in the Celestial. I imagine explaining it to him: This, Dad . . . this is what it really looks like.
But Jake’s right. It would take more than a picture to convince Dad.
But why? Why can’t we just snap a picture, hang it over the sofa, and stand our loved ones before it? Why can’t we let a picture convince them of a realm beyond our own?
I know firsthand that it takes more than a single glimpse to persuade a soul. Still, something in my chest aches for the ease of an explanation without words.
Why can’t it be that easy?
My question borders on the ridiculous, but an answer comes nonetheless. It’s quiet—a whisper riding the breath of Canaan’s wing.
Creation, it says, without belief in the Creator, will never be anything more than a pretty picture.
Canaan opens his inner wings, releasing us onto the mountain. My bare feet catch rock and I stumble, the halo tumbling from my brow. Jake catches it and steadies me. Behind us, Canaan stands in his Terrestrial form wearing his swim trunks and nothing more.
“Watch,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement. “Watch.”
So we do.
There’s little that amazes like the top of a mountain. From here we can see the Sisters—Faith, Hope, and Charity—three volcanic peaks sitting to the north, the moon lighting the snow still glistening on top. There’s also Broken Top and a few other peaks whose names I can’t remember. Bowls of snow nestle into the mountain here and there. There are a handful of lakes that surround the mountain as well, but the night has cast many of them in darkness and I catch only glimmers of moonlight winking back at me from their surfaces.
Jake’s hand cups my elbow. He moves his fingers down my forearm, sliding them into mine.
“Look,” he says, his hazel eyes dancing like Canaan’s.
It takes a considerable amount of self-control to look away from those eyes, but when I do I nearly forget myself and take a step forward. Jake pulls me against him, preventing a fall.
“What is that?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “What is it, Canaan?”
“It’s the veil,” he says. “The Terrestrial veil.”
It is a veil. I see it now. It’s as though a sheer curtain hangs in front of the mountain, blowing in the wind.
So delicate. So fine.
And then it starts to glow. The gray-and-white mountain brightens, its snow shimmering. The stone is no longer a flat gray but has the look of precious stones stacked one on top of the other. Their shades vary from a deep chocolate to a glossy silver, light springing from their craggy facets.
I’d panic, but I’m fairly certain I know what I’m seeing.
“It’s the Celestial,” I say. “But how?”
“Come,” Canaan says, transferring, pulling us with him, the Celestial swallowing us once again.
“What are they?” I yell.
Standing, flying, hovering about the summit of the closest mountain—Charity—are several angels. I’m not close enough to make out their features, but they’re definitely angels. Something about the way they move, though, something about the color of their wings is unfamiliar. They’re different from Canaan. Different from Helene, but I can’t quite see how.
“They’re Sabres.”
“Sabres,” I say, savoring the sound of the word.
Our flight is not so much a flight but a glorified jump toward Charity. My stomach is sick with the roller-coaster-like phenomenon, but now that we’re closer, I look more carefully at the angels before us. They’re larger than any I’ve seen before, and brighter. I count them on approach—a dozen—and then I watch them, trying to understand their movements. Light curls around them, tendrils of incense rising into the sky.
“What are they doing?” Jake asks.
“They’re worshiping,” I say, awestruck.
Is there a rhyme or reason to where they’ve positioned themselves? Some of them kneel, some of them stand staggered across the rock, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is their wings. They’re metallic. Not just in color, but in their very construction, it seems. I have an inexplicable need to reach out and touch them, to run my fingers over a single feather.
“They’re huge,” Jake says. “How tall are they, Canaan?”
“Eight, nine feet.” There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice.
Canaan leans forward and tucks his wings close, throwing us into a fall. I’d scream, but I think my stomach might tumble into the sky. A moment later he pulls us right side up, my lunch somersaulting back into place.
We’re close now, so close that I can see that touching a Sabre’s wing may be the fastest