Nate Givens
Summer lightning flashed in the sky and the howling wind whipped green leaves from their trees outside. Inside, Ben snuggled deeper into his pile of blankets next to the fireplace. Murmured conversation punctuated by happy laughter came from the front of the house where Mom and Dad were helping aunts and uncles and cousins bundle up for their journeys home. The only other person in the living room was Uncle Orin, sitting in a rocking chair and staring into the empty fireplace.
“Uncle Orin?” Ben asked.
The old man grunted. Ben would have to try again.
“Uncle Orin, can you finish the story now?”
Uncle Orin let out a long, relieved sigh. It was hard to get Uncle Orin’s attention sometimes, but Ben knew Uncle Orin didn’t like what he saw when he stared into space. Sometimes he just needed a little help to stop.
“Where were we?” he asked, smiling at Ben. It was a real smile, too, with little crinkles by the eyes. But even so, Uncle Orin seemed sad. Part of Uncle Orin was always sad.
“The Maricopa ambushed the Aztec raiders! And saved the Mormon Regiment’s artillery train! But the skirmishers are running back because the war golem is coming!”
“Ah,” said Uncle Orin, shifting in the chair and leaning forward towards Ben. “You would run from a war golem, too.”
“Anyone would! They’re taller than this house!”
“Some of them, yes,” said Uncle Orin with a little laugh. Then he grew somber again. “Many Maricopa and Pima died alongside the Mormon Regiment that day, but together they kept the ammunition safe. Now they just had to get it to the artillery guns before the golems arrived.”
“You were with the artillery part of the Mormon Regiment, right?”
“Yes, and my gun only had two shells left.”
“Did the raiders attack you too?”
“Some of them tried, but we had our new Spencer repeating rifles, and we held them off.”
“I can’t believe they tried to attack you with their dumb wooden clubs.”
Uncle Orin hissed in a breath as though Ben had kicked him in the shin. Ben ducked his head in embarrassment.
“The macuahuitl is not a club,” said Uncle Orin.
Ben shook his head to show he understood. “Mahk-kwa-kwittle,” he said, pronouncing the word carefully to show he had been paying close attention.
“It was wooden but lined with obsidian blades. Do you know how sharp obsidian can get?”
“Sharper than a razor,” said Ben, keeping his voice serious.
“Sharper than a razor,” confirmed Uncle Orin. “But that’s not what made the macuahuitl so deadly. A macuahuitl is more than a weapon. It’s what the Aztec blood priests did to the obsidian. They—”
“Orin, what stories are you telling little Ben?”
Ben groaned. Of course Great-aunt Magdalene would show up just when everyone else was leaving and interrupt. And he hated being called “little Ben”!
“He’s telling me our history!” Ben said defiantly. He looked to Uncle Orin for support, but his uncle was already out of the chair and shuffling slowly towards the front of the house, the soles of his boots rasping over the floorboards like rustling of pages in a dusty almanac.
“Uncle Orin, you don’t have to go,” said Ben, extricating himself from the cozy pile of blankets. Uncle Orin didn’t reply or turn back. It’s not that he was angry. He just came and went on his own schedule, and nothing much could dissuade him once he’d started. Still, Ben followed anyway, hoping for even the slimmest chance to hear the rest of the story. He gave Great Aunt Magdalene as dirty a look as an eleven-year-old could muster as he passed. She stared back at him intently, measuring something he couldn’t guess at.
“Are you heading out now, Orin?” Dad asked when Uncle Orin arrived at the front door. Uncle Orin grunted a vague affirmation and reached for his long overcoat, the same one he’d worn in the war.
“But I wanted to hear the rest of Uncle Orin’s story!” Ben sounded petulant, and he hated that, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“It’s not a story, son,” said Dad. He helped Uncle Orin into his long coat, then went to stand behind Mom. She leaned back into him, resting her head against his chest.
“War is a terrible thing,” Dad went on. “When you understand that, then you’ll be ready to hear the rest of what Uncle Orin has to say.”
Uncle Orin put his hat on, opened the door, and slid out into the blustery night. Dad laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment before he left, but no words were spoken. Then the door was closed.
“How would you know about war?” said Ben bitterly.
“Your father is a brave man, Ben,” Mom said. “He would have fought. Thank God the war ended when he was only 16.”
Ben clenched his fists. He hated being corrected. He never said Dad wasn’t brave. Just that he didn’t know about war. And he didn’t! But Uncle Orin did, and unlike most of the veterans Ben knew of, he was able to talk about it. Sometimes, at least.
Then, he got an idea.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said.
“That’s okay, son,” said Dad.
“I’m going to bed now.”
“That’s a good idea, Ben,” said Mom. “I’ll need your help in the morning with your brother and sisters. They’re going to be worn out from all this visiting.”
“Sure thing,” said Ben, and he dashed upstairs to his room. The next three kids in his family were all girls, and they had to share a room. Then came his little brother, Daniel, who was old enough to sleep in a crib in Mom’s sewing room.
Ben closed his bedroom door and then crossed to his window and opened it. His plan would fall apart if Mom or Dad came up to say goodnight, but they looked worn out.
The wind lashed at him as soon as he stepped out onto the roof over the back patio. He crouched down and crawled to the edge to keep from being blown off by the wind. Lightning ripped across the sky so frequently that it was impossible to tell which crack and boom of thunder went with which lightning strike, but there was no rain falling yet.
Ben spotted a tall figure wearing a long, wind-whipped coat and holding onto a hat with one hand. Uncle Orin! The thrill of victory helped keep the fear of the fierce windstorm at bay. He lowered himself from the roof, dropped to the ground, and sprinted off after Uncle Orin.
Ben had only run about a dozen steps when the appeal of this plan began to wear off. Did he really think Uncle Orin would be able to finish his story in the middle of the street during a summer thunderstorm? Ben couldn’t turn back now, though. Not until Mom and Dad had gone up to bed. Besides, he’d already almost caught up to Uncle Orin.
He reached out and grabbed at the flapping hem of Uncle Orin’s jacket. It took a couple of tries, but once he had a grip on the fabric, he tugged sharply. “Uncle Orin,” he shouted into the wind. “Uncle Orin!”
Ben screamed when Uncle Orin looked down at him. His face was horribly disfigured, one eye and the end of his nose missing. His placid expression had been replaced by a desperate wildness that matched the long, gray hair that whipped around his face in the stormy gusts.
After a moment, recognition flashed in Uncle Orin’s eyes. He reached out and grabbed Ben’s sleeve with one hand, holding it tight. With the other hand, he removed something from his pocket and turned away, affixing it to his face. Then he knelt down to Ben’s level.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” he said.
Ben gaped. Uncle Orin’s eye and the tip of his nose were back in place, but the look in his eyes was still alien.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Ben,” said Uncle Orin. His mouth opened and closed as though he had more to say, but no more sounds came out. Then a spasm rocked his body, sudden and fierce.
“I want to go home, Uncle Orin.”
“I’m sorry,” said Uncle Orin. “I didn’t want it to be you.”
He covered his face in both hands and started to cry like a little child, shoulders heaving as he cried aloud. Without taking his hands from his face, he turned and started walking again. In only a few steps, his sobs were lost in the howl of the wind.
Ben sat in the middle of the street until a heavy, warm drop of rain landed on his pant leg, leaving a dark splotch. Then another. Ben sprinted home, but he was sopping wet when he got to the front door.
The fear ebbed the moment he closed and locked the door behind him. The house was still and quiet. His parents had evidently gone straight to bed. Great-aunt Magdalene would be in the guest room. Ben took off his shoes and socks and clutched them to his chest as he crept up to his room.
He stripped off his shirt, pulled off his belt, and started to tug off his pants. That’s when he felt something hard and flat in his pocket. Had Uncle Orin given him something? Ben pulled the pants off then held them up and reached into the pocket.
Something sliced his right index finger. It surprised him more than it hurt, but when he pulled his hand back out, another strobe of lightning illuminated a rivulet of blood from his finger to his elbow.
Ben swayed on his feet, whimpering. He grabbed his wet shirt, wiped away the blood, then wrapped it tightly around his finger. His heart boomed like a drum, and with every beat the pain grew. His arm itched where the blood had run, and he felt a streak of warmth even though he’d wiped the blood away. He felt his arm with his left hand, afraid that the shirt wasn’t staunching the blood at all. His arm was hot to the touch.
Light flared, but it wasn’t from the lightning. The light was coming from him. It illuminated the room, casting familiar objects into jagged, alien contours. Something was off, but he could not tell what. There was his bed. There was his desk with his schoolbooks and chalkboard for math and spelling. There was the door, standing open.
Hadn’t he closed it?
The room started spinning, and Ben had to sit to keep from falling over. The room spun faster, and he lay down and curled up, clutching his finger to his chest. It glowed like a match head in the instant after the flame is blown out, angry and red.
“Shhh . . .” The quiet, piercing voice came from the hallway outside. Ben turned to look, but the light that came from his glowing hand stopped at the threshold to his room. There was absolute darkness beyond.
“Shhhh . . .” The voice soothed him. It was coming to help. The room spun slower. The glow from his finger faded. His skin cooled.
“Shhhh . . .” someone stepped into the doorway: a tall man-shaped figure glowing with wondrous light. The being was light. He stepped across the threshold, and Ben’s eyes were opened. He saw his room for the first time in his life. Saw every grain of wood in the floor, every wavering imperfection in the glass panes of his windows, every textured contour of the wall and ceiling, the exact shape of all the screws and nails that held everything together. The glory of his everyday things brought tears to his eyes.
“Thank you,” Ben whispered. He felt guilty for noticing that his finger still ached. Nothing should mar the moment.
The being came closer and knelt by Ben, resting his hand in the air and filling Ben with warmth and acceptance. Ben’s heartbeat was slow and content.
“Thank you,” he said again. He kept his voice low even though he wanted to shout.
The being spoke. Words echoed in his brain, but Ben wasn’t sure if sound accompanied them or not. He couldn’t understand the words, either. He sensed cadence and tone, but the meaning was just beyond his grasp.
He felt a wave of regret from the being and looked up into its face. Or the position in its head where a face should be. He felt the awareness of someone looking back at him, so he assumed the being had eyes of some kind, but all he saw was undifferentiated light, bright and cleansing and impenetrable. His yearning increased until Ben wanted to weep. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Slowly, almost timidly, the being rose. For a horrifying instant Ben thought it would leave. A desperate cry of longing caught in his throat, however, when the being took only a single step back and crouched again by the rumpled heap of Ben’s pants.
His pants! Ben had another moment of horror, less sharp than the first, as he realized he was wearing nothing but underwear. Then a wave of comfort washed over him. There was no shame in its presence. The being accepted every part of Ben exactly as he was and appreciated it all in the same way that Ben would appreciate one sunset as much as the next. Whether the sky was cloudy or fair, the hue pink or crimson or softest gold, each was magnificent on its own terms.
Ben breathed deep. It was marvelous that he could understand so much just from feelings, but what must it be like to understand this being’s, no, this angel’s words? Ben had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted to understand that angelic tongue.
The angel reached out a hand, slow but emphatic, and pointed. With the new way of seeing the angel allowed him, Ben understood what Uncle Orin had given without having to look. A fragment of stone, shinier than any gem, and sharper than any razor. A macuahuitl blade. Ben sensed its dimensions, felt its heft, all without seeing or touching it. He knew blade’s history just as he could sense the trees that the wood for his bed had come from or the cotton plants that had lived so briefly to make the fabric of his clothes.
The full import of Uncle Orin’s words struck him: “A macuahuitl is more than a weapon.” So, so much more. It moved him that Uncle Orin had entrusted this treasure to his care. But . . . what he said? I didn’t want it to be you. A seed of misgiving sprouted in Ben’s heart.
Lovingly, the angel redirected Ben’s attention back to the blade. Of course! He had cut himself and then the angel had come. It had to be Aztec blood magic.
A shiver went down his spine, and the seedling of doubt grew. Nothing in the wide world was more terrible than Aztec blood magic. How many tens of thousands had they sacrificed, fueling their war golems and enchanting their stone-tipped arrows to penetrate hardened steel.
Ben scooted away from the blade. Away from the wondrous angel of light.
“Shhhh,” the angel said again. It made no move towards Ben. It sat down on the floor instead, cross-legged and non-threatening. Regret and mourning washed over Ben drowning his doubts and allowing him to think. The Aztecs had done awful things with blood magic, yes, but what of it? You could as easily rob a bank as defend your home with the same gun. It wasn’t the tool; it was the user. And this angel had been summoned by Ben. It had come in response to his action.
He felt affirmation.
Ben imagined the horror of being trapped and controlled by the Aztecs, forced to do their bloodthirsty deeds. They must have had as much control over this innocent angel as Ben now did. But Ben would not be so cruel as they had been. “Oh, you poor angel, what did they make you do?”
Gratitude. And then, once more, the angel beckoned towards the blade.
Ben bit his lip. He understood what the angel was asking. Imploring. It wanted more of Ben’s blood. The thought confused and scared him. His finger still throbbed where he had first sliced it. He didn’t want more pain. How could a being so kind and wise want him to harm himself?
The answer was obvious. If a little blood had brought the angel here, couldn’t a little more bring them even closer? Allow Ben to understand the tongue of angels?
A wave of hope filled him, the strongest yet. The angel pleaded with him, begged him. Ben was only eleven years old. He’d never had anyone beg him for anything before. Not really. Not other than his sisters or baby Daniel. Now Ben was being visited by an angel in his very own room, and it needed him. That made Ben a man, didn’t it? Joseph Smith had been fourteen. Ben was only eleven! He swelled with pride. He threw his chest out and his shoulders back and practically floated to his feet, standing tall before the angel, who still waited humbly on the floor.
Ben picked up his pants by the leg, letting the stone fall out of the pocket. With his ability to see anything and everything in the room, he plucked it from the air between thumb and forefinger, nimbly and safely. He smiled down at the angel benevolently. Ben was strong. He could help. He was anything but little.
Ben could still see nothing of the angel’s features, but he felt the smile as it looked up at him with gratitude.
Ben drew the blade from armpit to wrist, not deep enough to cut any tendons or part the muscle, but deep enough to unleash a curtain of blood. He felt nothing for a moment, then a shock of pain brought tears to his eyes.
“Ow,” he said. He felt small and little again. Why had he done that? Maybe only another few drops could have done the trick?
“Thank you, Great One,” said the angel, meekly getting to its feet.
“You’re welcome,” said Ben, trying to hold back the tears. He had understood! He spoke the tongue of angels!
“Let me help,” said the angel, voice submissive. “Please.”
Ben nodded, trying to keep his bottom lip from quivering. The angel bowed its head before him, and a moment later Ben’s consciousness expanded. Before, he’d known everything in his room. Now, everything in his entire house opened before him. Every item with its composition, its history, even its future. His oldest sister, Lucy, was going to break a glass jar tomorrow. Ben giggled, pain forgotten: he could see the future! He was a prophet and a seer!
His sister. He hadn’t thought of other people before, but now he could sense everyone in his house. His three sisters and baby Daniel, all asleep in their beds. His parents, asleep in their bed. Everyone asleep but him, somehow ignorant of the drama centered around Ben.
Hadn’t there been someone else? He felt a flicker of confusion and unease from the angel. How could an angel be uneasy? A cascade of warmth and good feeling washed the question away.
“I have to leave, Great One,” the angel said.
Ben gaped. “No, but I just . . . I thought now you could stay?”
The angel shook its head sadly. “This is not my realm. The cost is too high for you to keep me here. I only asked for you to pay what you did,” here, the angel inclined its head towards Ben’s bleeding arm, “so that I could thank you for freeing me from my captor. And so that I could show you this.”
Ben left his body. His consciousness filled the room once more, expanded out to the whole house again. But this time he didn’t just see each distinct object and person. He saw deeper. Saw the connections. Saw that everything was actually the same thing.
It didn’t stop there. His perception encompassed everyone and everything in a single glance. How had he ever thought there were distinctions between person and person? Between person and object? Everything was one, the way waves on the ocean seemed distinct but were all part of the same water. A wave rises, a wave falls, the ocean is the same. Separation was an illusion. And that meant . . . death was an illusion!
And somehow, through it all, permeating every aspect of it, was Ben. He was bigger than he’d ever imagined, because it was all him.
“Is there more?” Ben asked. It felt odd. He felt his mouth move, heard his voice, but from his godlike perspective, the mouth and voice were distinct from him. With an effort of will, he found he could relocate his consciousness to inside his body. That was easier. The god’s-eye view would take some getting used to. But he wanted to get used to it. Wanted to grow into it. Wanted to make it his own. For everything to be one, and for everything to be him, and for all time.
The angel nodded its head solemnly. “So much more,” it said. “But this is all I can give.”
Ben looked at the angel shrewdly. “You mean . . . all I can give.”
“You are perceptive, Great One.”
Ben nodded sagely. Of course he had figured out even more than the angel had suspected. He was Great One, after all. “You need more blood.”
“I want for nothing more, Great One,” said the angel.
“But I want for something,” said Ben. “I want to be greater, and to be so for all time. Is it possible?”
The angel hesitated, unsure.
“It is possible,” said Ben confidently.
“It is, Great One, but they will not understand. They have not seen what you have seen. They don’t know what you know. You must not do this thing. They could harm you, despite all my devotion!”
“I will make them understand,” said Ben. He understood the problem perfectly. It would take not just blood, but life to get what Ben wanted. But this was no problem. A wave rises, a wave falls. The ocean never changes. There was no death, which meant there was no killing. Baby Daniel would do.
Ben gripped the obsidian firmly. A life was a life, and Daniel was so little. He barely recognized his own name. No one understood Ben’s godly perspective, which meant they would be sad to die, but Daniel would be the least sad because he wouldn’t understand what was happening to him. And it would be the least great loss, even from his family’s perspective. Babies died all the time, and usually to no end. Certainly not one as great as the one Ben had in store for Daniel.
“Come,” ordered Ben, and he expanded his senses to ensure the path to his mother’s sewing room was clear. He stepped quietly but cautiously out of his room and into the hall. He didn’t need to look back to see the angel following demurely behind him. He didn’t even bother to expand his consciousness and check. Naturally it would follow him. Ben held the blade. Ben was master. Ben was a Great One.
He swung the door to the sewing room wide, knowing with his divine vision that his parents and sisters were deep asleep. Daniel was not. He stirred in the crib, rolling over and getting tangled in his little blanket. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
Ben breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought he would have to do this with his baby brother looking up at him. It shouldn’t make a difference, but this divine perspective was new to him, and his old self quailed. This way would be easier.
Ben was two steps into the room, blade held high, when strong hands grasped him by the shoulders and yanked him back from the crib. He found himself cast down to the floor.
“Not tonight, Kishkumen,” said Great-aunt Magdalene.
Ben looked up at the frail old woman in shock. Had she really thrown him to the floor? When did she get so strong? And who was Kishkumen? The name seemed familiar, but Ben couldn’t place it. No matter, he would sooner drain her life than his little brother’s. She didn’t have that many years left anyway, and she’d never done anything but frustrate him.
“The ocean never changes,” said Ben, rising to his feet.
“Oh, Ben,” she said. “The ocean never stops changing. What other lies has he fed you? Let loose the stone, or you will be his forever.”
Ben shifted his grip on the stone to hold it tightly in his fist where she could not take it from him. The edges of the blade sliced his skin. Blood oozed out between his fingers, a trickle at first, then a torrent. He stared, aghast, at his hand, then glanced back at his angel.
“The blood isn’t yours,” the angel said. Ben opened his hand and saw that it was true. Although he bled, the stone bled much more, releasing a steady stream onto the floor.
“It is an old stone, Ben,” Kishkumen said. “Every time it drank, it stored a drop. In this hour of need, it gives back what was stored.”
Then why had Kishkumen needed still more blood? Ben shook the question away and—feeling strength he’d never felt before—lunged at Great-aunt Magdalene, slashing furiously.
She raised her hand and caught the blade square on the palm of her hand. It bit deep into her dry old skin, and blood welled up and started to fall to the floor. First a trickle. Then a torrent to match the blood spilling from the stone. Ben grinned, expecting her to sink to the floor any moment.
But she did not. She stood firm and resolute, and when she met his gaze, her eyes held no surprise nor fear. Not even anger. Just determination that struck him with the force of gazing up at a lofty mountain peak. Great-aunt Magdalene’s well of strength made him a little boy again. He whimpered and tried to pull back the blade. Why was he doing this?
“It’s too late for that, boy,” said Kishkumen’s calm, soothing voice in Ben’s ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Ben tried again to pull the blade back, but his arm would not obey him. “Oh, you’re mine now, Great One.”
“No, he isn’t, Kishkumen,” said Great-aunt Magdalene.
Kishkumen laughed. “Oh, is he yours then, old hag?”
“You know whose he is, and so does he.”
Ben felt Kishkumen’s rage coursing through his own body. His heart pounded. Blood rushed in his ears. A cry of defiance tore his throat ragged as it rushed from him. The shout did not belong to him. Every muscle ached with exertion as his body bent towards his great-aunt, seeking to push her back. The intent was not his either. Still Magdalene never wavered. Whose was he?
“Fall, old woman,” said Kishkumen using Ben’s mouth. Ben felt Kishkumen’s rage, but also his uncertainty. The pool of blood on the floor had spread out to the walls of the room. Half from the thirsty blade. Half from the palm of this old woman’s hand. And still she stood like an oak.
Great-aunt Magdalene smiled. “I’ll tell you the secret, Kishkumen,” she said. “The blood is not mine.”
Ben felt his mouth and tongue move. Heard the words from his own mouth. But they still were not his, nor the uncomprehending rage that went with them. “No!”
“He has enough blood to wash this world clean and drown every monster. You think He can’t spare a little to aid one old disciple? Or a frail young one? Your gods have no power over those who remember.”
With the last word, Great-aunt Magdalene’s eyes locked onto Ben’s once more. And he remembered. A foggy spring morning, a cold stream, clothes of white, the sun shining from behind Father’s raised hand. Thimblefuls of water. Broken pieces of bread.
“I remember,” said Ben, and the words were his own once more. “I remember His blood.”
Kishkumen’s howl of rage filled the room, so loud it seemed it would lift Ben into the air and hurl him against the wall. Then Ben’s angel of light was gone. Ben fell to the dry floor like a discarded toy.
“Shhh,” whispered Great-aunt Magdalene. The words didn’t reach into him the way Kishkumen’s had. His angel. The being of light. No, her voice was ordinary and plain and heard only by his regular, earthly ear. And he didn’t even like Great-aunt Magdalene. But she was family, and he felt her love for him when she gathered him up and held him close.
“What did I do?” whimpered Ben. “What did I do?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed, little Ben. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Nate Givens is a machine-learning engineer and entrepreneur from Richmond, Virginia. He has published steampunk, sci-fi, and fantasy stories. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook as writenatewrite or online at nategivens.com.
