Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

the church as soon as possible, he chose the front. But first…

“I believe you have something that belongs my lady,” he snarled at Maris. “Hand it over. Now.”

The blonde girl, clearly frightened by his appearance, trembled. She took a step backward. Glass crunched under her foot.

No. That wasn’t right. It hadn’t come from Maris’ foot. There was someone standing behind him.

“Why don’t the two of you stay awhile longer?” the pleasant, peaceful voice of Shaya Blume inquired. He moved towards them from the back door, toeing aside debris. “We don’t have to tell anybody about this mess. I’ll even clean it for you.”

“I need to get Sunny out of here,” Dante said, “or so help me, kid, you would need an army to protect you.”

“I have an army, Dante. And so do you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Shaya’s head shook slowly, as does a teacher’s with a pupil too dim for his lessons. “Put that girl down.”

Dante turned to go. He simply didn’t have time to fight Shaya—not with Sunny dying in his arms. But then if Shaya decided to chase him, he would put Sunny down and hurt the kid bad. Get every nickel of his money’s worth.

Shaya didn’t chase him. Dante made it to the other side of the nave. Here the church’s front door stood open a crack. Through it he could see a torrential spring rain pelting the steps.

“One last chance, Dante,” Shaya called. “Come back to us. Cross God’s garden. There are still plenty of empty seats.”

He was still at the far end of the nave, an arm around Maris’ waist. Their faces beckoned.

“Please,” Shaya said, outstretching his hand. “Please.”

A tremendous crack from the lectern made everyone jump. It sounded as if something huge had broken, or come loose. This was precisely the case. Dante noticed that the crucifix, straight and firm mere moments ago, had taken on a terrible forward list. Even as he watched it moved again, creaking like the mightiest gate known to man.

“Hurry Dante,” came Shaya’s final, begging plea. “Hurry.”

But Dante would not hurry, nor even move. With a deafening smash the crucifix fell between him and Shaya. A hundred congregational benches were pulverized on the instant. Pieces of wood sprinkled Dante’s hair. Others dashed the walls, the windows. A cloud of dust rose from the crash site, revealing the tragic countenance of Christ, now turned on its side. Tears had been lovingly painted on his face by some meticulous, talented hand. They were fake.

The tears on Shaya’s face were not. As Dante turned to take Sunny outside, he noticed, all too clearly, that the boy was crying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Convalescence

He watched over her that night, as she slept in downy respite.

 

A lamp on Sunny’s dresser gave soft golden glow. It wasn’t much to read by, but Dante remained content, paging through one of her books with little regard for the words. His chair was next to Sunny’s bed. She was asleep, and seemed at peace. Her muscles were relaxed, her breathing steady and clear. Still, Dante would not leave her side, nor even sleep until he was certain the blinding light which had almost killed her was set, gone once more beyond the horizon of their ideals.

Brenton had of course been furious over what happened. He’d picked them up from a nearby grocery store (after the phone booth Dante used to call him almost didn’t accept the lonely, beaten quarter he dug from his jeans) in fierce incredulity. How could they be so stupid? he kept wondering aloud. What made them both think that a church was a safe place to go? He ran a stop sign, then almost hit a pedestrian. After that he went right back to it. Especially with Sunny. Stupid, stupid girl, he called her. Spit at her in the rear-view mirror. What was next? Cave diving without an oxygen tank? Nude calisthenics with Tilikum the crazed killer whale?

He’d calmed down eventually, with Dawn’s help. They arrived at Sycamore Hills to find Sunny’s mom pacing the kitchen. She swooped on her daughter, not with anger but compassion, asking a dozen questions about what had happened, and why. Then Dante carried her upstairs (though Sunny protested this, he feared for her balance on the steps). She took dinner in bed, sending both mother and father on fetch-quests for wine, fruit, and a number of other delectable amenities. By nightfall she was asleep. Dante held her hand as she drifted off. He asked once more if everything was okay. She insisted in the affirmative while at the same time making clear he was not to budge from that seat. Dante promised to remain put come rain, sleet, or crazed killer whales. That made her laugh. And of course no killer whales did come, and here he still sat, as the clock on her bookshelf crept past 10PM.

At 10:15 Dawn Desdemona came in with a tray of food. There was bread, soup. Mashed potatoes. Cooked carrots. A glass of wine.

“Dinner,” she whispered to Dante. “How is Sunny?”

“She seems all right,” Dante told her. “Sleeping like a kitten.”

“I don’t think Brenton will ever let her walk home from school again.”

“Understood. I promise to be more careful with her from now on.”

The older version of Sunny smiled. It looked nothing like her daughter’s deviant sneer, but warm and kind. “I’m sure this wasn’t your fault. She’s a handful, this girl. Even we have trouble controlling her. You have your work cut out for you, I’m afraid.”

“It’s nice work,” Dante assured.

“Yes. I know.”

It was near midnight when Sunny woke up. Dante was standing at her window, which overlooked the fairway of a golf course. At this hour the bunkers were empty, the pine trees dark. How would I play this hole? Dante wondered. It was a par five. Dogleg fairway. He would swing hard from the tee, get his drive over the elbow. Doubtless other golfers had tried as much, only to die for their ambition in an unkempt graveyard of hungry pines.

“Hey you,” Sunny whispered.

He was at her bed in an instant. “Sunny! How are you, sweetheart? Anything hurt?”

“No,” she said, after a light kiss on his mouth. “I’m okay. What about you?”

“Everything’s here but your ring. Which I will get back.”

“Don’t worry about that right now. You look tired, dear. Get into bed with me.”

She moved over to make room, then lay on top of him, lips ready with a million kisses. “Thanks for getting me out of that place, Dante. Really. I thought I was going to die.”

“It seems that’s what Maris and Shaya wanted. You dead and me converted.”

“Oh yes. It was a trap.” Her kisses had edged down to his chest, and weren’t done with their journey. “Sweetheart?” she whispered. “Is the door locked?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Aww. Guess we’ll just have to take our chances.”

Dante caught a glimpse of green eyes burning brighter than ever before she sank beneath the covers. No one came in. When it was over Sunny lay quietly in his arms. Content with the whole world—at least for now—Dante stroked her hair. His mind wandered back to the church. What exactly had happened there, and what did it mean?

“I don’t understand,” he said to the ceiling. “If Maris and Shaya are so good, how could they commit murder?”

He didn’t expect Sunny to hear the question. But she was still awake, and had opinions to share.

“I’m not human to them. I’m a demon. A daughter of darkness.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “But that doesn’t mean they understand me. Or even have a grasp on my intentions.”

“And what are your intentions?” Dante felt almost forced to ask. The answer frightened him.

His fears, however, were proved groundless when Sunny said: “To be your wife. Forever. I hope you’re ready for that.”

Dante assured her that he was, though at thirteen the idea of marriage was little more than a range of distant, snowy peaks on the horizon of their trail way. Or a vision of God Himself, or the devil.

“Daughter of darkness,” he said, chasing down the lane of this last thought. “So you’re like…the daughter of Satan?”

She laughed. “No, no. Satan is an apprentice to Lucifer, a word that means son of the dawn. I have trouble trusting deities, great and small, as do my parents, and my grandparents, and so on.”

“Your family,” Dante said. “Has it renounced God?”

A deep sigh came from beneath the covers. At first Dante feared he may have distressed or offended her, but Sunny’s next words sounded far from both. “A long, long time ago,” she said, with profundity beyond her years. “In The Gospel Of Judas we read that God isn’t a person at all, but a magnificent cloud of light, peace, and knowledge. The cloud demands no pain from man, no sacrifice. But there are lesser gods that the cloud created. Angels too. And they demand suffering. And blood. Death. It pleases them. These are the gods we renounced.”

“I don’t understand,” Dante said.

“Of course you don’t. It’s a lot to take in.”

“The Gospel of Judas? That isn’t in the Bible. None of the ones I’ve read anyway.”

“Not anymore it isn’t. It was cut. Removed. By priests long dead who felt a traditional story of good versus evil would far better suit the palates of Christian and Catholic readers.”

“But Sunny…” He lifted the cover to find her green eyes shining right where he’d left them.

“Yes?” she said.

“I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy that nothing is to be added or taken away. No commandment.”

“Commandments,” Sunny told him. “But not stories. Stories were most definitely taken away.”

“More than one?”

“More than one. Jesus was also said to question the motives of the lesser gods. But none of his disciples would budge on the idea that lesser gods were in fact angels of the one true Lord. None but one disciple, who was Judas.”

“Who gave Christ over to the Romans for sacrifice.”

“Yes, Dante. He did. But on Christ’s command. ‘…for you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.’ Jesus is said to have spoken those words to Judas.”

“But why would Jesus want that?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe he felt his own sacrifice would be so ultimate that the lesser gods would have no choice but to lay down all other demands. That’s speculation. I can tell you that Judas understood, through the teachings of Jesus, that God is a cloud of light. A realm to be entered and dwelled upon. Jesus is there now. I think Judas is too. As for those lesser gods…”

She trailed off. After a moment Dante peeked under the covers to find a girl biting her lip in deep thought. Eager to know where these thoughts would land, he waited, until at last she said: “They’re still out there. And still asking for sacrifice. Pain. Sickness. They see a two year-old toddler with a brain tumor and do nothing. Puppies dying of distemper. You can pray to them if you want, but they won’t answer. They don’t care. They’re lost, and spiteful, and they’ve guided man into the woods, and now man is lost too.”

She went back to sleep without saying anything else. Having much to think about, Dante nodded off as well. He woke up once more that night, at around 3:30, a time when, according to one man who liked to write about the future, and who died an untimely death, our minds are most in tune with the stars, along with what messages may be passing between them. Turning his head to look at the time, he noticed a sheet of paper folded beneath the clock. Dante pulled it free, opened it. It turned out to be the poem he’d written for Maris. The prank poem, meant to embarrass Shaya, but instead had drawn him from his cave, like dawn over the trees, or perhaps a midnight star that shined brighter than the rest, and led the way.

 

When I see you at school I cannot read,

Be it Twain