The sun shines warmly on the working men’s backs as they make the final adjustments to the greatest feat of engineering known to mankind. Even from so far below they can be seen. Like titans they maneuver the arduous passes, braving the inspiring heights, carrying tools and materials and everything else they could possibly need. For some, it would have been deemed an impossible task. But for our people, it is our only hope.
After one-hundred years of suffering, of anguish, of
nearly-unstoppable construction during the Blight that has ruined our world,
the Stairway to Heaven is finally drawing to completion.
And I am alive to see it happen.
I stand in the valley below the mountain and look up at the
gargantuan structure that is meant to take us to where our god lies in wait.
Though it is cold and threatening to rain on this unfortunate summer day, I am
stalwart in my determination to see the final stone be set, and unshakable in
the midst of all my emotions. I watch as the men carry, upon their backs and
shoulders, the final piece of our people’s salvation, and try my hardest not to
tremble.
“Matilda,” my mother says, her voice soft and concerned.
I blink, stunned, and turn my head to look at my mother—who,
with her aged face and weary eyes, does not seem happy in the slightest.
“Yes, Mama?”
“You should come inside.”
“Why?” I ask. “Do you not want to see the stairs complete?”
“I do,” she replies, “but we must prepare for what is to
come.”
“Do you really think the angels are going to come down and
serenade us for all of our hard work?”
“I do not know. All I know is that, by the time it is
finished, there will be too many people in the valley to see what happens. We
have the opportunity to see it from our home, should we wish. Remember?”
“I remember,” I say, and sigh. I consider my place in the
world—my position in the valley, where I am so small like an ant in the shadow
of a holy mountain—and frown. Though a part of her appears relieved that this
whole thing will soon be over, it is impossible to read my mother’s expression.
Her features have been aged by worry, by hope, by desperation. It seems highly
unlikely that she isn’t prepared for
such an event, considering the crops have been gone for years, that several of
our people have starved, and that many, because of this, have died.
We’ve known for weeks,
I think, that this would soon be over.
But is she truly ready to see our God? His angels? His Holy
Domain?
I don’t know. All I know is that, as I turn to follow my
mother across the barren fields in which no thing grows, and along the drying
river through which nothing swims, there is little anyone can do to be really,
truly ready.
I consider all the things I have been taught throughout my
life—all the lessons I have learned and all the teachings I’ve absorbed—and
find myself trembling in spite of my excitement.
Our lands have been dying. The animals have not returned.
Beyond the valley the men have had to wander in search of food and supplies,
and even then, they rarely return with provisions. To survive this Blight upon
our world, we have had to ration our food, and come together as a community to
work to solve this issue. There have been squabbles. Turmoil. Civil unrest.
There has even been cause for harm, for in the hands of men, anger is a
volatile weapon, and to wield it means to not only hurt, but maim.
In the end, I know only one thing:
There is no hope for us in this mortal world. If we truly
wish to survive, we must ascend the Stairway to Heaven.
We come to stand in our modest home at the top of the hill
and watch as, in the distance, the people from the village begin to gather.
Most are like us—who, with simple lives and even simpler existences, are
prepared only the best they can be. Small packs line their shoulders. Some
carry infants in harnesses attached to their chests. All, it can be said, are
simply ready for a better life.
“Come,” my mother says. “Let us gather our things.”
And so, we do—first by gathering clothes, then by stuffing
them into packs. Mortal possessions such as toys seem inconsequential in the
grand scheme of things, especially with where we’re going. Food, too, seems
useless, so we don’t pack that. Instead, we pack only what we feel is the most
important—including, I see my mother take, the old painting that someone did of
my grandma and grandpa, who lived quite well up until recently.
I know my mother is in pain. I know that she feels she will
see them again. That is part of the reason why my father has spent most of the
years of my short life on that mountain—to give her a reason to look toward the
future, bleak as it happens to be.
It takes only a short while to gather our things.
By the time we make our way from our home and return to the
valley, the people are pointing, crying, and most of all, laughing.
They’ve done it,
one says. They’ve laid the final step!
How they can see this I cannot be sure. I can only imagine
their victory was shouted down the mountainside, and to the people below.
Now, I know, all they have to do is open the door.
It has been said that the combined might of ten men—five on
each side, each with the faith of our god—could open the Doorway to Heaven. For
that, one could say, it would be a simple thing, a simple task. But we all know
that men are cursed in heart as they are in mind, and that, though filled with
love and admiration, desperation and more, it would take only one false move
for the door to not open.
But it will, I
think. It will open.
It has to. Because why else would there be a door in the
side of the mountain, in the place where the earth touches the Heavens and God’s
palm could grace the world?
Standing here, at the foot of the mountain, at the edge of
the valley, I lower my eyes and try my hardest not to tremble.
In but a few moments, our world will change forever.
As the people begin to sing the Holy Hymn, and as it slowly
but surely begins to spread in pitch across the valley, I lift my eyes to look
up at the mountain—
And see, quite plainly, the massive doors as they begin to
open.
It’s happening, I
think, hope tugging at my heartstrings, my mind, my soul. It’s actually happening.
One-hundred years after our world began to die, we would
find salvation in a land beyond our own.
The people cry out in joy. With laughter. In sobs.
The light—which has been foretold in visions from the
greatest prophets of our past—begins to spill from behind the doors.
People rush forward.
Our guardsmen and women, so bewildered and awestruck,
struggle to hold the people back. They strong-arm men. Block women. Hold back
children.
As wider the doors open, more light spills out. Blinding in
its radiance, and cascading from the mountains, it spreads across the valley
and illuminates each person and every thing within it.
The smell of flowers follows.
A sweet heat fills my lungs.
A voice—so loud and welcome but at the same time
unknowable—speaks in a tongue I have never heard.
A warmth envelops me—like a dearly-departed loved one has
just crossed the bridge of death to hug me.
I reach up.
Feel a hand under my own.
Turn to see my mother. See
my grandmother’s sparkling façade behind her.
I hear the voice of my grandfather behind me, who simply
says, Welcome home, Matilda.
Then I lift my eyes to see our God in all His glory, in all
His power, in all His might, stepping from the blinding light above—
And though I know this world has made us suffer, I know
that, in the world beyond our own, everything will be okay.