword in his hand to slay Odell with. But his eyes were sadder, more reserved, more relinquished. “What will you have us do?” asked San.
Odell felt like a fish out of water, and he wished he could dive back into the sea. He wondered if the codfish he caught still swam. If it was caught by someone else, by someone less forgiving. If the codfish ever dared hope again. “Nothing,” he spoke. “Mr. Mor— Jesus wants you to do nothing. There will be a change in the functions of the universe. He wants no war.”
The angels looked puzzled. “You mean the Great War?” one angel asked. “The War of Revelations?”
Odell nodded.
“And you needed to kill us to tell us that, why exactly?” asked the angel.
“I did not cherish being your killer. Or anyone’s killer. I never have. And for that, I am eternally sorry,” Odell stopped. “Free will,” he remembered Mr. Morning’s words. “Angels have always been robbed of their freedom, bound helplessly to serve an unyielding cause. Only one of the many things that separates divinity and humanity.”
“And here in hell,” whispered San. His eyes were wistful, but they also had… they had hope. “We become more human.”
Met peered to the sky, his eyes reflecting the shine of the sun. “For it is in the land of rebellion we are free to think,” he said. “Then it shall be, we will not go to war.”
HALI
The last thing Hali heard was the sound of glass shattering.
She took to one knee, slowly as to not suddenly collapse. She rubbed her eyes, and her blurred vision started to come into focus.
Grass danced underneath her, and a flock of birds flew overhead, chirping as they went by. Some birds traveled from tree branch to tree branch, and each of them looked at Hali with curiosity.
Ahead of her, small modest houses lined a clean newly paved street, which ended in a cul-de-sac. Trees of all kinds stood in between the homey structures, bearing fruits and flowers with names that Hali didn’t know.
Outside the nearest house, an old man hammered on a wooden tool bench, each strike filled with ecstatic energy.
Hali approached him.
When she was a few feet away, the old man paused, pounded one last time, then stopped.
“Wait,” he said, resting his hammer on the bench. He turned. Sweat dripped from his face and dampened his gray shirt. He wore blue overalls that covered his noticeable belly, and a dirty towel rested on top of his shoulder. “Ahh, young Harriet Liway.”
Hali gulped. No one’s called her that in years. “You know me?”
The old man smiled, nodding. “And I see you brought someone with you. It’s been a while, daughter.”
Hali looked around, trying to find if anyone else was with her. If there was someone who followed her here. But no one was behind her, and no one was beside her. No one was in front of her too, apart from the old man who joyfully tapped his belly.
A faint laugh, Hali heard. A whispered laugh. She felt its sound echo in her skull, like it was inside her. Like her own thoughts had a mind of its own.
Don’t worry, Hali, Lucy’s voice sounded. It’s just me, heh. I’m here.
Is that Him? Hali asked.
That, that most definitely is. But I don’t remember Him being that…white.
You mean His hair? Time can do that you know.
No, I meant His skin.
Oh… people can do that?
He’s not a person, Hali.
“Oh right,” Hali said accidentally. Embarrassed, she looked at the old man. She placed her hand on her lips, to keep all other mis-blabbered words at bay. His eyes were on her.
“I can hear your conversation you know,” he noted, bursting into laughter. His stomach bellowed with every huff. That made Hali smirk.
The old man used his towel to wipe his face. “Come with me child, I have some things to show you.” Hali followed.
They stopped at the curb, where the sidewalk met the street.
“Is this heaven?” she wondered. It felt like it, but it also didn’t. Hali didn’t know what to expect of heaven. Maybe she was thinking of heaven as a fortress, with a big white castle in the middle where God sat on His gold throne. But she also thought of it as a large playground with kids playing in watered gardens. Maybe she thought of clouds, fluffy as cotton candy, being the land where angels walked on.
But all she saw was grass and houses and trees and an old sweaty man with a hammer. Even then, she felt at peace. She felt warm and cozy inside, so much at ease that she could hear her own ideas coming to life. The air was so rich, Hali could swear it made her lungs swell and her skin glow.
The old man put a hand on her shoulder. “One part of it, yes. My favorite part if you ask me. See the houses?”
Hali observed them; it was a community, she realized. Even if no one else was outside, she felt the place to be lively and cheerful, unlike some subdivisions or villages that felt cold and distant. No, this village was anything but distant.
Some of the houses were well-furnished and complete, while some, a number of them, were still under construction. Some had second and third floors, some didn’t even have roofs yet. One had a garden full of flowers, while one had a trench that lined its porch. One had a fence, with a sign that hung in front saying ‘experimental’.
“They’re all separate and distinct universes,” the old man explained.
Universes are big, Hali thought. There was no way a universe can fit inside those small houses. Her mind raced to so many questions: How do the houses work? Do people just go inside? How do they build it in the first place? Do they start from the ground up? What is the ground? Why are there so many of them? Is heaven one big house too?
But she only blurted out one. “And you made them all?”
The old man shook his head. “Oh heavens no. I always have some help. LG helped me out a lot with your universe.”
Hali curled her brows. “Who’s LG?”
That made the old man chuckle. “He’s my brother. People can get confused sometimes just because we look alike. Before, even the people we directly talked to thought I was him or he was me or that we were the same person. Personally, I think it’s a bit offensive. I’m way more handsome looking.” He laughed. “And he’s, let’s just say, a bit more of a grump.”
“Where’s he now?”
“He’s off. Away settling a problem with another universe, one where he gave ants the ability to make nuclear bombs. Crazy, right? He’s been real busy since then,” he answered, “I’ve been busy too, making more of these.” He pointed to the houses. “But I understand that there is a complication in your world, yes? Come, let’s go to yours.”
The old man walked with purpose. For someone of his age, he seemed healthy and full of life. Each step he took was confident, but not too confident. It reminded Hali of Mr. Morning, and oddly enough, Lucy.
They stopped in front of a wooden house with two floors. Its exterior was rectangular and robust, and its walls were patched and lined with wooden planks. It reminded her of her own house back in Manila, where the floorboards creaked and the ceiling was warped with rainwater.
It felt like that too, like the house in front of her now had been lived in by a family. Like it’s been loved and hoped in.
Collected dust fell from the stacked scaffolding beside it.
“It’s not yet finished,” Hali expressed. They stood on a wild yet nurtured garden. Sharp but smooth grass skated by her legs.
“That’s because we’ve only started making it,” the old man sighed.
“But hasn’t the universe been around for billions of years?”
“Your universe, yes. Not the.” He chuckled. “Eternity and infinity are much smaller than you think they are, child. A day for me is billions upon billions of years for you and your kind. Time works weirdly.”
“Why can’t you make time work normally then?” asked Hali.
He shrugged. “I want it to work weirdly.”
And look where that’s gotten us, whispered Lucy.
“Once again,” said the old man. “I can hear you.”
Maybe I want you to hear me.
For a moment, Hali thought that the old man would be irate at the comment. The elderly don’t take too kindly to sarcastic jabs, as she’d learned from her lola. Though her lola is a good sport, the best sport, the years have not made her more optimistic of the future.
Nonetheless, the old man simply smiled. “I missed your voice,” he said longingly.
Lucy coughed, as if something just unexpectedly lodged itself into her throat.
“I apologize, Lucy,” continued the old man. “I haven’t been the best father, and maybe that’s because I don’t have anyone to base myself on. No one to use as a blueprint or a framework. Ironic, coming from an architect. I’ve failed to keep my own house in order.
“Do you know the special thing about houses, Harriet?” the old man asked.
Hali fiddled with a blade of grass taller than all the others. She didn’t have an answer to his question.
“It’s because houses have so many stories in them,” he spoke. “Inside its walls are the whispers and wails of misfortune, the shouts of success, the grief and the pain, and the love and liberty of the lives it sheltered. Under each roof lies the distinct details that demonstrate the diversity of life from dawn to destruction and to dawn once again.” He faced Hali. “They’re the storybooks we live in.
“Perhaps I’ve become too cynical, too old when I made your universe. I’ve had my fair share of betrayals before when I was much younger, and even now when I have become much older.”
Hali felt Lucy wriggle uncomfortably, wherever she was.
The old man continued, “The joys of youth, when I was still full of tenacity and creativity and hope. When I was still full of longing and dreams; when I still allowed myself to make egregious mistakes. Perhaps, in my old age, I have become too dull and complacent to the point of cataclysm.” He took a breath, a long and winding breath.
“But not anymore.” The old man glowed, and a slow and low humming pulsated from his body. In a second, the world turned to white, and when Hali opened her eyes again, the old man was an old man no more.
A young man stood in front of her, still with the same shirt and overalls. He smiled, shaking his arms and legs, getting a feel of his new body, his new life. “Whoo, that feels so much better.” He did a high tuck jump. “Yup, a lot better.”
Hali looked around to see if anything else changed. “What just happened?”
“I just thought that maybe this’ll help me think more clearly. To be honest with you, when John wrote Revelations, he had me at a bad time. Comes with the age, I suppose,” answered the young man. “Let’s settle your case, but we’ll have to talk more about it inside. Only place we can talk about it properly. After you.” He motioned to the door.
Hali didn’t budge. Even though her own curiosity ate her up, she was scared. She didn’t know what would happen if she went through that door. Would she die? Would she change? Would she go deaf hearing things she was never supposed to hear?
Who was she kidding, she had gone this far. She had shattered the sky and crossed to heaven with the devil inside her. The copper door handle and the wavy and gray wooden grooves on the door’s face beckoned her to move. To move forward.
She had to do it. She had to for San.
She took a step. And the step took everything from her. Hali stopped, observing the wooden house for one more time. Will it welcome her? Will it spurn her? Will it feast on her naïve heart? Will it—
“I must tell you,” the young man mentioned. “Once you do go in, Lucy’s presence will be sent back to where it must rightfully be. Your Gamma proposition ‘one must go to heaven’, once you go back the clause closes.”
Lucy laughed. Father banishes me again. Can’t say I’m not used to it.
Can’t you stay with me?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
Hali stumbled into her living room, her feet scattering on the wooden floorboards.
“Apo?” a voice asked from the top of the stairs. “Is that you?” Lola peeped through the stair railings. “It IS you!” She ran down and gave Hali a loving hug. Too loving.
“Lola. I. Can’t. Breathe.”
“Oh! Sorry,” she said. “I was so worried! I was texting you and calling you and everything! But good thing your friends came over here and told me where you were. I must say, aren’t they a little old to be your friends? They’re very fine-looking siblings don’t get me wrong but—”
“Friends?” Hali interrupted.
“Yes, iha. They’re out back. I made one of them hot coffee, the other hot tea. Nearly burnt my finger on that. They’re waiting for you.”
Hali gave her lola a kiss on the cheek and walked out through the kitchen and into their backyard garden.
There, she found Lucy and Mr. Morning, surrounded by plants rooted in clay pots, both peering fiercely into the surface of the stone table that lay between them. Black and white pieces crossed paths on a tiled board. Chess.
“The King’s Gambit?” asked Mr. Morning as he moved his pawn a space up.
“Surprised, are you? Thought I might give our games a breath of fresh air.” Lucy noticed Hali. “Oh, there you are. The other one just left.” Lucy’s hair was frizzled in all directions. “That door really gave me a nice blowdry.”
Mr. Morning set his hands on the table, eyes still on the board. “So, how’d it go?”
“He’s agreed to open the gates,” replied Hali. “But with one condition.”
Lucy set her leg on the table. “And what might that be?”
“A transfer.”
They continued with their game. “What do you mean, transfer?” Mr. Morning asked.
“He says that the Prince of Peace, Son of Man and the Princess of Chaos, Daughter of the Morning must change sides.”
The two siblings looked at each other; they looked at each other with familial understanding, a kind of understanding Hali could only ever hope to have. They stayed like that for a while, with no one batting an eye or moving a muscle, entirely forgetting about the existence of their game.
Lucy breathed. “So, I’ll be welcomed back to heaven.”
“And hell will have a new king,” said Mr. Morning.
Lucy grabbed her queen chess piece and slammed it all the way to the other side of the board. “Checkmate!”
She rushed to stand, and from her back came wings that ripped through her suit. “I’M GOING BACK, BABY!” With a bursting gust of wind, she dashed into the sky, getting smaller and smaller until a lone sparkle was all that’s left.
“Devious tactics,” Mr. Morning muttered. He set his own king piece down gently, an admission of defeat. He motioned his hand over the table. All the chess pieces and the chess board disappeared. “I guess I must leave now too.”
“To where?” She thought of it a useless, mindless question. She already knew where.
Mr. Morning thought so too. He fixed his suit, dusting it off with careful sweeps. “I have to go and pay my brothers a visit. I must explain myself as myself, after all. They deserve that much.”
“Tell San I said hi.” Hali tried to smile, but she still couldn’t. Not at the thought of San. Not yet.
Mr. Morning gave a curt nod.
“Will things be better from now on?” Hali blurted.
Mr. Morning smiled. “I can assure you nothing. Nothing but for the fact that I will try to make it better. In the end, time will tell,” replied Mr. Morning. “And time works weirdly.”
A gripping darkness overcame Mr. Morning, as shadowy tendrils clutched his sides. In a blink of an eye, the world flipped. The morning became night, and the man was gone, leaving Hali alone in her garden. Wind whistled through her empty clay pots.
And the wind sighed.
“Oh.” Lola had walked over by the doorway. “They’re gone?”
“Yeah.”
Lola pondered a moment. “Are you okay, iha?”
“I will be.” And Hali turned back to face her house. Her house of wood. The house that is her home. Her universe.
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