Beyond the Veil
By Brian Rathbone
"Don't cry, Daddy. Mommy's with God now."
Those words, coming from Kindra, his then five-year-old daughter, were among the only things that had kept Vincent Pels from falling into an abyss of hopeless despair. Losing Joan would have been enough, but knowing his own negligence had played a part in her death was more than he could bear. If only he'd put air in her tires. At times, only his love for his daughter kept him from giving up completely. Life without Joan seemed dark and cold.
Kindra's ability to accept and cope with her mother's death left Vincent feeling ashamed and guilty. How could such grace and wisdom be granted to one so young, yet denied to him?
The tinny peal of a familiar ring tone announced a call from St. Joseph's Elementary, Kindra's school, and Vincent failed to keep the anxiety from his voice when he answered.
"Mr. Pels, there's a problem with Kindra," said the school nurse, who sounded uncertain and concerned. "She's complaining that the 'bad things' won't leave her alone, and she's got scratches on her neck."
"I'm on my way," Vincent said as he made a hasty U-turn. Kindra's complaints about the "bad things" had started a year ago, but they had always been at night, when she was trying to sleep. He had assumed they were little more than an excuse to sleep in his room, but his anxiety grew with each passing moment and tears gathered in his eyes.
In his rush to get to Kindra, Vincent barely saw the road before him or heard the whine of his engine. Scenery flashed by in a blur, and only the high-pitched whistle of a crossing guard brought his attention back to the road. A dirty, green trash truck approached from the other direction; the portly crossing guard waved her arms and shouted.
Over a bump that had never seemed so severe when doing the speed limit, Vincent's minivan momentarily left the ground then landed hard, sending a shower of sparks into the air. When he regained control, he drew a sharp breath; in the middle of his lane stood a little girl. She looked up at him. Deep brown eyes swirled with hazel and gold met his. He saw no fear in them, only sorrow and regret.
Instinct took over. Vincent's right foot stabbed the brakes, and he yanked the wheel to the left. The squealing of his tires was accompanied by the wail of the trash truck's overloud horn. Gripping the wheel as his van careened out of control, Vincent Pels watched a grimy bumper part metal and glass. In the moment of his death, he felt no pain; all that existed was an awe-inspiring, yet familiar, white light.
* * *
Azure waters streaked with rivers of color ranging from turquoise to violet and obsidian lapped against a shoreline of translucent stones whose color shifted depending on the angle from which they were viewed. Rounded and polished by the relentless tides, each stone was as fine as any gem. Light seemed to stream from every direction, yet there was no visible source. No sun graced the cloudless sky, only swirls of pastel.
As the sensations of his form began to return, Vincent shook the fog from his mind. Where was he? What was he doing here? When he looked at himself, his confusion grew. Dressed in heavy armor-finer than any he'd ever seen in a museum-he wondered if he were dreaming. When he drew the sword from the scabbard that hung on his belt, it sang a song of pride and death, and he doubted his imagination could create an image of such fierce beauty. Intricate patterns, traced in delicate and precise lines, accentuated highlights of gold and other metals Vincent did not recognize. Worried that he might accidentally hurt himself with the fearsome blade, he sheathed it.
"Welcome back, Kevriel," came a female voice from behind.
Vincent spun. Facing him was a woman dressed in armor similar to his own. Only her voice gave evidence of her gender, as her face was concealed beneath an ornate helm fashioned into a fierce and baleful glare.
