A Hundred Words for Hate (10 page)

“We have a bond, he and I,” the elder whispered. “And as the last of his days draw near, I want to grant him his final wish.”

“And what would that be?”

“He wants to go home,” Malachi said as he slowly turned to face him. “He wishes to be laid to rest beneath the soil of Paradise.”

“It was where he was born.”

Malachi agreed with a nod. “And where he wishes to finally die.”

“And you need a key to get in . . . to open the gates that I closed.”

“The key is in two parts,” Malachi explained, holding up two slender fingers. “Adam is the first section of the key, with his mate providing the other.”

“His mate? You mean Eve?”

“The temptress,” Malachi said with a distant smirk. “I had a sense after her creation that she would be trouble, but never imagined how much.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but from my understanding, Eve is dead.”

Malachi cocked his head to the left and looked toward the clear coffin as if hearing something. “Yes, we’re aware of that, but the key remains in her bloodline. There is always one who carries the knowledge.”

“And this is the key that you need me to find.”

“Precisely,” Malachi said. “With the two halves a whole, all that is needed to turn the lock will be present.”

Malachi left the clear coffin again to approach Remy.

“They are both the lock and the key,” the elder explained.

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Remy said honestly.

“It is their repentance to God, and their forgiveness of each other for the sin committed in the Garden so long ago, that will open Paradise to them again.”

The enormity of what was being asked of him gradually crept up into his lap like an affectionate elephant.

“Let me see if I’ve got this,” Remy said. “The Garden of Eden is going to manifest on Earth, and you need me to find the other part of the key . . . a descendant of Eve . . . so that the gates into the Garden can be opened again. And this is all so that you can bury Adam in his place of birth. Am I missing anything?”

“Very good, Remiel,” Malachi said, clapping his hands together in silent applause. “I now see why Adam requested that it be you.”

“I’m flattered, but I haven’t a clue how to begin.”

Malachi looked confused.

“You need me to find somebody . . . a specific descendant of the first woman . . . of Eve. That’s like asking me to find a needle on the planet of the haystacks.”

“Planet of the haystacks?” Malachi repeated, not understanding his amusing way of getting a point across. Remy was sure that Francis would have laughed at that one.

“Forget that,” Remy said. “All I’m saying is that it would be nearly impossible for me to locate this woman without some kind of lead . . . a trail that I could follow that might eventually take me to her.”

“A trail to take you to the needle on the haystack planet,” Malachi said.

“Right,” Remy said. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Malachi considered the situation.

“We might be able to assist you with this,” the elder then said.

“I’m all ears,” Remy stated. “Anything to narrow things down a bit would be greatly appreciated.”

Malachi turned to Adam again. “If you will excuse us,” he told the withered figured inside. He then proceeded past the bench and into the jungle. “Follow me.”

Remy hesitated for a moment, his attention on Adam.

“I’ll do what I can,” he told the first of humanity, and then reached out to lay his hand upon the clear plastic cover. He then left the silent figure to follow Malachi farther into the man-made jungle.

He found the elder angel standing at a metal door, waiting.

Without a word, Malachi opened the door to reveal a set of steps that traveled down into a muted yellow light. Remy followed, one set of steps after another, until they reached a second door.

There was a loud buzz, followed by the opening of an electronic lock, and Jon stepped out to greet them.

“Hello again, Mr. Chandler,” he said, holding the door open.

It was warm inside this room as well, probably warmer than the jungle Remy had just left, but it didn’t take him long to figure out why.

There was a tree growing in the center of the room.

But not just any tree; it was a young version of the Tree of Knowledge.

“Is that what I think it is?” Remy asked, noticing that the sapling was hooked up to all manner of machines, rooted not in soil, but in some sort of clear fluid.

“It is,” Malachi answered. “Grown from a single seed from the fruit of the original. The Sons had it in their possession for countless millennia, never realizing the potential it carried.”

The elder had approached the platform, studying the growing tree with a scrutinizing eye.

“Multiple lifetimes have gone by as we tended the sapling, hoping that someday it might provide for us answers to the questions that have haunted the first of humanity, and his offspring.”

Remy could see that a single piece of fruit hung from the spindly branch. He remembered the actual Tree, and the overabundant bounty of life that dangled fat and ripe from its branches, and this wasn’t even close.

“Seems unhealthy,” the detective commented.

“We’re lucky that it looks this well,” Jon said. “It took close to fifty years to find the proper nutrient solution to feed the tree, and even that is a far second to the soil of Paradise.”

Malachi stood close to the tree and reached out, his fingers wrapping around the body of the single piece of fruit. “But our time has finally run its course,” the elder ominously said as his grip tightened, and he gave the fruit a sharp tug, separating it from its branch.

Jon audibly gasped as the elder’s hand came away from the tree holding the sickly growth, presenting it to him.

“And now we must find the answers.”

Jon carefully took the piece of fruit from Malachi’s hand and brought it to a table in the corner of the room. He placed it on a metal tray, clicked on an overhead light, and removed a pair of rubber gloves from a box nearby. Like a doctor prepping for surgery, he slipped them on with a snap.

Malachi came to stand beside him as they both watched.

Jon grabbed a scalpel and, holding the body of the fruit in one hand, began to cut away the thick skin.

“And what are we doing here?” Remy asked.

“The tough, leathery skin must first be cut away,” the elder explained as they continued to watch Jon work. “To reach the tender fruit beneath . . . as well as the answers hidden there.”

Jon had peeled away all the skin, and had separated it to one side of the metal tray. The skin was very thick, reminding Remy of a deflated football. The fruit that remained was small, looking a bit like a peeled grape.

“We’re ready,” Jon said, looking up from his work, a serious expression upon his face.

“I’m guessing that somebody is going to be eating that,” Remy commented.

“You are correct,” the elder angel answered. “And, sadly, it will likely be the last thing he ever consumes.”

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he Garden. It was all about the Garden.

The creature that had called himself Bob hung in the cold vacuum of space, watching as the Earth spun languidly below him.

It was all coming back.

Slowly. Very slowly . . . in jagged, razor-sharp pieces that cut into his mind, memories oozing from the wounds like the flow of blood.

Bob saw the images they formed before him, but he could not yet understand.

Random images that held no meaning.

But they shared a common theme.

The Garden.

Bob held tightly to the memory of that sacred place. And as he floated in the void, he could see similar places on the world below, jungles vibrant with color and life of every conceivable size and shape, but nothing like the Garden.

Something of dire importance had brought him to this place, something that could endanger the Garden.

And Heaven beyond.

Bob suddenly saw the earth of Paradise churning and bubbling like water as something writhed beneath it, and then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the image of another: one like himself.

A servant of Heaven, a blade made from the light of the divine in his hand.

“
This is for the good of us all
,” the brother of Heaven said as he stepped forward, his knife flashing seductively just before . . .

Bob’s mind was afire; he screamed noiselessly in the black expanse of space—the pain as real as if it were happening at the moment.

But it was all just a memory.

Eventually the pain subsided, and he found himself still floating in the void above the Earth. His multiple sets of eyes were fixated on the blue planet, and he knew that the reason he still existed was to be found beneath him.

The angel—yes, he knew what he was now—believed it to be only a matter of time before all was revealed to him.

He had to have patience.

And the perseverance to see the mission—
whatever it may be
—through to the end.

The angel Bob floated in the darkness of space, watching the Earth below him.

Waiting for a sign.

Hell

The Hellion pounced with a gurgling growl.

Francis felt its razor-sharp claws flex on the flesh of his back as he struggled beneath the Hell beast’s weight. Saliva like acid rained down upon his skin, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his spine was torn out when he felt the warm breath of the Hellion on the nape of his neck.

“Do it,” Francis hissed, too weak to do anything but await oblivion as he ended his life as Hellion Chow.

He felt the beast tense, its claws digging deeply into his back as it let loose a sound that reminded Francis of the screech of breaks on a rain-slicked highway.

It was the sound of doom, and this time he was on the receiving end.

He lay there, waiting for the feel of powerful jaws closing around his neck, and the savage shake that would sever his spine.

But it didn’t come.

“No!” a mysterious voice suddenly commanded. “Off!”

And after a moment’s hesitation, Francis felt the weight of the monster leave his aching back. The Hellion wasn’t happy in the least; he could hear it growling somewhere to the left of him.

Francis mustered his strength and, maneuvering onto his side, managed to pull himself around to face the back of the cave.

And his mysterious savior.

He prepared to say thanks, but the words became lodged in his throat as he beheld the raggedy figure standing in the opening to the farthest reaches of the cave, the snarling Hellion by its side. His robes were dirty, tattered, and torn, his long, grimy white hair pulled back into a crude ponytail, and his full beard was equally filthy. But Francis could feel the energy—
the divinity
—radiating from him; there was no mistaking that this was an angel of incredible power.

Francis studied the angel’s face, searching for something that would spark a moment of familiarity, finding nothing.

“Did you really think I dragged your carcass across the shifting Hellscape and up a mountain face into this cave, and then dressed your wounds, only to feed you to my beast?” the mysterious angel asked, a twinkle of madness in his black, bottomless eyes.

“Thank—,” Francis began, his voice nothing more than a dry croak.

“No,” the angel interrupted, continuing his rant. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to arrive, to just let you die.” He shuffled toward Francis, the Hell beast loping obediently by his side.

For the first time he could remember, Francis was speechless. “I don’t—” He started to cough, the dust and dirt from the transforming hellish landscape outside choking his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally managed.

The angel reached down and grabbed his throat in a powerful grip, lifting Francis from the floor of the cave.

“Of course you don’t,” the angel said, holding him aloft with one hand, while the other searched for something in the folds of his filthy vestments.

Francis squirmed in the angel’s grasp, finding it ever harder to breathe as his feet danced in the air just above the ground.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to thank me,” the angel continued, as he pulled out a delicate knife of light and plunged its glowing tip straight through Francis’s forehead.

The former Guardian angel beheld a curtain of darkness, the last of the angel’s words cryptically echoing through the halls of oblivion before the silence.

“You’d be cursing me with your last breath.”

Miles carefully approached the exposed wall, sniffing at the strange, archaic writing.

“Get away from that!” Fernita cried out.

The animal froze, looking at her with wide, fear-filled eyes, before scurrying off to hide.

Fernita wrung her hands nervously as she stared at this newest piece of writing, wondering what it meant and how it got there as her eyes slowly traced the odd shapes.

A strange buzzing started in her brain, as if bees were trapped inside her skull, and it seemed to grow louder the more she looked at the foreign words written in black upon her walls.

How much more is there?
she wondered, gazing around at the furniture and boxes that still hid most of her walls.

She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might find.

Her eyes traveled back to the exposed wall, and the humming inside her head continued to build.

Is this what I’ve forgotten?
she asked herself.

The buzz became a mechanical whine, and the image of a spinning saw blade cutting through a length of tree, guided by hands encased in thick leather gloves, took shape in her mind. At first she had no idea what the imagery meant, but suddenly she remembered, the recollection floating free, like a child’s balloon released into a blue summer sky.

Her father had worked at the mill . . . where she herself had lived until . . .

The whining of the saw blade was replaced by the discordant thrum of a poorly tuned guitar and the sound of a piano.