Upon Broken Wings

By E.L. Reedy and A.M. Wade

"Brilliant and Moving. Highly Recommended."

Bound by a dark act of hate and despair, high school freshmen, Andrew and Kiernan, learn that their untimely deaths did not bring an end to their pain, but only began the suffering of those left behind. While his lost memories return, Andrew must master seemingly impossible feats, both spiritual and physical.

As a dark spirit stalks Kiernan through the borderlands of life and death, he must also face the pain his actions have caused his loved ones. To save both their souls, Andrew must convince Kiernan to return to life and open his eyes to the love and beauty which had always been there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Apr 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781773396347

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Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2018 E.L. Reedy and A.M. Wade

ISBN: 978-1-77339-634-7

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: CA Clauson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Allen — who lit the fire that gave birth to the magic.

To Greg — who saved the magic before it was even born.

To Joey — who believed in the magic.

To D. and N. — who taught that autism is a journey. Thank you for inviting us along.

To Kim, Kory, and Josh — who have shared magic’s journey for many, many years.

And finally: To all who left us thinking they were less or wrong — if only you could have seen how much color and joy you brought to the world. See you on the other side.

UPON BROKEN WINGS

E.L. Reedy and A.M. Wade

Copyright © 2018

So, do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10

A Recollection of Death

—from Andrew Harowitz, Memories of the Living

My dearest Michael,

My love.

I still remember the moment I surrendered my broken heart on that last bitter, rainy day of October, burying it with a tattered piece of my soul beneath the cold, still ground.

You were there of course, dressed in your finest black suit and a matching dark tie, and I am sure you saw, as did I, the last traces of autumn fade to winter, in a cycle unbroken since the twilight of the Ice Age—in those ancient times when the last glaciers melted away from the northern continents and poured their essence into every sea and ocean of the world.

Great and small flocks of blackbirds and crows swept over us in their mysterious formations, some late to start their journey to the south, others simply launching into the sky—those that never leave our lands—they are like the keepers of death, winter’s closest ally. Tell me Michael, if you remember, did you hear them sing, as their melodies soared high into the heavens? It was a lonely sound like that of a train whistle before sunrise, or the roar of the long-trucks, rolling down the highways between cities late at night.

Did you know that it’s on the first day of spring that life truly begins for the newborns and young? It renews for the old still blessed to be with us, and for those of us caught up in the turbulent in-between years, it is just another marker of the slow passage of time.

We followed the long hearse that day in a car, black as coal, with windows tinted for the privacy of all. Your parents sat on the back seat beside me. Did you see them there? Listen to your mother’s cries? Watch your father’s falling tears? Did you look upon me, lost so far inside myself that I showed no emotion at all?

Our procession crossed the city of Fair Cedar on a journey spanning from the church to the cemetery. As has always been custom, we ignored the stoplights and stop signs on the way, cutting off traffic and slowing only for turns and bumpy sections of road.

When we at last entered the misty graveyard, the rust-shrouded iron gates squeaked as they swung open. I heard and even felt their haunting echo that followed us along the curving drive through the forest of tombstones and trees.

I saw yellow and orange lilies, and roses, both white and red, among the grave markers and stones. Did you see them dying in weather more unstable than crackling ice on a thawing lake? Looking past them, I saw statues of angels and saints, bright as stars, when brief breaks in the gray clouds let the sunshine pass down to the earth below.

I remember every bump in the road, Michael, as from my window, I watched the passing trees, without a leaf on their branches—they seemed naked in the cold, half hidden by distance, the thickness of the haze, but more so by the tears that refused to drip from my burning red eyes.

Our sad parade parked, stretched along the side of the road, and I lost count of those who stepped out from their warm cars to join us in the damp, cold air. I followed just behind your parents and they followed their parish priest. He was dressed in his cassock and robe and carrying his crucifix before him like an upraised sword. For reasons I still don’t understand, I think I cracked a smile at the oddity of it all, but it was gone before anyone else saw it.

Your mother and father walked close, their hands held tight between them. But I only held white roses, still on their stems, which I had done all too often, and everyone else clutched tightly to umbrella handles, sympathy cards, and bouquets of many colors.

I heard a haunting whistle that filled my soul with dread, but it was only the echo of the wind, blowing through the branches of the trees. It made me feel so alone, Michael, in a place all gray, empty, and almost silent. I truly wept then. I cried in those days and more times after that than I could ever hope to count.

Though it was cold, I wore only a black jacket and matching pants, no coat or gloves to keep me warm. My suit was an older one of yours that your parents let me borrow, not brand new like the one you wore that day. My arms were too short for my hands to even reach the ends of the sleeves. I looked silly and I wanted to laugh, but by then, I had forgotten how.

We came at last to a casket resting at the center of a large velvet cloth—it was the second I’d seen that day, Michael. Do you remember why? I think they were trying to hide from us the open pit beneath it, but we all knew the truth—the ever-hungry earth awaited on yet another feast.

I stayed near you and your parents throughout the entire service, but not too close. I was not their beloved son. They were not my heartbroken parents.

A fire burned inside of me, Michael. Twice, I think I nearly threw up, but I stayed steady and strong. I stood firm for the soul once belonging to the body resting in the mahogany box, too long for a child and too short for an adult, but just the right size for a fourteen-year-old boy. The lid of course remained closed. We both knew why, didn’t we?

Thunder rumbled far and near, and the crows cried out, launching from the trees in formation for reasons unknown. My world went hazy. I wiped the tears away with my sleeves, but they just kept flowing like a waterfall down both of my frozen cheeks.

I watched your mother and father, leaning on one another, as the stone-faced priest read from his prayer book. I wanted a shoulder for my weary head. I needed a hug or at least some sort of touch, but you would not even look my way. You only stared at the sky with your eyelids closed tight. No one, Michael, no one consoled me—my grief ran through me unchecked, a sorrow much too deep for an already grieving boy of thirteen years to bear alone.

A shadow of the approaching storm fell upon us. It grew dark. A strong wind ripped away flowers and stole umbrellas. Then it started to drizzle. And the drizzle became a downpour.

I opened my eyes wide and tilted back my head, with my mouth open. Do you remember when we used to catch raindrops on the tips of our tongues? We were younger then, and the drops tasted sweet, not like the bitterness I felt in those passing days of loneliness and death.

Your father, who had always been kind, offered me his umbrella, but I only shook my head. I wanted—no, I needed—to feel every icy touch of water, as it soaked through my suit. I shivered, but the fires of grief flowing through me remained. I burned inside, hot like an open flame.

The priest’s words seemed mumbled, but I am sure that it was a fine eulogy. My attention was focused on a coffin containing a boy only a year older than me. He was but a child stolen away by twisting metal, exploding glass, and the unquenchable thirst of a river swollen well past its banks.

Your mother lost it then, Michael, did you see? Did you hear her cries? She beat her fists against your father’s chest, and he just held her, whispering words of comfort for her alone.

I watched in tearful silence, as other wives, sisters, and daughters fell into the arms of their brothers, husbands, and sons. Their weeping seemed like a great and sorrowful symphony that only brought pain to my ears. There were no shoulders for me to rest my head upon, though, no one held me. You kept your arms at your sides, and you stared at the sky with your eyes shut tight.

I fell to the ground, and the sky unleashed a deluge. My knees splashed in the sodden muck, but I barely noticed. Then I heard a scream, a roar that knocked me flat. Michael, do you remember? I do. I’ll never forget. That scream was mine, from my own lips, but it came from somewhere much deeper.

I thought that you touched me then on my shoulder, and I thought I heard your gentle laugh, and even a whispering of your voice, sad and quiet. I looked up then, but it was only your father, reaching out to help me back to my feet.

I was all alone, Michael. You were there, but you would not meet my eyes. You didn't even look my way. You only stared, as ever you will, into that mysterious beyond. I buried my heart that day, Michael. I buried my love on the last day of October, in the rain, when we buried you.

Prologue

Rehearsal and the following dinner had ended some hours earlier, but something had drawn me back to the gothic church and held me there—a feeling I could not even begin to name. Small wisps and curling tendrils of candle smoke still twirled about here and there above the extinguished candles, riding those strange drafts that move mindlessly through the air in large enclosed places. I could smell the hints of smoke amongst the mixed scents of wood polish, sweat, old-lady perfume, and all the other mysterious odors that hover about old churches. I regarded the distant altar, behind which a crucifix towered, and the statues of angels and saints along either side of the altar, but my thoughts were too hushed for even me to hear.

Radiant streams of moonlight poured in through the stained-glass windows displaying the Stations of the Cross—the story of Christ’s last day on this earth as a man—along either side of the great gothic cathedral and shed a multi-color nimbus upon countless rows of pews, empty of people, but decorated with bouquets and arrangements of roses of nearly every color. Haunting voices of the practicing choir, aloft in the air, mingling with the deep notes of the church organ, touched me with a bittersweet feeling of familiarity.

I bubbled inside with happiness, I brooded in sorrow, and stewed in anger. I was entrenched in confusion—I was overwhelmed with every emotion in between. I honestly don’t know what all I felt—my feelings were not my own that night. In my brief fourteen years of existence, churches had only represented death and loss, but that night, the next day, this holy place would represent new life, as my brother took the vows of matrimony, and yet… And yet…

Yet you fear you’ll somehow lose him, someone said from behind me. It sounded like the high-one-moment, low-the-next voice of any other boy my age, but I knew better—I did not hear him with my ears—instead his words echoed in my mind.

Hello, I said, turning about and releasing my breath, which I never even realized had been pent up. To you, too, I added as I nodded at the new arrivals. It’s been so long. What—seven years now? I was beginning to wonder whether or not you two would even show up.

Are you serious? I wouldn’t miss it for the world, a boy with golden curls and star-blue eyes, said with a wide grin. When last we met, your brother made me a special promise. We’re mostly just here to make sure that he’s kept it. It’s not like we just stopped in to visit the world or anything.

They each wore a white karate gi over loose fitting tunics and pants, simple brown sandals adorned their sockless feet, and there was an unmistakable otherworldly aura about them.

A taller boy with straight golden locks, chuckled. You keep telling yourself that. He turned his own twinkling brown eyes upon me. Casey, it’s good to finally meet you in person—well, as personable as can be expected that is.

Why show yourselves now? I pondered aloud. I know you guys have been hanging around on and off ever since, well, you know. I mean, I couldn’t always see you, but I could feel when you and others like you were there.

The shorter angel regarded the taller one with a peculiar look of victory. You see? I told you. He’s the one. And when you think about it, it makes perfect sense. Who better to tell the—

Patience, the taller one said, putting his finger to the tip of his nose. How many times have I told you? We can’t just blurt these things out. They take time. Detailed explanations. Some level of tact. In a word, a plan.

The shorter tilted his head to one side and shot his friend a look of disbelief. Oh really? What about that time when you told that grandmother that her grandbabies were—

It’s not polite to bring up old mistakes, the other boy said, crossing his arms. Besides, I was much younger then. Less experienced.

The other put his hands together and twiddled his thumbs, while smiling and never taking his eyes off his partner. That was three days ago.

There you go again, so worried about time.

I chuckled as they continued arguing on and on like two little kids, as if they had forgotten my presence all together. The funny thing was that there was no animosity between them—only friendship and it resounded with their every word. It felt like watching a show made especially for me. I felt the arrival of another presence then that started at first as a tickle against my cheek that soon became a soft tug at a tuft of hair, which led to a sense of overwhelming peace. It was very much like how my mother could make me feel simply by listening whenever I was feeling down.

The roses are beautiful, there’s no doubt, but I could not help but to notice that among the many gathered colors that my favorite is missing. A woman glowing with a light from within appeared between me and my other unexpected guests. Her hair swept over her shoulders in long golden strands and her blue eyes even outshone the moonlight. She wore a robe that somehow surpassed the whites worn by the other two—she was beauty incarnate.

I found it odd and yet, somehow comforting, that she did not bother with an attempt at masking who and what she and the two boys with her really were. I had seen her once before, seven years ago, when she had sent me a simple nod and kissed me on my cheek, but the endearing memory of that brief encounter had stayed with me.

Roses? Oh, yeah… That. Well, white’s a popular color this time of year, this week especially. Every store was sold out—could have used some help. I said perhaps a bit too defensively. I mean, I’ve seen many others like you. Most of them never even noticed me noticing, but neither of us has seen you three since that day. It was kinda hard on all of us. I’m not sure if it really hurt his feelings though, or if he’d just rather forget the whole thing.

Unless foreordained, few in the living world can sense our presence, fewer still catch the briefest of glimpses, but you, you notice much more than you show—by far, more than you reveal, even to your brother, the angelic woman said. She rested her hand on the side of my face and for a moment I felt joy and sorrow, both so deep and powerful that my knees buckled. I did not falter, however. Her will held me aloft. Like my own son when he was a toddler, you never lost the ability to see and hear what escapes most others. Would you walk with me? She indicated the two boys. When they get done playing, they have a chore to complete, and if you’re willing, so too will you.

Me? But I’m just a kid, I muttered as I followed her down the main aisle to the rear of the church, where we paused and turned about to regard the distant altar. I’m only human. What can I possibly do that you guys can’t?

Time has many effects on the world of the living, she said, meeting my eyes. Wounds tend to heal. The world itself ages with every tick of the clock. And people… People unfortunately—they tend to forget, even the most important things, unless there is something to remind them.

Believe me, I said as I met her eyes, no one in my family has forgotten any of what happened.

She returned my stare with a look that I am sure saw through to the heart of me. Has your brother gone back to the way he was when—

Oh, no, it’s nothing like that, I stammered quickly. It’s just that since he introduced us to his fiancé, he’s been so distant. He hardly ever calls. Sometimes I think he’s forgotten all about us … about me.

I assure you, he has not, she said. But that’s the rub of it. You, like so many children before, you fear you’ll lose a brother or sister when they enter the bonds of marriage. She kissed my forehead. My dearest Casey, you won’t be losing a sibling, you’ll be gaining another! And did you know that they argued for well over a week over who should get to ask you to be their best man?

With an overwhelming sense of relief, I exhaled sharply. It is funny when you think about it, how sometimes others can see through many of our problems to the heart of our true concerns. Of course, to be fair, she is wiser than most and, well, she and my other two visitors have one heck of an advantage—they’ve been dead for at least seven years now. The wedding tomorrow. Does it have something to do with the chore you mentioned?

She raised her brow and offered a half-smile. Tell me, young Casey Quinn, what helps people to remember? What keeps them from forgetting? She indicated my laptop, plugged in and charging in a hidden cubby hole just to the right of the main entrance. I understand you like to write. I’ve heard that you even keep a journal.

My eyes shot to the laptop then back to her. It’s kinda like a diary, my personal thoughts, I said, glancing away. You, um… You haven’t been reading—

No, dear child, she interrupted. Our thoughts belong to us alone and none of us, in either world, need share them with anyone, unless by choice. That being said…

It came to me then like that jolt you get