They screamed at him.
Children of the woods, children of the ditches and darkness and filthy earth, children whose eyes were nothing but darkness and children whose skin was torn and rotting, screamed at him.
And he screamed back, huge hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut and great gangly legs leaping over the ground in desperation to get away from their accusing gazes and screaming maws, his own cries adding to theirs. Trees flashed and curled around him, snarling his feet and hair with tangled and twisted roots.
And then they stopped, and Meshak stumbled out into glistening green grass and carefully controlled trees. He began to run again, and this time he was much faster across the smooth surface.
Up, up, up he ran, up the hill, up to where music swam and danced about grey bricks and flew down to greet him with feathers of notes brushing his cheeks, the sweet vibration of the melody filling his bones and pulling him closer, closer like a hook on a fish, and within the sweet rhythm he heard his angel’s voice, his angels, Aaron and Melissa and Toby all singing together and their song mixed with that of the angels above and his eyes rolled back as he saw the stars and the planets and within it all there was his mother’s face, her hands reaching out with silver tipped fingers, and as the music reached its crescendo he reached out and grasped her hand…
But Meshak never answered.