Margaret's Ark

were gone. The people beside her likewise were only blurs below the waist, each holding a bowl like hers.

She watched their faces, white, pale, black, ashen, men, women, naked, in suits, teenagers, old men, all with terrified expressions. Some of them screamed. Wispy, ethereal creatures loomed behind each. Tendrils extended like clawed hands the barest breath away from ripping them apart. Everyone turned and saw everyone else, saw what chased them across the world, realizing something darkly similar was behind them. They screamed and ran faster.

The water sloshed gently in her bowl. Margaret's blinding travels were so constant, her steps like flying, that the water remained mostly at peace in its container.

“Faster!” thousands of spectral voices screamed, and the world raced by, around and around, a quick flash and Margaret saw her house, or thought she had. It was gone. She was gone, across the world.

Her legs were getting tired. But how? This was a dream - had to be a dream - not real.

Something ahead, a billion figures far away but each clear among so many indistinct shapes. She saw every face, every hand raised in terror as Margaret and the others approached them. Then screams and screams and screams!

David stood in front of her, right hand outstretched. “Stop!”

Somehow, Margaret stopped, as did the others in front of their own angels. David disappeared, leaving only the screaming multitudes ahead of her. Her bowl remained firmly in her hands. But the water poured forth. More than should have been possible.

As one, the stream surged forward and enlarged, engorging itself on the very air, merged with thousands more pouring out of thousands of other bowls. The sounds of the multitude's screams were lost under the deafening roar of the water rushing madly over them. Margaret screamed, watched the water pour into a billion gaping mouths, wash over them. Then they were gone. All of them lost below the tide.

The sound cut out. Everything became black.

Silence.

Margaret fell forward, screaming without any sound. She lay in the blackness, not the world any longer. No people, no sound.

Grass under her face, glowing in the starlight.

She touched it, stared at a single blade, for how long she did not know. She dared not look up, afraid of what might be watching.

A breeze, slight and cool, played on her face. Margaret eventually looked around. The common. Not her yard. The ark loomed like a beached whale beside her. The ramp was down and David the angel stood at the bottom, face solemn.

“Say nothing,” he whispered. “Just know, and be prepared.”

At that moment, Carl ran through him. David dissipated into tendrils of mist.

“Mrs. Carboneau? What are you doing out here?”

Margaret looked up, saw the sky graying with the dawn. She sighed and whispered, “Are you ever going to call me Margaret, Carl?”

The boy's shoulders sagged in relief. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t think so.” He chuckled. Margaret got up slowly and walked past him, up the ramp and down below deck. She fell back into dreamless sleep in the sleeping bag beside her daughters.

*     *     *

That had been last night. Tonight, Margaret again sat in the fresh air above deck. Almost midnight. The full moon waning into third quarter cast enough light to see the perpetual crowd camped out at a respectful distance across the square. Many were news people – waiting, they said, to cover late-breaking events. Others were either worried or curious as the last day approached. Occasionally a glow blossomed from cigarettes in the darkness. She couldn’t remember ever seeing so many smokers in one place.

Carl and a handful of others in the crew sat along the railing, as well as Father Nick who'd managed to lock up Saint Mary's for the night and sneak away for a long-overdue visit. Carl was spinning a basketball on his finger. It was a habit he'd picked up since sneaking home for some personal items a week ago while his parents were at work. The Bible was tucked between his leg and the deck. Over the past few weeks, the book had become more and more tattered. Though it had been a Christmas gift from Vince years before, Margaret felt a growing comfort seeing how her former student constantly read and worried over it, questioned and cursed its contents. The book was becoming as tattered as a child’s favorite stuffed animal. She would never say anything to him, though, and hoped it was a long time before Carl noticed its condition.

She had not seen the Jorgensons since the town meeting. She assumed his parents were biding their time, waiting to prove their son wrong in his delusion. For his part, Carl never talked about them, except in passing as when he'd gone for his things.

Margaret deeply wished to know what was going through his mind. What process could pull him so completely from his family to follow someone who was in truth only an acquaintance. She supposed she was more than that. She was his teacher. No. That was her pride speaking. He wasn't following her; he was following the one thing that tied them all together. Faith. He believed God's message, and was doing what he felt he had to. Some of the others on board, perhaps, believed as strongly. Maybe not. Margaret knew Carl better than most, and tried not to judge anyone’s motivation.

Father Nick reached into the cooler and took his second bottle of Bud Light. Pieces of ice clung to the glass, shining in the moonlight. “Is it always this quiet here at night?” He unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow.

Carl put a hand against the basketball and the spinning stopped. Without breaking his rhythm, he began to spin the ball the other way. Watching this, Margaret was filled almost to the breaking point with fear, but could not decide what was so frightening about what he was doing. That happened a lot today. Seemingly mundane events twisted in on themselves, forming something always vague but horrific. She took a sip from her bottled water and hoped someone else would answer the priest’s question. No one did.

“Um,” she began, swallowing one more time and forcing herself to look away from the basketball. “Yes. I mean, people have been coming and just sitting on the grass, or in their cars.”

“Like they're waiting for something,” Tony Donato added. Jennifer had fallen asleep leaning against him. She shifted when he spoke but did not wake up.

Nick was silent for a moment. “Same across town,” he said finally. “So many people, returning to church, coming to Mass. I've been given permission from Bishop Leonard to perform two masses a day, by the way. Did I mention that?”

Margaret shook her head.

He continued, “I keep thinking of the pros and cons. I mean, it's wonderful that this has brought people back to the Church, but...” He took another drink. “But I keep thinking that maybe it's too late.”

Margaret said, “It's never too late. Maybe this is why it's happening in the first place. More than simply to save us from what’s going to happen. More like one last call for souls. Or something. I don’t know.”

It was a version of the same discussion, every night. Always talking. Never finding answers but still, always talking. Exorcising the fear by staring into the darkness and trying to see form within it.

“I hardly sleep any more,” Nick said, to no one in particular. “The phone rings all night - mostly at night, as people lay in bed and think. They panic, then call me. What can I do? I'm their pastor. I have to be here for them even if I don’t know what to say.” His voice cracked, so he took another sip. “In the middle of the night when I’m in bed, awake, waiting for the next call, I think, ‘at least it will be over one way or another next week’.” He laughed.  “Isn't that a kicker? Imagine me thinking something as terrible as that.”

Margaret put a hand on his arm. “It's not terrible. Just human. Sleep deprivation does nasty things. Carl, please stop doing that!”

Carl grabbed for the ball but couldn’t get a grip. It fell off his finger and bounced away. Tony reflexively put his leg out to stop it before it rolled off the boat.

Margaret gasped. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that.”

Carl looked at her a moment and then shrugged. “It's okay. You've been pretty jumpy today. Did....” but he didn't finish the question.