Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology: Further Tales of Edgar Allan Poe's 1st Detective

THE UNFATHOMED DARKNESS By SIMON CLARK

Books! Books! Books! I always considered them to be the sole reason to continue to live upon our dreary Earth. Books, however, were on this November night, very nearly the death of me, and my friend, Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.

I am writing this account just hours after the extraordinary events that nearly led to our destruction. I confess that as well as smoking pipe after pipe of strong tobacco I have drunk several invigorating glasses of absinthe. My friend, Dupin, slumbers in his bedchamber, but I am in such a state of profound excitement that I am far from the shores of sleep— so, by the light of candles, and with the heat of that powerful spirit of wormwood putting fire in my belly, I am attempting to exorcise the ghost of what I experienced tonight by writing down all that I saw, heard, and felt.

And it all began with our addiction to books that drove us out into the snowy night, where we heard the terrible sound of a woman’s scream.

Dupin had received a letter informing him that a sailor would sell him a cache of tomes acquired on his travels of the Eastern Mediterranean. One of these is a sublime rarity, entitled Dialogue on the Operation of Demons, penned by that Byzantine philosopher and educator of princes, Michael Psellus. Dupin has little in the way of money, yet the purse put aside for food was hastily retrieved from beneath the boards of his study; thereafter, we lit a lantern apiece and hurried out into the Parisian night. Snow had fallen steadily all evening, veiling the ground with a pristine shroud. The footprints and cart tracks left by the sparse midnight traffic soon vanished entirely as we headed out amongst the open fields beyond Montmartre.

“Books, books, books!” panted Dupin. “The word hurtles through your head like a musket ball through its barrel.”

“I know your tricks by now,” I replied. “You saw me mouthing the word to myself.”

“No, absolutely not. You are obsessed with books. I hear you at night chanting the word over and over in your sleep. You covet books, you crave books, monsieur. You sit at a table and curl your arms over a book, like a hawk protecting its freshly killed prey, so no other creature can steal it.”

“Is that so? Then I am morbidly diseased by my love of the printed page. My soul must be liquefying into printer’s ink.”

“Ha!” His teeth flashed in the light of our lanterns as he smiled. “I am gripped by the same contagion bibliotheque. The reading germ nests snugly in both our brains.”

We continued to chatter thus as our feet crunched on freshly fallen snow. A distant church clock struck the half hour after midnight, and although the bitterly cold air wormed its way through our cloaks to shiver our skin we were so eager to hold that eight hundred-year-old book of Psellus’ in our hands that we almost ran along the deserted lane, our lamps throwing out splashes of light.

It was as the lane cut through broad, flat meadows that we heard the scream.

“A woman is being murdered!” I cried.

“Not being murdered,” Dupin corrected. “That’s the sound of grief, despair, and a heart-breaking realization of loss — the woman has found the lifeless body of someone she loves.” He stood absolutely still; the lamp was held high, as he carefully and precisely stored the sound away in that remarkable brain of his. Chevalier Dupin is a man who methodically preserves memories of the sights, sounds, and odors produced by the horrors of this world, as I would methodically place books on my library shelves. He is the consummate archivist of the accouterments of tragedy.

The woman screamed again, this time the sound being much fainter, suggestive of increased distance, rather than her becoming weaker, or overcome in some way. Dupin and I hurried through dense bushes that lined the track. Within moments, we found ourselves in a broad meadow that possessed a smooth covering of snow. Our lanterns shone across that pristine shroud of white. Nothing had disturbed the snow — neither birds, animals, nor people. We scrunched onwards, searching for the distressed female. From the dark sky above, a lazy snowflake or two descended. We heard no sound. The woman had fallen silent.

“Perhaps there was no woman?” I suggested as the search revealed nothing but a winter’s meadow. “Might the cry have been made by a fox?”

“That was no fox, monsieur. You know as well as I.” Dupin raised the lamp higher, endeavoring to push back the darkness. “That was a lady in distress. Ha!” He pointed. “Now do you see what caused said distress?”

The light revealed a figure lying face down in the midst of the snowy landscape. I immediately began to hurry closer. However, Dupin stopped me by gripping my arm. “No, do not move. Not a single step. Something is wrong here… profoundly wrong.”

“Of course there is — a man lies dead. I can see his corpse with my own eyes.”

“Yes, you see the body… What is it that you don’t see?”

“He’s not wearing a coat or hat. See, he’s dressed in a cotton shirt and breeches.”

“What else don’t you see?” demanded Dupin. His manner wasn’t terse or annoyed; on the contrary, his eyes glittered with excitement. My friend detested the mundane routines of everyday life — this was anything but mundane.

I attempted to put myself inside Dupin’s remarkable mind, and apply his unique talent for observation, which he’d used to explain so many mysterious crimes. “Fifty paces from us, there is the body of a young man, wearing indoor garments,” I said, “but we must be four hundred meters from the nearest farmhouse. It’s a bitterly cold night, so he wouldn’t have been out walking when he was attacked.”

“Yes.”

“He must have been killed elsewhere and carried or dragged here.”

“No.”

“Then, Monsieur Dupin, what is it that I am not seeing?”

“Imagine the marks in the snow are our beloved hieroglyphics — decipher them, interpret them, extract information from every dot, swirl, and line.”

Not for the first time did I wonder if madness had taken root in my companion’s brain. “There are no marks in the snow,” I pointed out.

“Exactly.” Dupin extended his free hand to indicate the unblemished whiteness. “The body lies face down, his arms outstretched like a fallen bird. There are no marks in the snow. Not one within forty paces. He has only been here a short while, because he lies on top of freshly fallen snow, there is none on the cadaver. There are no footprints near the body to suggest that attackers approached him and struck him down there on that spot.”

I stared in astonishment. “What is even more inexplicable is how the man arrived in this meadow. He hasn’t left any footprints.”

“Carried by angels?” Dupin’s eyes gleamed with impish delight — a veritable witch-fire blazed there. The mystery enthralled him. “Or was the gentleman thrust from beneath the ground by the Devil? So, monsieur. From above? From below? What is it to be?”

I stood there in the forbidding snowfield that might have been conjured here from some Arctic wasteland. The cold air put its icy claws on my throat. The darkness grew even thicker… denser… the darkness of a tomb that imprisoned children’s ghosts. Listen to them cry, I thought, listen to their sorrow. The despairing sobs of tiny children, who had been cast lifeless and forgotten into the grave-pit, came a-creeping through my flesh to chill my blood, until shiver upon shiver poured through me, and I longed to run from that evil place that no longer seemed part of the natural world.

Dupin spoke in a low, hollow voice, as if his words, too, came ghosting from some melancholy realm of the dead: “To your right. Forty paces from us. See those indentations in the snow?”

He moved in the direction of which he spoke. Presently, I saw footprints, which I counted quickly. There were twelve of them; however, they were scuffed and elongated, suggesting that the person had moved with strange haste. The footsteps had simply appeared in the midst of that whiteness then stopped again. Yet where the footsteps ended there were a series of broken lines in the snowfall that created a series of dashes like so: — - - These ran for perhaps fifty paces in all before they, too, simply vanished.

“I do not understand,” I confessed. “A corpse lies in a field. There is an impossibility about the manner of its arriving. No footprints led to the corpse, none led away. Then there is a smattering of footprints — impossible footprints! — as they suddenly appear from nowhere in the middle of a meadow before vanishing again… In addition, there is a line of marks in the snow that abruptly end. This is the mystery of all mysteries, Dupin. A mystery that must surely contain the supernatural at the center of its dark heart. There is no other explanation that I can see, other than witchcraft.”

“The mystery does not embody magic in any form whatsoever. This enigma can be traced back to the French name of Montgolfier.” He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “I would prefer to savor the mystery. To peel back its exquisite layers one by one, and reveal its solution to you in a languid manner over many glasses of amontillado. But there is no time, my friend. Lives are at stake.” With a sudden impetuousness he rushed toward the corpse. “The snow is fifteen centimeters deep. This young gentleman has been thrust down through it with great force. His bones are broken. Death arrived in a single second. He had no time to writhe or struggle.” He swung the lantern round, casting its glow over the winter shroud. “No footprints, so he did not walk here to the place of his death, nor was he carried.”

“You spoke the name Montgolfier. Are you suggesting this individual fell from a balloon?”

“Fell, pushed, cast out, jettisoned!”

“But who would ascend in a balloon in this dreadful weather?”

The excited man spoke faster — ever faster. “Since Montgolfier rose over French soil—this French soil — undertaking the first manned balloon flight over half a century ago, there have been hundreds of astonishing ventures into the sky. In 1841, Charles Green ascended to a height of eight kilometers above the Earth. The temperature on that summer’s day dropped to twenty-seven degrees below freezing. Ice formed on the balloon’s rigging, and the sky turned from blue to black. Soon, another English gentleman by the name of Monck Mason intends to travel through the atmosphere all the way to America. It is recorded historical fact that many extraordinary voyages have taken place, successfully reaching halfway to heaven, using an envelope of silk containing hydrogen or coal gas. Men fly, monsieur. The ground cannot hold them.”

“The woman who screamed, where is she?”

He beckoned me to the footprints. “Female feet made these. They move fast, then the feet are dragged. I believe she climbed from a grapple hook that had descended from the basket of the balloon, made those messy, hither-thither prints before climbing onto the grapple hook once more. The iron hook made those dash marks in the snow as the balloon rose and fell while it moved southwards. The marks end because the craft gained altitude. See the yellow particles on the snow? The captain of the flying ship discharged a ballast of sand in order to rise into the sky.”

“I thought I was beset by witchcraft,” I said in a breathless daze. “For a moment I believed I heard the ghosts of weeping children.”

“You heard children weeping, indeed.” Dupin looked upward. “But the children you heard crying in sorrow are very much alive and are high above our heads.”

“By the saints! Who would subject infants to such an horrific ordeal?”

The man gravely studied the dark, cloud-burdened skies before all of a sudden shouting a warning. “Look out!”

He pushed me aside. At that moment, I heard a thin, whistling note, which rapidly swelled into an alarming rush of noise. A black object sped from the sky to strike the ground where I’d been standing before Dupin pushed me away. There, embedded in the field, was a black pole that was as long as my arm and tipped with a sharp, iron point.

“That is most definitely not Cupid’s arrow of love.” Dupin began to run. “We are under attack, monsieur. Hurry!”

“Shouldn’t we run for the road, if we are to escape?”

“We’re not escaping. We will do our utmost to capture the balloon and bring a murderer to justice.”

We ran, carrying our lanterns. Barely had we covered forty meters when I beheld a remarkable vision. A lady clad in pure white stood on a branch, high in a tree. She shouted some words I could not identify. Yet without a shadow of doubt I realized that this was the same woman who had made the dreadful scream that had sent us running into the field in the first place.

“Behold!” Dupin sang out. “The female aeronaut!”

“Mademoiselle,” I shouted, fearing that she would fall, “hold tight to the branch. We will rescue you.”

The young woman called down in a language I didn’t understand. Then she asked a question in passable French: “Is this Belgium, monsieur?”

“This is France, mademoiselle,” Dupin replied. “You have alighted near Paris.”

“I see you are respectable gentlemen,” she shouted. “I wish you to guide me to a magistrate. I have to make a charge of murder.”

“Where is the balloon now?” asked Dupin.

“Do you not see it? There, above your heads, gentlemen. I have captured the balloon and the murderer.”

I gazed up into the dark sky. In the combined light of both our lamps, I made out a vast, rounded form. This was the envelope filled with gas that was so much lighter than air. Beneath the titanic balloon hung a basket, one of considerable dimensions that had been fashioned like the superstructure of a galleon, so it had a deck and what appeared to be an arrangement of cabins at either end. A rope of twenty meters descended to a grapple hook that had been jammed into the branches of the tree, no doubt by the woman in white.

“Did you throw the dart at us?” I asked.

“The lady did not,” Dupin answered on her behalf. “The hurler of the weapon will be that slayer of the unfortunate man lying in the field.”

“Where is the killer?” I asked.

This question required no verbal answer. A burly figure in black appeared on the deck of the craft above our heads, and a second dart whistled out of the gloom to embed itself in the frozen soil.

Dupin beckoned to the woman. “Hurry down. You’ll be slain, too, if you remain there.”

The lady moved as nimbly as a cat. White skirts fluttering, she rapidly descended. A third dart pierced the darkness, its point grazing the toe of my leather boot.

“His aim is improving,” I warned.

“Here I come!” With that the woman leapt from a branch.

Dupin managed to hand the lantern to me before catching her in his arms. Without setting her down, he ran with her. I followed as he led the way through a line of bushes to where I glimpsed a building not thirty paces from the tree and its captive balloon.

The building, it transpired, was a barn. Therein, were bales of straw arranged around a large plow sitting in the middle of the floor. Dupin put the woman down, and bade me to enter; he then closed the stout timber door before shooting home a pair of formidable bolts.

“Safe, I trust,” I pointed upward, “from that devil’s javelins.”

The woman appeared remarkably self-assured and free from hysteria, considering her ordeal.

“We cannot remain here,” she insisted. “We must report the murder — your soldiers must capture the balloon before the Pastor can free it.”

“What happened?” Dupin asked gently.

“Did you not hear? I must find a magistrate and demand that an arrest warrant be issued.”

“We cannot leave yet. We will be struck down by the darts before we have covered twenty paces.”

“But the man killed my fiancé. I will not rest until he faces the guillotine.”

“We are confined to this barn for a time, mademoiselle. Please tell us what befell you.”

The woman was pretty, with pale blue eyes, and blonde ringlets. Yet she was no swooning damsel. A storm of anger boiled behind that blue-eyed gaze. “I will kill him with my own hands, if need be.”

“Kill whom?”

“Pastor Larsson.” She took a deep breath as she realized she could put her trust in us. And there in the golden lamplight within the barn, she told her story. “My name is Annette Lamberg. My fiancé and I worshiped at the same chapel in Denmark. The pastor is a man of great oratory power and conviction. Pastor Larsson could, I’m sure, persuade birds to swim and fish to fly. He convinced his congregation that the Earth suffered from contagion. That a plague germ had infected the soil, and everyone who walked upon it would soon be struck down by a foul pestilence and die. Pastor Larsson told us that an angel had appeared and told him that the only way to escape the plague was to build an ‘Ark of the Air.’ The angel explained how to build an enormous balloon that would safely carry the God-fearing high above the ground until the plague had passed. Once it had, he and his congregation would inherit an Earth free from both sin and plague.” She looked upward as if she could see the balloon suspended there above the red tiles of the barn. “You see, winds blow from the north during the winter. The Pastor calculated that prevailing winds would carry us south over Europe and over the Mediterranean to Africa. Accordingly, thirty-six hours ago, we boarded the Seraphiel—that is the name of our craft — and ascended into the skies above Denmark. As the pastor had predicted, the breeze carried us south at great speed. On board the Seraphiel, there are thirty-five men, women, and children. We have provisions for a month, and a system for collecting rainwater to drink. Therefore, we have the means of sailing the skies above the African wilderness, far from tainted humanity, until the angel returned to Pastor Larsson and told him that he may land his craft.”

“And your fiancé?”

“He suffered from a head fever. I’m sure it was nothing more. Pastor Larsson heard him sneezing and immediately the man flew into a rage. Before we could react the pastor had seized Johann and flung him from our craft. Even as I watched my beloved falling through the air to the ground, the pastor screamed at us that Johann had become infected, claiming that his depravities had allowed the evil germ into his body.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Pastor Larsson ordered his flock to their knees; he demanded that they pray harder than they had ever prayed before. They did as he ordered, yet the children were so frightened by what the pastor had done to poor Johann, they sobbed in such a heart-rending way. While the adults were at prayer, I flung the grapple hook over the side. I climbed down in the hope I could reach Johann. I prayed to God, too… however, I prayed that Johann hadn’t been killed.” She shivered. “My prayers weren’t answered. I saw that he was dead even before I reached the ground.”

“And you screamed.”

“Yes, the shock of seeing Johann’s broken body was more than I could bear.”

“You did alight briefly?”

“Yes, I jumped from the cable to the ground, intending to report the murder; however, I was too angry to grieve yet, and I promised myself I would stop the pastor from escaping. There and then, I resolved to capture the balloon. So I leapt back onto the hook after taking just a few mere steps in the snow. By sheer good fortune I succeeded in lodging the grapple in a tree; after that, I tied the rope to a branch, now the balloon is tethered. I have trapped the murderer.”

“Alas, it is we three who are trapped.” Dupin gazed up at the barn’s roof.

“Moreover,” I said, “the pastor and his balloon will not be trapped for long. He could simply cut the cable.”

“Indeed,” she said with a sigh. “My head was so muddled with anger that I had not considered that.”

The moment she finished speaking there was a tremendous crash. Shards of red tile fell inward with a shower of snow that must have accumulated on the roof. We rushed backward to the relative safety of the walls. Immediately we saw that a grapple iron had landed in our midst. The barbs of its four-pronged hook embedded themselves in the woodwork of the farmer’s plow.

Dupin ran toward the hook and tried to wrench it free. He knew devilry was afoot — and that devilry required the use of the grapple. Yet he was driven back to the wall as an entire salvo of lethally sharp darts punched through the roof tiles to embed themselves in the bales of straw. Seizing a lantern, I directed its glow up through the roof beams. The iron-tipped darts had left holes through which snowflakes fell. The rope tied to the grapple hook pulled taut. A moment later it began to quiver.

“The Indian fakir’s rope trick in reverse, I fear.” Dupin pulled a dart from the floor so he’d at least have a weapon. I retrieved one from a bale of hay.

A loud crash made me look up. Straight away, I saw tiles shattering beneath an almighty impact. Very shortly after that I saw the head of an ax cleaving the roof in order to form a large hole. In the light of the lamp, I beheld men’s faces as they stared down at us. The men were armed with more of those spears. A young man also carried a cutlass, while a large, bearded clergyman — with blazing eyes — carried an ax, which he used to smash yet more of the tiles. Above our captors floated that vast, rounded shape of the balloon. As Dupin had said, the Indian fakir’s rope trick in reverse. The men had climbed down the grapple hawser and onto the roof before hacking at that aperture.

Dupin pointed the dart upward, lest the men should jump down. In response, the bearded clergyman produced a pistol, which he aimed at my friend.

Annette Lamberg cried, “Pastor Larsson! These are Frenchmen. They have done you no harm, so do not harm them.”

The bearded Pastor gazed down. “Is that so?” he asked in French. “Which part of France is this?”

“You are just an hour’s walk from Paris,” Dupin told him. “An hour’s walk? I will not take a single step on this world’s poisoned soil until the plague has passed.”

“What plague?”

“The soil beneath your feet, monsieur, teems with active microbes — germs that feed on all manner of putrefaction; they mate and spawn and multiply. With a powerful microscope I have seen them with my own eyes.”

“Yes, such germs exist, but in the main they are harmless.”

“On the contrary, they are lethal to Mankind. What is more, they are increasing in number, just as a hostile army will mass on a nation’s border prior to invasion.”

Dupin endeavored to persuade the man with logic. “Such microbes teem in our bodies, too, without causing illness. Even in the smallest drop of saliva one will find a million amoeba. These tiny creatures have been created by God for His divine purpose, just as He populated the Earth with plants and animals in a myriad of diverse forms.”

“Nonsense!” thundered the Pastor. “There is no word of microbes in the Bible — not a single mention of those profoundly tiny germs that swarm and multiply and kill the God-fearing. Bacterial creatures are the work of demons. An angel, by our Lord’s good grace, visited me, and explained that I should take my flock to the skies until the plague has run its course.”

“An angel?”

“Do you doubt me, Frenchman?”

“I believe in angels,” replied Dupin. “I don’t believe, however, they advise on the construction of flying machines.”

“Insolent devil.” The hand that gripped the pistol began to shake. “You are alleging that I am a liar?”

“There are maladies, pastor, that produce visions of things which are not there in reality.”

“A liar and a madman — that is what you believe me to be.” The man’s eyes bulged with fury. “I will send you to Hell right now!” He aimed the pistol squarely at my friend’s heart.

Annette Lamberg stepped in front of Dupin, shielding him from the gun. “Pastor! You hurled my fiancé to his death, because he suffered from the most trivial of fevers.”

“Johann was infected. His sins allowed the bacillus to enter his body.”

“Pastor, he did but sneeze.”

“No, Annette, you must believe what I tell you. Johann was riddled with vile germs. They would have infected every single one of us aboard our craft. I had no choice but to cast him out.”

“You are wrong.”

“I am never wrong. The angel will endorse my words.”

“You are afflicted with madness. Do you not see?”

“Stand aside.” His eyes were red and bloodshot in the light of the lanterns. “Stand aside, so I can despatch the Frenchman to Hades!”

“No, uncle. Fire the ball through me if you must, but I will not stand aside.”

The word “uncle” made the lunatic flinch. The other men on the roof had been ready to cast those darts down upon us; however, now they paused and looked to the pastor for guidance.

“Annette, my child, I promised your father — my late, lamented brother — that I would see no harm come to you. I sincerely hoped that you would pray for forgiveness then re-join our vessel.”

“That I will never do, uncle.”

“I see.”

“Nor will I permit you to kill these men.”

“The angel told me… He whispers in my ear even now.” The pastor gazed upward. “Do none of you hear? Or see his wings of gold? Or that he has the body of an eagle and sings so sweetly. There, beside our vessel, he gazes down upon us, and there is such a shining about him.”

The men on the roof appeared uneasy now. They cast uncertain glances at one another.

Dupin seized the moment. “Pastor, speak to us about the angel. Describe his features.”

The man threw a belligerent stare at Dupin. “I have listened enough to your snake-ish words. You have a demon’s shadow, monsieur, not a mortal one. Even if the angel descended to Earth to stand face-to-face with you, you would not see it with your ungodly eyes.”

“Uncle,” Annette spoke softly, “I do not believe you are a well man. You have become infected with illusions.”

“Pah! You are the one who has been infected, for you have walked upon the germ-drenched soil. You must remain here, Annette. I will pray for your soul, because the plague will undoubtedly claim you.”

“Uncle—”

Ignoring the woman’s cry, Pastor Larsson issued orders to his companions: they quickly climbed upward to the basket that hung beneath the balloon. I now saw the reason for such apparent agility — wooden pegs had been inserted into the weave of the rope to form something akin to a rope ladder.

The pastor carefully released the gun’s cocking mechanism so it would not fire, then he thrust the weapon into his belt beneath that billowing coat of his.

“May Christ’s blessing be on you all,” he said from his lofty position. “I wish I could have opened your eyes to the terrible fate that creeps toward you. But your innate depravity has blinded you to what so obviously squirms and breeds in the dirt beneath your feet. Salut!” With that he began to climb the rope, too. Above him, the balloon swayed in the breeze. That aerial leviathan strained at its leash, seemingly eager to dash to the south, and the hot, clear skies of Africa.

The other men had already reached the vessel. Pastor Larsson was perhaps some ten meters above the barn’s roof, and halfway to the basket-weave cabins, which housed the Seraphiel’s passengers.

Dupin gave a sigh of regret. “I am very sorry that we have not been able to apprehend the slayer of your fiancé, mademoiselle. But the pastor has the advantage of both manpower and weaponry.”

The woman screamed — this sounded altogether different from the cry of dismay we’d heard earlier when she beheld the body of her husband-to-be. Instead, this raw shriek was shot through with rage and a fierce longing for vengeance. Even at that moment, I noticed that Dupin took care to preserve the sound in his memory. I confess my eyes were on him, so the woman had no difficulty in seizing the lantern from me.

In an instant she dashed the light against the blades of the plow. Flames immediately gushed upward as the glass vessel that contained the lamp oil burst open and its contents were ignited by the burning wick. And at that point a spectacle unfolded that was as horrific as it was extraordinary.

The grapple rope caught alight. Just as a burning fuse rushes toward a keg of gunpowder, so the flame raced up the rope — one no doubt soaked in tar to preserve it from the corrupting effects of rain. Meanwhile, Pastor Larsson had scaled upward to within five meters of his craft. The passengers watched in shock as the ball of fire ran up the rope toward the basketwork of the craft. That structure would catch alight quickly, but Dupin had recognized an altogether greater hazard — one of calamitous enormity.

“The balloon is inflated with hydrogen,” he breathed. “Hydrogen is the most explosive gas known to Man — just one lick of flame; just one spark. The explosion will destroy the balloon and its passengers — and the fireball will incinerate us, too.”

The fire that ascended the rope had reached the pastor. Like a burning fuse, the flame raced past him as he clung to the line. The fire seared his face and hands, yet he did not release his grip. All of a sudden, we heard the man’s shouts of “MIN GUD!” He’d reverted to his Danish tongue to implore the Almighty: Min Gud—my God!

And still he climbed. The small halo of fire, however, that encircled the cable would reach his craft first. Then there would be an explosion of such force that nobody would survive aboard the balloon… or beneath it.

The passengers on that craft, floating almost thirty meters above the ground, realized that destruction was merely seconds away, and their families would be wiped out by the searing heat of igniting hydrogen. The man with the cutlass did not pause and hacked clean through the rope. As soon as the tether parted, the balloon soared into the darkness. The burning rope fell harmlessly back to the ground. Pastor Larsson fell with it.

He plunged through the roof with such force the building shuddered. Then silence reigned supreme. We approached the clergyman, who lay face up in the center of the floor, and across the plow. His neck was broken.

His mad eyes remained open wide as they stared up toward the glory of Heaven.

The man’s niece, and executioner, at last began to weep for her dead fiancé as the snow once more began to fall. Flakes of the purest white gently descended through the gash in the roof tiles. Perhaps, if we could but return to the innocence of childhood, we would imagine those flakes as tiny, feathery angels. And, moreover, that those shining angels had come to safely chaperone the souls of the dead to an infinitely better realm than the one in which you and I, my friend, do currently dwell.