A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER FIVE

The Garden. It was all about the Garden.

The creature that had called himself Bob hung in the cold vacuum of space, watching as the Earth spun languidly below him.

It was all coming back.

Slowly. Very slowly . . . in jagged, razor-sharp pieces that cut into his mind, memories oozing from the wounds like the flow of blood.

Bob saw the images they formed before him, but he could not yet understand.

Random images that held no meaning.

But they shared a common theme.

The Garden.

Bob held tightly to the memory of that sacred place. And as he floated in the void, he could see similar places on the world below, jungles vibrant with color and life of every conceivable size and shape, but nothing like the Garden.

Something of dire importance had brought him to this place, something that could endanger the Garden.

And Heaven beyond.

Bob suddenly saw the earth of Paradise churning and bubbling like water as something writhed beneath it, and then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the image of another: one like himself.

A servant of Heaven, a blade made from the light of the divine in his hand.

“This is for the good of us all,” the brother of Heaven said as he stepped forward, his knife flashing seductively just before . . .

Bob’s mind was afire; he screamed noiselessly in the black expanse of space—the pain as real as if it were happening at the moment.

But it was all just a memory.

Eventually the pain subsided, and he found himself still floating in the void above the Earth. His multiple sets of eyes were fixated on the blue planet, and he knew that the reason he still existed was to be found beneath him.

The angel—yes, he knew what he was now—believed it to be only a matter of time before all was revealed to him.

He had to have patience.

And the perseverance to see the mission—whatever it may be—through to the end.

The angel Bob floated in the darkness of space, watching the Earth below him.

Waiting for a sign.

Hell

The Hellion pounced with a gurgling growl.

Francis felt its razor-sharp claws flex on the flesh of his back as he struggled beneath the Hell beast’s weight. Saliva like acid rained down upon his skin, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his spine was torn out when he felt the warm breath of the Hellion on the nape of his neck.

“Do it,” Francis hissed, too weak to do anything but await oblivion as he ended his life as Hellion Chow.

He felt the beast tense, its claws digging deeply into his back as it let loose a sound that reminded Francis of the screech of breaks on a rain-slicked highway.

It was the sound of doom, and this time he was on the receiving end.

He lay there, waiting for the feel of powerful jaws closing around his neck, and the savage shake that would sever his spine.

But it didn’t come.

“No!” a mysterious voice suddenly commanded. “Off!”

And after a moment’s hesitation, Francis felt the weight of the monster leave his aching back. The Hellion wasn’t happy in the least; he could hear it growling somewhere to the left of him.

Francis mustered his strength and, maneuvering onto his side, managed to pull himself around to face the back of the cave.

And his mysterious savior.

He prepared to say thanks, but the words became lodged in his throat as he beheld the raggedy figure standing in the opening to the farthest reaches of the cave, the snarling Hellion by its side. His robes were dirty, tattered, and torn, his long, grimy white hair pulled back into a crude ponytail, and his full beard was equally filthy. But Francis could feel the energy—the divinity—radiating from him; there was no mistaking that this was an angel of incredible power.

Francis studied the angel’s face, searching for something that would spark a moment of familiarity, finding nothing.

“Did you really think I dragged your carcass across the shifting Hellscape and up a mountain face into this cave, and then dressed your wounds, only to feed you to my beast?” the mysterious angel asked, a twinkle of madness in his black, bottomless eyes.

“Thank—,” Francis began, his voice nothing more than a dry croak.

“No,” the angel interrupted, continuing his rant. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to arrive, to just let you die.” He shuffled toward Francis, the Hell beast loping obediently by his side.

For the first time he could remember, Francis was speechless. “I don’t—” He started to cough, the dust and dirt from the transforming hellish landscape outside choking his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally managed.

The angel reached down and grabbed his throat in a powerful grip, lifting Francis from the floor of the cave.

“Of course you don’t,” the angel said, holding him aloft with one hand, while the other searched for something in the folds of his filthy vestments.

Francis squirmed in the angel’s grasp, finding it ever harder to breathe as his feet danced in the air just above the ground.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to thank me,” the angel continued, as he pulled out a delicate knife of light and plunged its glowing tip straight through Francis’s forehead.

The former Guardian angel beheld a curtain of darkness, the last of the angel’s words cryptically echoing through the halls of oblivion before the silence.

“You’d be cursing me with your last breath.”

Miles carefully approached the exposed wall, sniffing at the strange, archaic writing.

“Get away from that!” Fernita cried out.

The animal froze, looking at her with wide, fear-filled eyes, before scurrying off to hide.

Fernita wrung her hands nervously as she stared at this newest piece of writing, wondering what it meant and how it got there as her eyes slowly traced the odd shapes.

A strange buzzing started in her brain, as if bees were trapped inside her skull, and it seemed to grow louder the more she looked at the foreign words written in black upon her walls.

How much more is there? she wondered, gazing around at the furniture and boxes that still hid most of her walls.

She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might find.

Her eyes traveled back to the exposed wall, and the humming inside her head continued to build.

Is this what I’ve forgotten? she asked herself.

The buzz became a mechanical whine, and the image of a spinning saw blade cutting through a length of tree, guided by hands encased in thick leather gloves, took shape in her mind. At first she had no idea what the imagery meant, but suddenly she remembered, the recollection floating free, like a child’s balloon released into a blue summer sky.

Her father had worked at the mill . . . where she herself had lived until . . .

The whining of the saw blade was replaced by the discordant thrum of a poorly tuned guitar and the sound of a piano.

Fernita smiled, her tired old eyes filling with hot tears at the memories—for that was what these images were, memories.

But her happiness quickly turned to terror as the pleasant visions were savagely replaced by one of fire. The old woman let out a scream, throwing her hands over her face and falling backward into piles of yarn that spilled from a wicker sewing basket.

The images burned her brain, living fire consuming the piano that only moments before brought tears to her eyes with the song it played.

The sounds of screams drifted hauntingly through the air, screams that drew the living fire like moths to a flame.

Burning. Killing.

Fernita knew not to cry out herself; someone had told her to be quiet as she was dragged through the burning room, someone special, but she couldn’t remember who it was.

Bodies littered the floor, bodies claimed by the living fire as it searched the room . . . searching for . . .

The head of a lion formed from the flames roared and came at her. Fernita could feel the intensity of its breath as it surged. And then it was gone, wisps of smoke drifting past her mind’s eye.

The old woman managed to sit up, her breath coming in short, gulping gasps as she pushed herself backward toward the doorway. She propped herself against its wooden frame, watching the writing on her wall, feeling its mysterious pull on her fragile mind, and anger filled her. She didn’t want it there anymore . . . didn’t want it unlocking secret memories.

And before she even realized what she was doing, Fernita was on her hands and knees, crawling across the cluttered living room floor.

“Go away, damn you!” she cried out, licking her fingers and rubbing at the black markings. She rubbed and licked, and rubbed, and rubbed and licked some more, her lips and chin smeared black as she tried to erase the alien scrawl that had brought such fear into her life.

But the more she rubbed, the louder the buzzing whine inside her skull became, as if somebody—something—was angered by her actions.

How dare you wipe away the words. . . . Don’t you know what this means? Don’t you realize what this will do?

And as the words started to disappear, it was as if a door had been opened, and more memories began to flow.

A deluge of the forgotten.