The Bone Wall by D. Wallace Peach Read Free Book Online

The warrior wears a plumed helmet and grips a round shield with a gold cross. He holds a spear poised for a thrust, its gold tip shining. The other picture reveals a woman, a queen I think, in blue and red garments, long blond hair streaming behind her, the teeth of a gold crown rising from her head. Her body is corded with muscle, her eyes matching the fierceness of the white horse she rides. Behind her, a shadow emerges from the murk, intent on her destruction. I don’t think she sees him. She aims her golden bow forward, silver arrow drawn back to her shoulder. It’s the bow, curved like a woman’s lips, that interests me.
    I crumble the pages and toss them into the roof’s darkness.
    **
    When I was young, every day in Heaven was the same, utterly predictably the same. Not simply our routine, which was undeniably…routine, but the air felt clear, still, and dry, the temperature cool in the evening, warm during the day, the water hot or cold on demand, lampposts flicking on and off according to the sun, sprinklers squirting like clockwork. No birds chased insects in Heaven; there were no insects beyond bees to chase, no wild animals at all. We were antiseptic, untainted by the broken world, perfectly pure.
    Now nothing is inevitable, except the persistent presence of change and the knowledge that our time in Heaven is ending.
    No one strolls the East Spoke into the forest anymore, not even Angel and I. We go only as far as our chores demand. The wheat’s grain is firm and crunchy, ready for cutting, threshing, and winnowing, slow work even without so many of our men dead. Angel and I labor together, sharing blisters and complaints. I swing the scythe, the cradle’s long wooden fingers carrying the cut wheat and depositing it in a neat pile where Angel binds the grain into sheaves. We fill the cart halfway and then switch.
    “We could keep this when we’re done,” Angel proposes as I hand her the scythe, her head at a tilt while she studies the tool.
    “Sickles would make better weapons,” I say after a moment’s consideration. I’ve pilfered a few knives from the kitchen but nothing quite so menacing as a sickle’s curved blade. “Two of them, one in each hand, better for moving quickly.” My arms fly around me, my phantom sickles flaying a dozen Biters as I twirl, crouch, and weave. Angel laughs and claps when I bow at the end of my performance.
    “Let’s walk to the gate,” I say, the urge undeniable.
    “Why?” Angel asks, her worried eyes flecked with gold. She appears platinum from head to toe, paler than the gilded warrior in the picture, all of her the creamy yellow of young wheat.
    “I don’t know,” I concede. Perhaps it’s the imaginary Biters slain at my feet or the spectral weapons flashing in my hands. Or perhaps I desire to initiate a cautious step along a looming path I’m destined to follow, as if testing the water with a toe before plunging in. The blood pounding through my veins tells me so. “Come with me…please, Angel.”
    The scythe propped against the cart, we hike the East Spoke into the pines. Heaven stands as a silent witness to our expedition, except for the shield’s humming murmur and the soft padding of our shoes over the blanket of needles. Motionless boughs drape over our heads. It’s as if we’ve wandered into the unchanging landscape of a picture book.
    The viewing platform is ours to climb, and we lean on the cool metal rail at the top. Outside the shield wall, an angry world flails, nothing static or hushed as it shifts in an endless tempest of movement. The wind slithers and hisses through thin grass and yellow weeds. Spindly trees sway, crack, and moan, leaves quivering like tiny clapping hands, tearing free to flutter and skid across the clay. Birds soar, hover, and dive, their shrill calls keening against a sky growling with storm clouds. Dirt and dust cough over the massive grave, clawing at the mound of earth, scraping it back into the wild land as if