Desdemona by Tag Cavello (read e books online free .txt) đ
- Author: Tag Cavello
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âI believe you have something that belongs my lady,â he snarled at Maris. âHand it over. Now.â
The blonde girl, clearly frightened by his appearance, trembled. She took a step backward. Glass crunched under her foot.
No. That wasnât right. It hadnât come from Marisâ foot. There was someone standing behind him.
âWhy donât the two of you stay awhile longer?â the pleasant, peaceful voice of Shaya Blume inquired. He moved towards them from the back door, toeing aside debris. âWe donât have to tell anybody about this mess. Iâll even clean it for you.â
âI need to get Sunny out of here,â Dante said, âor so help me, kid, you would need an army to protect you.â
âI have an army, Dante. And so do you.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
Shayaâs head shook slowly, as does a teacherâs with a pupil too dim for his lessons. âPut that girl down.â
Dante turned to go. He simply didnât have time to fight Shayaânot 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 moneyâs worth.
Shaya didnât chase him. Dante made it to the other side of the nave. Here the churchâs front door stood open a crack. Through it he could see a torrential spring rain pelting the steps.
âOne last chance, Dante,â Shaya called. âCome back to us. Cross Godâs garden. There are still plenty of empty seats.â
He was still at the far end of the nave, an arm around Marisâ waist. Their faces beckoned.
âPlease,â Shaya said, outstretching his hand. âPlease.â
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.
âHurry Dante,â came Shayaâs final, begging plea. âHurry.â
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 Danteâs 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 Shayaâs 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 Sunnyâs dresser gave soft golden glow. It wasnât 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 Sunnyâs 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. Heâd picked them up from a nearby grocery store (after the phone booth Dante used to call him almost didnât 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?
Heâd calmed down eventually, with Dawnâs help. They arrived at Sycamore Hills to find Sunnyâs 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.
âDinner,â she whispered to Dante. âHow is Sunny?â
âShe seems all right,â Dante told her. âSleeping like a kitten.â
âI donât think Brenton will ever let her walk home from school again.â
âUnderstood. I promise to be more careful with her from now on.â
The older version of Sunny smiled. It looked nothing like her daughterâs deviant sneer, but warm and kind. âIâm sure this wasnât your fault. Sheâs a handful, this girl. Even we have trouble controlling her. You have your work cut out for you, Iâm afraid.â
âItâs nice work,â Dante assured.
âYes. I know.â
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.
âHey you,â Sunny whispered.
He was at her bed in an instant. âSunny! How are you, sweetheart? Anything hurt?â
âNo,â she said, after a light kiss on his mouth. âIâm okay. What about you?â
âEverythingâs here but your ring. Which I will get back.â
âDonât worry about that right now. You look tired, dear. Get into bed with me.â
She moved over to make room, then lay on top of him, lips ready with a million kisses. âThanks for getting me out of that place, Dante. Really. I thought I was going to die.â
âIt seems thatâs what Maris and Shaya wanted. You dead and me converted.â
âOh yes. It was a trap.â Her kisses had edged down to his chest, and werenât done with their journey. âSweetheart?â she whispered. âIs the door locked?â
âNo, it isnât.â
âAww. Guess weâll just have to take our chances.â
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 worldâat least for nowâDante stroked her hair. His mind wandered back to the church. What exactly had happened there, and what did it mean?
âI donât understand,â he said to the ceiling. âIf Maris and Shaya are so good, how could they commit murder?â
He didnât expect Sunny to hear the question. But she was still awake, and had opinions to share.
âIâm not human to them. Iâm a demon. A daughter of darkness.â
âIs that true?â
âYes,â she said, after a momentâs pause. âBut that doesnât mean they understand me. Or even have a grasp on my intentions.â
âAnd what are your intentions?â Dante felt almost forced to ask. The answer frightened him.
His fears, however, were proved groundless when Sunny said: âTo be your wife. Forever. I hope youâre ready for that.â
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.
âDaughter of darkness,â he said, chasing down the lane of this last thought. âSo youâre likeâŠthe daughter of Satan?â
She laughed. âNo, 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.â
âYour family,â Dante said. âHas it renounced God?â
A deep sigh came from beneath the covers. At first Dante feared he may have distressed or offended her, but Sunnyâs next words sounded far from both. âA long, long time ago,â she said, with profundity beyond her years. âIn The Gospel Of Judas we read that God isnât 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.â
âI donât understand,â Dante said.
âOf course you donât. Itâs a lot to take in.â
âThe Gospel of Judas? That isnât in the Bible. None of the ones Iâve read anyway.â
âNot anymore it isnât. 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.â
âBut SunnyâŠâ He lifted the cover to find her green eyes shining right where heâd left them.
âYes?â she said.
âI think itâs somewhere in Deuteronomy that nothing is to be added or taken away. No commandment.â
âCommandments,â Sunny told him. âBut not stories. Stories were most definitely taken away.â
âMore than one?â
âMore 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.â
âWho gave Christ over to the Romans for sacrifice.â
âYes, Dante. He did. But on Christâs command. ââŠfor you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.â Jesus is said to have spoken those words to Judas.â
âBut why would Jesus want that?â
âI donât know. I really donât. 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. Thatâs 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 godsâŠâ
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: âTheyâre 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 wonât answer. They donât care. Theyâre lost, and spiteful, and theyâve guided man into the woods, and now man is lost too.â
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 heâd 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
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