see Canaan in his full celestial regalia: alabaster wings, cords of light that wrap his legs and waist, his feet and chest bare, his silver hair floating on waves of celestial heat. The red orchard surrounding us is glorious, but it’s nothing to his beauty.
He smiles. “Wasn’t it Hamlet who said, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so’?”
I turn my eyes back to the trees—back to the red, mottled trees—and I try to understand what Canaan’s just said. He helps me.
“For the man drowning, rain is only another helping of tragedy, Elle, but to the man on fire, that same rain is the last hope he has.”
Proverbial truth. An orchard on fire. Fragrance and music. Light and life. My senses are on overload. What will happen if this veil actually tears? What will happen to those who don’t understand? To those who do?
My heart hammers my ribs, the thud-thud of it quivering outward from my chest, filling my arms, my legs, my neck and face. And then I realize it isn’t my heart. It’s the sound of drums.
“Do you hear that?” I ask Jake.
He shakes his head, and I turn my eyes to Canaan. His head is cocked, the intensity of his gaze tells me I’m not alone in what I hear.
“What is it, Canaan?”
He listens for a moment more and then stands taller.
“The drums of war,” he says. “The Palatine attack.”
I turn my eyes to the sky but I can’t see past the trees. Can’t see past the beauty, and that terrifies me. I’m claustrophobic, panicky. What does this attack mean for my dad? For Kaylee? How will they fight? They don’t have a song.
Canaan strides toward us, and Jake’s hand finds mine. Canaan steps behind us, but he does not cloak us, he does not take us into the safety of his wings. He remains in his human form, a hand on both our shoulders, and together we listen.
The drums are closer now, and I hear strange, violent voices. Like animals. Like angry, raging animals, they approach. I step closer to Jake, squeeze his hand tighter.
And then Jake is quoting Scripture. “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust.’”
I know this one. It’s a psalm, written by King David. I join in, and Canaan does as well.
“He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked.”
And then a silver light invades the orchard and we’re surrounded.
I scream out, but Canaan’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and I understand we’re in the presence of friends. Of allies. Of the angelic. Their backs are to us. Their forms are so bright I have to squint to see, but I make out wings of blade on every single one of them. We stand within a circle of gigantic winged men, their swords drawn, the metal-like feathers of their wings vibrating one against the other, encasing us in song.
I resist the urge to count. I don’t need to. Helene told me. There are twelve of them. Twelve Sabres, and not a single one of them is cloaked.
“Some things were never meant to be secret,” Helene told me.
Virtue turns toward us, his silver form vibrant against the red limbs that surround us.
“It’s time to remember,” he says to me.
“Remember what?”
“Why the grave is empty.”
He steps closer, his white eyes mesmerizing. I watch them closely for some sign of what I’m to do, of what I’m to say. And then I’m falling into them, into his eyes. Into the purity of love’s greatest expression.
And I remember.
40
Brielle
The room is small with Mom’s hospital bed here, with the machines whirring and the medicine dripping down a tube and into her thin hands. The sight shakes me, but I still feel disconnected, like I’m nothing but a fly on the wall watching, observing.
It’s my room, I realize, not