Morrigan Jonathan King (e reading malayalam books TXT) 📖

Goodbye, fare ye well

The friends we are leaving, we leave with regret

Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound.”

The wind sang through the charred church rafters in musical accompaniment, sending a chill through all their bones. It mixed with the wail of the fire engine’s siren as it pulled up outside. Mac shook out his coat to cover them in mist, but no firemen entered yet. Probably they were confused by a church fire that put itself out, but to Morrigan, it felt as though the world were giving them a last moment alone.

“So many lost,” Brigid muttered. “It isn’t fair at all, living long enough to see everyone you love die, and you unable to bring them back, however you may wish it.”

Mac nodded … and then a spark came to his eye.

“Actually, there might be one way.”

Hey, God. It’s me, Morrigan.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. But I saw Abel writing in this prayer journal all the time. I asked him about it once, and he said it was like being your pen pal. It seemed so silly then.

But he’s dead now. And I’m trying to grab onto literally anything so I don’t slip away into the darkness.

I don’t know if you’re there. In all my years of traveling the back roads of life and death, I’ve never seen you or any other master being, never seen inside heaven or hell. It was enough that they were there, and people went to them, and I was sworn to take them. But now…

We’re going to try something. And I want so badly for it to succeed, but at the end of the day I know I’m just a girl with some flashy powers and an extra-long lifespan. I don’t always win. You’re supposed to. You do miracles, and resurrection is Your thing. So You bring him back. You give him back to me. I need You to I can’t do this without Please help me

This is stupid.

28

Abel was sure he was dead. So imagine his surprise when he woke up.

He was even more surprised to find he was no longer in the church, but in an empty parking lot thick with fog. Two roads led out to a highway that seemed just as empty, except that he could hear whines that might have been passing cars and might have been otherworldly wails. Behind him was a grove of trees—hazel, judging by the shape of the orange leaves—sheltering sidewalks, picnic tables, trash and recycling cans, and a blue sign that read REST AREA. The arrow on the sign pointed to a small brick building with glass sliding doors, and he moved towards it, slowly, as if in a dream.

As he moved, the surrounding landscape seemed to shimmer and shift. He put his hands out, pushing them through the fog, and the rest stop he’d been looking at swirled and bulged. Then it clicked. He wasn’t seeing the world through the fog; the world was being projected onto the fog.

And that’s when he knew he was still dead.

Abel kicked at a hazel nut on the sidewalk, and it skipped away. It felt solid enough against his shoe. That was another thing: he was still wearing his clothes, even though he was dead. He felt up and down his back, but couldn’t find a hole in the cloth, much less in himself.

So how much of this is real, and how much is my mind conjuring up? And if I’m not at a rest area, where am I? Is this heaven? I really hope it isn’t hell.

The doors slid open, giving him entry to a room as empty as the parking lot outside. Men’s restrooms were to the right, women’s to the left, and in the center was a mural of souls ascending to heaven and being dragged down to hell. Below the mural was a goldfish pond with electric waterfalls and lily pads. A single silvery fish swam circles in the shallow water, keeping lazy time with the peaceful tinny music echoing from speakers in the ceiling.

“Great,” Abel muttered. “All of eternity ahead of me, and I’m spending it in a rest stop listening to elevator music.”

The fish poked her head out of the water. “Actually, that’s Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ It was released on November 8, 1971, for the band’s fourth album with the unimaginative name Led Zeppelin IV. It placed quite high on several rock music charts and is widely considered a classic. It has a little broader fan base than people who ride in elevators.”

Abel stopped still. “You know all that about this song?” He shook his head. “Wait a minute. Back up. You talk?”

“In every language known to man,” the fish said in a refined accent.

Abel nodded absently. “The fish talks. Sure, why not? I’m dead. Why wouldn’t there be talking fish?”

“I’m not just any talking fish,” the fish said, drawing herself out of the water. “I am the Salmon of Knowledge.”

Abel blinked. “Uh huh.”

“Compendium of all information on earth?” the Salmon tried. “All that ever was or ever will be known? None of this is ringing a bell?”

“Afraid not.”

The Salmon drooped. “Isn’t that just like the world? No one remembers you after you’re gone.” She looked back up at Abel. “And yet I can tell you everything about yourself, Abel David Whittaker, from your favorite color—emerald green, by the way—to the title and contents of that romance novel you flipped through at the library on October 5, 2013.” She cleared her throat, making her gills puff. “‘The duke ran his thick, manly hands around her—’”

“Okay!” Abel shouted, flushing hot from hairline to collar. “I get it. You know stuff.”

The Salmon huffed. “‘I know stuff.’ That’s what I boil down to? ‘I know stuff’?”

Abel hurried to change the subject. “So you’re dead too?”

“Killed by some fool named Finnegas. It’s disgraceful. He could have asked me anything he wanted to know, but noOOoo, he had to drag me out of the river and roast me over