Over the Breadth of the Earth: A Novel from the Saga of Fallen Leaves

Introduction

The More Things Change, the More They Remain the Same

“Death is my constant companion,” Schitz[1] said.

The Demonic warrior sat cross-legged beside the banks of the River Styx. The peaceful waters calmed him. He watched them flow in their unending journey back to the Mortal Realm.

He’d been thinking about Anna, a love lost through cruel and ironic circumstances. His laugh was harsh, even bitter.

“Only I, the scourge of Hell, could fall in love with an Angel,” he said.

He remembered Anna’s face, contorted in the last moments of passion as they both reached the pinnacle of ecstasy in what she’d called “la petite mort.”[2] When they made love in a desert oasis, he had finally understood the last of the Thirteen Steps of training: Surrender.

But what is complete surrender? he wondered. Is it not Death?

Another old acquaintance, but never one Schitz would ever call a friend.

I have introduced him to many an enemy, Schitz thought. And he has visited me more often than I care to recall.

Schitz stared at the island in the middle of the river.

I met Death for the first time face to face when I killed Vertigo on that very island. Would we have ever fought without Bubonic Plague’s interference? What kind of a father goads his son into a duel, then watches while someone opens his throat?

Schitz felt the rough scar on his cheek, a jagged reminder of the first life he had ever taken.

A series of caves lined the opposite bank of the river. Legend claimed that Bubonic Plague had gone there to die.

I hope it was slow and painful, Schitz thought. You had me arrested on false charges. You rigged my trial. You ensured my banishment. Plague rigged everything. He wanted me to die but he settled for my exile, so I would be stuck on the far side of the world.

His thoughts shifted to the other murderous presence in his life, the dark-haired Angel. She had killed his wife Rubella and slain his newborn son. The vixen of destruction had annihilated most of his friends, the band of Demons called The Free Thinkers.

I have seen so much of Death.

He stilled his shaking hands and looked back through the portal of memory. He recalled the battle in Babylon. He had possessed the king and driven him mad while Schitz’s comrades slaughtered high-ranking Angels by the handful. He recollected the vicious fight in the shadow of the pyramids when the Free Thinkers charged into the midst of an Angelic feud. He remembered the bloodbath along the forest road at Teutoburg and combat at the summit of the Incan citadel. Schitz smiled.

I faced those harrowing moments and a thousand others with a steady hand. When Death arrived to eat his fill, I made certain I was not on the menu.

Schitz’s chest swelled with pride.

I guided Death to feast upon the Angels and mortals alike when I led the Conquistadors through the New World.

For a moment, he heard the notes of a Spanish lute and the beating of drums. They morphed into the bugle and the fifes of the British Red Coat Army.

Ah, I laid waste to those who stood before me when I wore the King’s crimson along the road to Quebec.

He saw decimated Angels fleeing along with the French forces they occupied.

Yet, I am not invincible, Schitz thought. Waterloo came to mind. He shivered in the memory of the carnage.

Death was everywhere.

He quivered and touched the spot where the musket ball had pierced his host’s lung.

If I had not been quick, I would be dead, just like so many of those I led into battle that day.

Schitz focused on steadying his breathing. He zeroed his mind on a series of pictures. He could see faces sketched on parchment. Before Waterloo, he had ordered the Wraiths, Hell’s Intelligence Service, to draw the likeness of the Angelic leadership. Of all the representations, one stood out: Lord Zinc II, Supreme Commander of the Army of Heaven.

He must be my primary prey, Schitz thought. For even if Death is inevitable, and I must surrender to this reality, surely it is not a violation of the Thirteen Steps for me to focus all my energies to ensure He dines on Lord Zinc rather than me.

Schitz slammed a clenched fist into his thigh.

And on the stone-faced bitch who murdered my family.

Zinc II watched the Eunoe River meander along its winding path through Heaven on the way back to the Mortal Realm. The pastoral scene of the riverside beyond the Great Hall should have offered Zinc a reprieve from the unending politicking and scheming of the Heavenly Houses. Yet, as he stood by the river’s edge, all Zinc could remember was the visage of Uranium I, the late Lord of the Uranium House. His ghost haunted Zinc, the man who had murdered him and dumped his corpse in the river.

Why do I come here – to the scene of the crime? Zinc thought.

He kicked a small pebble and watched it break the water’s surface. The rippled dispelled Lord Uranium I’s image.

If only it were so easy to oust uncomfortable memories, Zinc thought. I did not want to kill you, but your incessant scheming threatened the authority I fought so hard to win.

Zinc was disgusted with Heaven’s infernal politics. He thought back to his younger days – better days.

The Academy had been a blessed place. His academic prowess reinforced his high self-esteem and positive self-image even when he was continuously challenged and harassed by Peter and Samuel from the Gold and Silver Houses.

Of course, I dispatched them as well – my first taste of killing one of my own. Zinc winced, then recovered. But they deserved it. I took what was mine, the right to live. It was not my House that rebelled against God.

Still, when the tiny waves in the river smoothed over, he saw his classmates’ faces in the glistening surface.

Someone’s always getting in the way. I was building a monumental empire with Alexander and then that Demon with the scar on his face wrecked it by driving the Macedonian crazy.

Remembering the scar-faced Demon invariably led Zinc to thoughts of Rachael.

I miss her with an inconsolable hunger. I cannot believe she now shares Hydrogen’s bed.

A paradox. His mistress now the wife of his friend. Lord Hydrogen, the Angel who had convinced the Demon Bubonic Plague not to kill Zinc at the conclusion of a duel during the Hundred Years War. Hydrogen, who had supported Zinc in sacrificing the Native Houses during the Spanish Conquest, an event that led God to appoint Zinc as Supreme Commander.

Hydrogen is my friend, Zinc thought. And I need friends.

He remembered his father, the man who had vanished while investigating how Gold had unleashed the powers of the Titans. He thought of his wife, Cecilia, killed in action on the eve of the Teutoburg disaster. And he thought about Uranium II – an ally who was not squeamish at all about having Angelic blood on his hands.

I have plenty of blood on my own hands, Zinc thought. He’d duped Iron III into taking command of the endeavor that ended in a wholesale disaster at Waterloo. In the aftermath, Zinc executed Iron III; Uranium II had dispatched Lord Palladium. Both bodies now kept Uranium I company at the bottom of the sacred river.

There were other enemies, but before Zinc could devise a plan for their demise, an itching sensation gripped at the back of his throat. It crawled through his palate and up into his head, where it squeezed his brain like a sponge. Zinc reached into his robe and withdrew a pipe.

“Damn – empty!”

I must return to the Isle of Neutrality and get more, he thought. Perhaps I will see Spanish Influenza.

The prospect of visiting the den of drugs and debauchery improved his mood – so did the prospects of reuniting with the violent, hedonistic Demon. They were not friends; Spanish had killed Zinc’s sons in combat with the Black Death Coven.

That grievance aside, Spanish is a pleasurable acquaintance, Zinc thought. He knows how to show someone a good, sordid time.

Zinc looked over his shoulder as he walked from the river’s edge. He knew the invisible hand of the dead would always pull him back to the Eunoe – no amount of drink, drugs, trysts, scheming, or fighting could change it.

I’ve built my throne out of the bones of the dead in that watery graveyard. The least I can do is come by and pay my respects. But that’s enough for now.

The wind picked up, and with it, a chill to his body – or was it to what was left of his soul?

The rows of weapons cast long, ominous shadows across the factory floor of the Springfield Armory. The eerie silence of the early morning hour stood in stark contrast to the typical drone and buzz that accompanied the day.

“Look at them all,” Elise said.

She gestured toward the endless rows of stockpiled muskets. The deadly instruments were arrayed in neat rows; they looked like a deadly pipe organ.

“I wonder how many there are,” Mephistopheles said. His voice conveyed little interest in his own query.

“Over one million,” Elise said.

She longed to fill the awkward silence with anything, even something as banal as an accurate assessment of the arsenal’s capacity.

“I don’t think they’ll miss the few that we smuggle home,” she said. She smiled but was unsuccessful in her attempt to elevate her mate’s morose mood.

Mephistopheles grunted and unhooked two muskets from the wall. “Hardly worth the effort, really,” he said, more to himself than Elise.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Why are you so dejected?”

A fleeting scowl formed across the elderly Wraith’s face.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “It all just feels so pointless. We worked so hard to train Titus. Against all expectations, he grew into a remarkable commander. Then your little rascal Schitz came up with that his tedious task, and we were required to render portraits of Heaven’s leadership, an assignment we accomplished with phenomenal accuracy. Waterloo should have been our grandest hour. But our Lord Satan kneecapped us by cutting the number of Demons assigned to the cannons. The battle should have been Megiddo, the final victory. Regardless, the outcome should have been different – not the debacle we suffered.”

“We gave as good as we got,” Elise said. Her voice remained soft, but her tone warned Mephistopheles about the perils of criticizing the Demon she had attended for centuries.

While Mephistopheles grumbled, Elise feigned attention while she worked out the logistics of carrying more than one musket with her only arm.

Irritation crept back into her partner’s expression. “Just carry the one, silly girl. It’s not like we have a plethora of Demons waiting to train with them,” he said. “Which is exactly the point, isn’t it? Even if we had given the Angels a walloping, we don’t have the strength to recover from the body blow they dealt us. Maybe if we had Bubonic Plague or Small Pox or Tetanus, we could, but now we have only the likes of Schizophrenia, Anorexia, and Spanish Influenza. We are weak and drawn down. And I… I am tired.”

Elise grimaced at the prospect of abandoning either of the muskets she had labored so hard to lift. She rested both against the wall and embraced her mate.

“I know that it has been difficult,” she said. “The forces of Heaven seem unlimited. Our forces, though fierce, are meager. What else can we do except keep fighting?”

“Here, I got this one,” Mephistopheles said. He scooped up a musket in his free hand—two for me, one for you. Three is enough. Let’s go home. We can leave the worrying for those that got us all into this mess. The Dark Lord we serve is almost as big an idiot as his brother who art in Heaven.”

He laughed at his little joke.

Elise smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

“I think it’s cute when you’re blasphemous,” she said.

[1] Pronounced “Skits” – short for Schizophrenia.

[2] “The little death.”