Iris led me to the tallest and widest stone gate, on which was inscribed: "The Door of the Judgement." She held up her hand and touched the smooth stone, the gate came to life. A great wind rose through the grove and the temple, sending her hair flying sideways in a shimmering, silver screen.
"The First Judgement," she said, "is the Darkness." And we looked into the gate and we saw a terrible, black mass, like spilled ink, ooze across the sky and cover the sun and moon and stars. And then everything was dark. And Humans still had their torches and lanterns, but those didn't stop the fear. Oh, no. The fear would not be stopped. And at first, everyone hid in their homes, whispering, praying to their wooden idols, begging their oil-painting kings and and queens.
"The Second Judgement," she said, "is the Madness." And that's when the screaming began. That's when people began running out onto the street and burning houses and laughing and splitting each other open like melons. That's when the dancing, the cult circles, the body paint, the sodomy, the mutilation of the human spirit, that's when all of it began. That's when laws crumbled to dust, and man became lower than beast. So not so different from how it is now, eh, my smart-ass self said.
"The Final Judgement," she said, "is the Fire." And we looked and saw the earth blaze with fire, fire which burned on rock, fire which burned on steel, fire which hungered for flesh. We saw the ground crack open and spit white arcs of fire, we saw sheets of smoking, consuming flame, clouds of ash, skin and muscle burned from bone, and bone burned to ash. We looked, and we saw towering, mushrooming columns of flame shoot into the dark sky. We saw thin wisps of fire squeeze between the cracks of basement doors and bunkers; we saw everything perish in the flames.
Iris was staring into the flames, and she did not speak or move. She had a faint smile on her lips, a hopeful, anticipating smile. I left her side, silently, and walked over to the Door of the Present. I touched the gate hopefully, and it activated.
I was looking at my house and at my folks. Mother and father. I peered into the house and I saw mother sobbing my the window. She was holding one of the little blankets I had used when I was little. She was clutching that piss-stained, shit-stained, applesauce-stained piece of refuse, and she was crying into it. I've been gone for about a day, and it seems that she just broke, poor lady.
And father was outside, and what was he doing? Chopping Wood! But it was different this time. He was chopping angrily, anxiously, occasionally stopping to wipe his brow with his sleeve and look out at the horizon. And he'd sometimes lay down his axe and sit on the fence with his half-bottle of beer (the label read "Uncle John's Ale," which I knew was less bitter than the other beers which father drank), picking at his fingernails, looking at the road, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails, looking back at mother by the window, before he shook his head and took up the axe again. Then there was a sharp crack, and the axe head snapped off the handle and lodged itself into the stump. Father stared at the stump for almost ten minutes, just standing and staring, before he sat down on the fence with his quarter-bottle of beer. He picked his fingernails and looked put at the road, occasionally taking up the axe handle just to realize that the axe head was still severed and buried in the stump. He looked very old, my father did. He was very grey and old.
"Isn't it beautiful?" said Iris. She was still looking at the fires of judgement, entranced, hypnotized. Poor girl, staring into the flames and telling herself it was beautiful.
"Yes," I said. Father picked up the handle and set it down again and picked at the sleeves on his flannel. "It's very beautiful."
She said, "And then we can start anew. We'll create a better world from the ashes, Robert, you and me, and we can have a castle, and we'll be King and Queen."
She was still facing the Door of the Judgement, with her hair waving in the air and her arms folded in front of her body. Slowly, I took the butcher's knife, which I had stolen previously, from my shoe, and I said, "Iris, have you ever had beer?"
"No, I haven't," she said, still facing away. "What's it like?"
"It's disgusting," I said. "It's awful the first time you try it. But you try it again, because everybody else drinks it, and it's a little less disgusting. And you grow to like it, and it's not so disgusting."
"Then we have to get some after the Judgment," she said excitedly. "We can make our own."
"You need some sort of grain," I said. "And hops, you need hops." I was walking toward her, now, and the tears were flowing freely, now, and I had to try my best to keep my voice even and comforting. "And them you can add whatever crazy stuff you want, like fruit or spices."
"What can you add?"
"Fruits and spices," I said. "I've seen beer with apple, beer with cinnamon. Anything we want." I was right behind her, close enough to hug her, and her hair was blowing to the side. I could see one of her ears. What a nice ear, I thought. I'd kill to take her back to town and put earrings on those ears. I wouldn't be able to afford the anything but a glass earring, but it'd look good on her.
"We'll be king and queen," she said softly, powerfully.
I stepped forward, and I plunged the knife into her back. She gave a little gasp, and she turned to look at me. We locked eyes, and her eyes were full of hurt and hatred, but she understood. She hated me and wanted me to die horribly, but she knew why. And gradually, as her blood ran down the knife onto my hand, her golden lost their luster and fury and hate and became dull and peaceful, and her body went limp in my arms.
"Take it easy," I said to her. She was very beautiful. I didn't kiss her, but I ran my clean thumb over her lips and face, and I convinced myself that I was satisfied.
I buried her under a tree. I worked with my hands, with sticks, with the bloody butcher's knife, I had created a shallow grave. I laid her in the grave, covered her with earth, and marked the place with a small bit of the temple debris. No one will know about the grave but me. But even I won't come back here. Let's say that I marry and had kids, and I come back here and remember, how the Hell am I supposed to go back home and tell my wife that she was the most beautiful woman in the world? The most beautiful one is dead!
I stood over her grave, and I cried for her. I cried for her and the Grand Warden and the boys I crippled and all the unborn fetuses and the armored men with trumpets and mustaches and mother and father, and I cried and myself and all of those who were like us. And I wiped my eyes, washed my hands in the stream. And I did the only thing left for me to do: go home.
It was dark by the time I got there. The edge of the horizon was tinted pink, and it was quiet. I no longer felt the Rush, and I couldn't summon it either. I suppose I buried that with Iris. My house came into view, and I slowed to a casual stroll. Father was sitting on the fence with his broken axe handle and his one-eight-bottle of beer. He saw me as I approached, and he stood.
We looked at each other for a little while and didn't say anything. And then he said in a strange voice, "Hey, killer."
I went to the fence and sat, and he sat, and I showed him the clotted cuts on my fingers and elbow, and I said, "I'm alright now."
He smiled honestly and then did a fake scowl. "Wasted all that booze on you for nothing. Should've let you grow up and get your own damn booze."
I said, "Come on, don't be like that. Let me have some."
He shrugged and handed me the bottle, the one-eight-bottle of beer. I grasped the cool glass with both hands, watching the amber liquid swish, and I tilted my head back toward the sky and took a sip.
