Heaven Fall Under the Weight of Angels

The table is quiet. An explosion of hair bursts from behind a leatherbound book, and eyes pour over it as if the words held on its yellow pages hold the secret to a meaningful life. And maybe they do, it’s not as if we know. The soul quivers as it runs over a letter to a long dead man, and scripture that has long been taken as unalterable law “Slaves, you should obey your masters respectfully, not only those who are kind and reasonable but also those who are difficult to please.” The soul remembers, even when the mind forces itself into forgetting. The soul cannot forget the passion of its people, the weight of its yoke. The Shepherd heard footsteps and he slammed shut, as though he should be upset that he is reading it, as though the person walking towards him would think that he is doing anything else. He turned his head, and then he had heard footsteps, as this was the first time he had ever heard her walk. “How are you, child?” Book spoke slowly, as though picking up his words with tweezers and dropping them into her ears. “I’m here.” She said. And she looked down at the book. “Why do you read that?” “Because of what it has taught me.” He said, “never have I found a book I could learn so much from.” “But if the sky were filled with angels, wouldn’t we bump into them.” Book laughed. “The words are not literal, child. They are a metaphor for something that comes after this place.” River looks out through the steel hull and exhales, her breath is heavier than Book can ever remember. “I wonder if there is somewhere this beautiful there. Somewhere we can run free and wild.” “There is everything that you could want in heaven.” She tilts her head slowly. “You know, if there is ground to walk on there, there must be a limitation of space. There must be a ledge. And there are so many people there, there would be no way we can populate it.” “There is always more space, child. We have found some, haven’t we.” He laughed, then. “Besides, not everyone goes there.” River walks slowly to the kitchen, her footsteps no longer audible. “How could you deny someone a chance to see that place? They would change so quickly, if it was truly what they wanted.” “You can’t be given everything.” “But shouldn’t you be given something.” Book was quiet for a moment. “We are all given a chance.” “We follow the roads placed in front of us.” Then she laughs. “Some of us ascend into the sky, and some of us fill the space below.” “We choose our path, child.” For the first time, Books saw her move her head, shoulder to shoulder. “No. No we don’t.” Her eyes drop to her hands, as if there is a book between them, and she reads the invisible ink out loud. “We are all products of our condition. One and one is two, two and two is four. Subject to circumstance, sum of variables, topologically mixed and stirred, but only the product of what is placed inside.” Book understood jibberish, because it wasn’t. “And this book made me who I am.” River smiled. “It is a only a part of your circumstance. A good man with a book, not a man with a good book, still the sum is a good Book.”