Loving in Heaven and Earth

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Nuff Said Publishing www.nuffsaidpublish.com

  Loving in Heaven and Earth

  Copyright 2018 by E.A. Comiskey

  March 2018

  Editor: Holly Gonzalez

  Cover Art by Jenna Anderson

  Produced in the US

  Nuff Said Publishing

  Tampa, Florida

  Atlanta, Georgia

  United States

  _________________________________________

  To the girl who shone so bright she needed no words.

  A note about the difference between "American Sign Language" and "Signed Exact English."

  ASL is the common language of the Deaf community in America. It is not based on English. It is not a "broken" or "simplified" version of any other language. It is its own complete language for people who communicate visually and it includes body position, facial expression, and more.

  SEE is English, expressed visually, primarily through the movement of the hands. It is an adaptation of English, not a language unto itself. Because she is being assimilated into a 100% hearing culture, this is closer to what Jax uses. The gloves she received from Donovan were inspired by the real work of University of Washington engineering students, Navid Azodi and Thomas Pryor. These types of inventions are invaluable stepping stones toward inclusion for all but would be, by themselves, poor translators of true ASL.

  If you're interested in knowing more about Deaf communication and Culture, please seek out answers from those whose Culture it is. They will likely be excited to share the beauty of their world with you.

  It is my sincere hope that one thing shines out above all others when you read Jax's story: regardless of her circumstance, Jax's deafness is in no way a disability. It is just one of the many characteristics that make her who she is. As my Deaf friends will tell you, should you dare to ask: Yes! Deaf CAN.

  -E.A. Comiskey

  One

  I lived in darkness and silence, the child of a marauding fisherman and a restless goddess. In that northern, snowy land of enduring night, the name of our tribe struck fear into the hearts of warriors. We weren't soldiers. We were murderers, killing every man, woman, and child we encountered. We were thieves, helping ourselves to the hard-won possessions of others. We were evil, every one of us, so I can't imagine why the angel told his assassins to spare me. I was never better than anyone, yet I am alive, and everyone I knew as a child is dead.

  Most of my people had gathered around a fire, stomping to keep their feet warm while they debated if the time was right to raid the town near the sea. I squatted near the ground in the shadows, watching, and hoping they would decide to wait. We had just returned from our raid on the little island nation. My muscles still ached from rowing through the heavy half-frozen water.

  I didn’t mind that pain so much. It was better than the pain of having endured a whipping for not doing my part. No chance of that this time. I’d done my fair share and more. My father had told me to see if I could find medical supplies. The long night had started weeks ago. Soon we would be trapped in our own village, forced to survive on what we had until the sun peeked above the horizon again in spring.

  “Find food and medical supplies,” he had said. “Pretty baubles won’t feed us through the winter.”

  Under a barrage of exploding grenades I’d run for cover behind the nearest building - a sturdy, circular structure of stone and wood. With my back pressed against the hard stone, I watched the sky pulse with bright yellow flashes of fire and a little voice in my mind spoke to me. This building is the strongest, best-constructed in the entire village. It seems like a place you’d store your most valuable belongings.

  Staying close to the wall, I made my way around the corner and found a heavy wooden door. It was locked, but three shots from my handgun opened it.

  Gunfire exploded out at me.

  I crouched low and peeked around the doorframe. A young boy, maybe ten years old, stood in front of a group of children with a rifle far too large for him. The room was illuminated by a single glowing bulb. Behind him, rows of shelves were filled with jars of food and boxes with large red crosses on them.

  He fired again. A bullet chiseled a splinter from the wood and it left a stinging trail across my cheek.

  I leaned forward again and fired high, hoping to scare the boy into surrender.

  The next time I looked, he had inched closer. His dark eyes were narrowed on me. He would go down fighting.

  I withdrew again and let my head fall back against the wall. This building contained invaluable treasure. If I were the one to take it, I’d be spared from the wrath of my father and the others--possibly for the entirety of winter.

  Gritting my teeth, I stood and fired into the crowd of children.

  As I stepped over the boy’s corpse and waded through their blood to take a closer look at what I’d found a woman ran at me with a knife.

  My body moved without thought. In a moment her weapon was in my hand and the blade opened the flesh across the front of her throat.

  That’s how my father found me. Standing in a sea of childish bodies, a bloody knife in my hand.

  He grinned at me. “Maybe you’re good for something besides warming my bed after all.”

  Relief poured over me.

  There would be no beating and, maybe, if I were lucky, no more fighting until spring.

  Please decide to wait. I thought. We have enough to see us through. No more fighting until spring.

  When the first man fell to the ground next to the fire, no one realized what was happening. The assassins moved too fast for us to see. When the second fell, it was clear someone was attacking, as we had attacked others so many times before.

  A dozen more fell before I saw the killer. He was tall and pale, with a shock of dark hair that fell across his forehead and scarlet eyes that glowed in the darkness. Blood dripped from his hands and chin. A smile danced on his lips. My father shot him three times to no effect before running at him with a sword. The man deflected the blade with his hand, pulled my father into his arms, and drank his blood. Dika's sword struck the killer in the back. He broke my father's neck and turned his attention to her. In a moment, she'd been crushed to a bloody tangle of limbs, and he was once again moving among my people; an angel of death.

  It was the killer's woman who found me. She leaped from a rooftop and lifted me to my feet by the front of my coat. Her bloody hands were steel bands on my arms. The darkness of her skin and clothes made her a shadow among shadows.

  Tears blurred my vision because I knew I would die, and I'd not done a single worthy thing in life.

  But she didn't kill me.

  Her lips moved in rapid nonsense patterns. She set me on my feet and pointed with a trembling hand toward the caves in the distance. I stood, the sweat of terror pouring down my spine, until she pushed me in that direction. Then I ran, stumbling through the snow, grateful my broken ears could not hear the slaughter taking place behind me.

  I pressed my back against the stone wall of the cave, sitting with my knees drawn to my chest. While the snow began to fall, I waited. It piled at the door, and I waited. My hands and feet and face ached miserably, but I did nothing to warm them. In time, the ache was replaced with a dull, numb sensat
ion that crept toward my heart. Fear lost ground to mindless sleepiness, and the essence of who I was tried to lift itself from my body.

  What a strange thought: that perhaps my true self had little to do with this body in which I dwelt.

  What I'd seen done to my people was no more terrible than what I'd seen my people do to others. The violence against them kindled a tiny fire of satisfaction in my dark heart. They'd had it coming. We'd had it coming.

  I'd been spared. Why? For what purpose? What was expected from one set apart? Would I be a slave? Would I be killed in some other, more horrible way? And by whom? The two killers I'd seen were like no one I'd ever known. They were undoubtedly not human. Were they ghosts? Gods? The cold carried me toward sleep. I cared less and less, but in the moment before I gave myself over, thinking I was going to die after all, the woman appeared in front of me again. Her skin and clothes were clean and beautiful. Her red eyes shone in the night. No malice lingered in her gaze. I would never have guessed she was capable of bringing death to an entire village. Again, her lips moved rapidly, but I could make no sense of the movements. Her man bent down next to her and pressed a gentle hand to my face. He gazed at me with eyes full of concern and, despite all I'd seen, I trusted these two. They were not bad. I was sure of it. They were like me, kind in their hearts, but forced by something beyond themselves to kill. The woman lifted me in her arms, wrapped me in her grey fur cloak, and raced through the storm faster than any creature I'd known. In her arms, I finally slept.

  Two

  My body was shifted. Pain tore through my frozen limbs as the woman laid me in the arms of another. This man was taller than either of the assassins, with burnished bronze skin that was neither as dark as the woman’s nor as fair as her companion’s. He looked down into my eyes, and I gasped. Love, pure and powerful and perfect, poured into my heart. For the first time since I was a baby, tears filled my eyes.

  He held me tight against his broad, warm chest and spoke to the two who’d brought me to him. A gourd hanging from his neck pressed into my ribs. I wondered if the assassins were ill. They trembled in a way that reminded me of my father when he had no vodka. They spoke quickly and disappeared into the night. The man placed me inside a large metal and glass box on wheels where warm air tortured my frozen skin. Darkness claimed me once more.

  I woke on fire. My back arched up from the clean white bed, but the strap across my chest held me. My wrists were tied. I was trapped, and they were burning me alive. I thrashed, and the woman pulled the cloth away. Not fire. They weren't burning me. She was thawing my flesh with warm cloths. I closed my eyes and took another breath, a third, a fourth. I could manage this pain. I could control myself.

  A pressure on the bed drew my attention to my left. The man who’d carried me gazed into my eyes. Emerald fire lifted my soul on a warm, safe breeze. I swallowed hard against the powerful swelling of emotion. I had never loved or been loved. I knew the word, but until that moment I'd never fully comprehended the experience. If I could have, I'd have told the man I loved him. I trusted him. I would follow him to the end of the earth and beyond, though if my life depended on it, I couldn't have said why.

  The woman leaned forward again, pressing a metal stick against my arm. Pain was washed away on a cool tide. She held up the stick for my examination. A tiny, sharp point glistened on one end. A medicine needle--an invaluable tool. It was one of the items we always searched for when we raided a village, and we only used them if it was absolutely necessary. I offered a small smile of thanks.

  She touched her ear and pointed to me, raising her eyebrows in question.

  I shook my head.

  She nodded. She understood that I couldn't hear. She held up a pen.

  I couldn't write, either.

  Rubbing the swollen mound of her pregnant stomach with one hand, she absently tapped the pen against her leg, thinking.

  If only there was a way I could tell her I can read the words on people's lips, I thought. Though it wouldn't help if they don't speak my language.

  Her eyes snapped to mine, the smile returning. She tapped her chest and carefully formed a single word. "Pu-ah." Then pointed at me.

  How can I tell her my name is Jax?

  She beamed. "Jax."

  How had she known?

  She tapped her head, her ear, and pointed at me again.

  What was she trying to say?

  She held her hand against her chest, indicating herself, and cupped her hand around her ear.

  She heard.

  She tapped her head.

  She heard… thoughts?

  She nodded.

  You can hear my thoughts?

  She nodded again.

  Maybe I had died after all. Everything was so strange. I must be in a new world.

  She shook her head, pointed at me, flexed her muscles.

  I'm not strong.

  She nodded, flexed again, winked at me, and then disappeared behind the bed. When she returned, she was pushing a large machine. It was shaped like the crescent moon and lined with light blue tubes. She pushed it close to the bed, so I was within the curve of the "moon." With the press of a button, the blue tubes began glowing. Puah pointed at my hand, where the flesh looked oddly bluish and swollen. The light touched my skin and, even as I watched, the skin swelled with fluid, turned pink, and gradually returned to its normal state, save for a bit of dry peeling.

  I looked at her with wide eyes, but she was focused on her task, directing the light to move over my body. I felt no pain. Whatever medicine she'd given me took care of that. Who were these people? How could they do such things? Were they gods?

  Puah met my eyes and shook her head. They were not gods.

  Are you human?

  She nodded, frowned a little, bobbed her head back and forth.

  Sort-of human?

  She nodded.

  Me too.

  She guided the machine toward my legs, raising her eyebrows in question at me.

  My mother is a goddess. I don't know her.

  She nodded.

  I actually giggled. This was the closest thing I'd ever had to a conversation in my life, and it was wonderful! As the thought occurred to me, a thousand questions poured into my mind. My gaze was pulled back to the man. He smiled at me, and I wished I could "speak" with him as well. What was his name? What was this power he had, to make my heart soar?

  Puah patted my leg. "Hala," she told me, pointing to him. She turned the light onto my feet. I only now noticed that my toes were a horrible blackish purple color. At home, they'd have been cut away to avoid infection. I'd have been crippled for life. This woman worked her magic, restoring me to wholeness. It was more kindness than I'd known in all my years.

  She finished her work, pushed the machine aside, and perched on the edge of the bed after shooing Hala away. If my hands had been free I'd have reached out to stop him. I didn't want him to leave. Not now. Not ever.

  Puah pressed a small disk to my chest. A wire connected it to a pad that she pressed to her ear. With closed eyes, she listened. She took a deep breath and pointed at me to indicate I should do the same. I mimicked her. She moved the disk and took another deep breath. I inhaled again. Finally, she nodded and smiled.

  I'm OK?

  She nodded.

  These tools, they're just tools? Not magic?

  She spread her hands open as if to say, "Who am I to do magic?" But these were the most magical people I'd ever known. Except for the assassins. Memories of them flashed through my mind. The kind woman winced.

  I didn't want to hurt her.

  She patted my arm. From her pocket, she produced a paper and a pen. She sketched a rough image of a woman and a man and connected them with a horizontal line. A vertical line connected them to two girls. She pointed at one of the girls and then at her chest. "Puah," she said.

  I studied the picture for a moment. The assassin is your sister?

  She nodded.

  She is extraordinary.

/>   She raised her eyebrows, seemingly surprised by this response.

  She's so powerful, brave, strong. She saved my life.

  Something about this statement seemed to make her unhappy, but she pointed at the other girl and her lips formed the word, "Shifrah."

  You are Puah. She is Shifrah.

  She nodded. The figure of Shifrah was connected by a line to a man. "Donovan."

  The man is Donovan.

  She nodded, adding an apple, a chicken leg, and a piece of corn next to herself. She drew a little circle for a mouth on the figure and made an arrow that showed the food going into her mouth.

  I frowned. You're hungry?

  She shook her head, drew a four-legged beast, belly up, with blood dripping from a line on its neck. She circled the blood and made arrows from the mouths of Shifrah and Donovan.

  They drink blood?

  She nodded.

  An image of my father in the man's arms came to mind and, again, Puah winced.

  Are they dangerous?

  She seemed to consider this, then pointed at the animal again. She drew another man, put a circle around him, and added a line across the circle.

  After a moment, I thought I understood. They drink the blood of animals, not of men.

  She nodded.

  Again, the image of my father.

  She shrugged, tears in her eyes.

  They usually drink the blood of animals, not of men.

  She nodded.

  But they are no danger to us?

  She shook her head.

  What a wonder, to speak with someone! My eyes flicked to Hala, now standing near the door. Is he like them?

  She shook her head.

  Like you?

  She shook her head again.

  Human?

  She held her finger and thumb close together.

  A little bit human?

  She nodded. Then she turned toward Hala. She must have said something to him because he nodded and moved his lips, then gave me a slight bow and left the room.