Akting Out

“Michael.”

The chilling, otherworldly voice echoed around him. The voice was not alone; a pained, damned chorus seemed to reverberate behind the words. The words stopped Michael cold, and he turned around slowly. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight that awaited him.

Shiara, the deceased forest witch, was now a glassy corpse. She hovered in the air, gaping holes where her eyes should’ve been, shrouded in black aura that hummed hellishly. Her body should’ve been frozen, but her movements were jerky and sudden. Most disconcerting was the jagged, gaping hole in her stomach and the shards that moved outwards from the fatal injury Michael had inflicted. Inside the hole, Michael could clearly see flame and lava churning—

Just like that, she was in front of him. The stench of sulfur and brimstone flooded his nostrils as glass struck the side of his face, and Michael was knocked to the ground. He kept his bearings, scrambling away from that thing and getting to his feet. When he turned around, Shiara was gone.

Fire and brimstone grabbed him from behind and held firmly, one arm around his neck, the other around his midsection. Horrified, his skin heating, Michael could hear the rising cries of the damned, who were suddenly eager for their prey. “Your father…he commands your presence, Michael.”

There was an inferno rising from the ground as Michael was being burned at the stake. He suddenly realized that this wasn’t an execution – he was being taken to Hell.

Need to be somewhere else…anywhere else!

He didn’t have much time. He closed his eyes and focused, the same way he had when Balaam had broken his leg yesterday. Three bolts of blue lightning struck around them before Michael felt one strike him at the chest—

“My lord, are you okay?”

Michael opened his eyes; it was night, and it was cold; he could see his breath as he exhaled. Something was tugging him at his left arm, pulling him to his feet. Michael had never attempted a transport that quickly before; the disorientation had yet to pass, he couldn’t see who was beside him clearly. All he knew was that it was a male, and Michael could feel no power coming from it. It wasn’t an Angel.

The local sounds reached his ears as Michael rose to his feet. His vision cleared, he looked up to see the full moon, which was very far away. Mild fear set in. Where am I?

“My lord,” the male tugged at Michael’s arm again. “Please forgive the crudity of this scene; we weren’t expecting two of you in such a short amount of time…”

“Two of…?”

Michael was still trying to make sense of everything: the resurrected Shiara, more powerful dead than she ever was alive, and then trying to get away from there before he could be taken to Hell. His last thought had been about his mother…

Around him, beings that looked like (but clearly weren’t) Angels worked hard, constructing various objects. Michael couldn’t tell what they were as his new best friend led him through the scene. They barked orders to each other as hammers met nails and large metal girders were fused together around…glass? Michael couldn’t tell.

“My lord?” Michael turned, looking down to the little male, who looked as though his life hung on the outcome of this question. “It’s not that we don’t take your wishes seriously, but some of these people have been working for nearly thirty-six hours without rest. May we please take a break?”

Michael turned quickly to the male. ‘People’ was a term used by humanity to identify themselves…that means I’m on Earth! How the hell did I transport all the way to Earth?!

Then it hit him. Mom! I was thinking about mom!

When Michael stepped towards the man, he raised his hand and flinched, as though Michael was about to hit him. Michael scowled, gently reaching to the man’s wrists and lowering his hands. “I—I’m sorry, my lord!” The man stammered. “I meant no disrespect! Please don’t hit me again!”

Michael shook his head. “I’m not going to hit you.”

The man looked wary, but allowed Michael to lower his hands. Some of the workers glanced cautiously, but when Michael returned the look, they quickly returned to work. Why are they so afraid?

“Listen,” Michael began, keeping his voice calm, “You said ‘two of you.’”

The man nodded quickly, happy that he wouldn’t be struck. “Yes, my lord, I did.”

“The other, was it a red-headed woman?”

Again, the man nodded quickly. “Yes, my lord! Yes! She passed through not even an hour ago! She said we would soon be able to stop working! I hope she’s right, my lord! So many people have died already for this…”

“What is ‘this?’” Michael inquired, looking around.

The man gestured grandly as though demonstrating meant his salvation. “These are the mirrors you requested, my lord! I confess that we have fallen a bit behind quota, but the next order will be ready in less than one week’s time.”

Michael was alarmed. He was about to ask what the mirrors were for, but didn’t want to risk further upsetting the man. “I see,” he said. “And it was…my people…who told you to do this?”

“Yes, my lord,” The man spoke with more humility this time. Michael saw him clearly for the first time, noticing haw gaunt his figure was, ribs clearly visible through tan skin. He was old, more than three quarters of a century, but still strong. No wonder your people look to you.

Michael looked around; there were more than a hundred men, women, and children here, all of them barefoot in the desert sand, working tirelessly. They grunted, cried out, fell, helped each other up, and continued working. Michael repressed rage and sympathy. No Angel would force slave labor on a lesser being.

Michael nodded, taking in the scene. His mother knew about it; she was here. Chances are, she was trying to stop it. While he still needed to find her, he felt comfortable that she could take care of herself.

“Listen to me!” Michael bellowed, his voice booming across the horizon. Everyone jumped, looking at him. Some fell to their knees in worship. Michael immediately shook his head. “No, no, no…get up, please.” When those who were kneeling dared a peek up, Michael gestured to them. “Get up,” he insisted. Slowly, they rose.

“All of you,” Michael spoke loudly, “Stop working right now. Go to your homes and stay there. Don’t answer to anyone of my people except me or the redheaded woman! Do you understand?”

Relief, shock, and hesitation passed through the group. Michael nodded reassuringly. “Go. It’ll be okay. Please, go.”

As one, the crowd slowly dropped their tools and began to file to the left. Michael looked to the man, who was completely bewildered. Michael nodded at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.” Michael couldn’t help but feel for this pitiful, frail creature, “Go home. Your work is done.”

The man bowed his head. “My lord.”

He took two steps back before turning and striding away. Michael turned back towards the mirror. There was something else going on here; dead Angels could now be resurrected, someone had forced the humans into building tools used to bring demons into Heaven and Yang knew where else. His mother had come across this—before or after their home had been destroyed, he didn’t know—and was probably trying to stop it.

Okay, mom. I’ll help.

Michael quickly raised his leg and sent it through the center of a mirror, shattering the glass and rendering it useless. If the mirror had been blessed and active, that would have been a fatal error; luckily he had found it before whoever had done this could take possession.

Planning to continue the search for his mother, and figure out who was behind all of this, Michael prepared to destroy the next mirror.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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