Given her petiteness and seeming inclination toward mysticism, Panthea might have been expected to put before us a meal of organic greens and tofu, but happily her tastes ran counter to those of the kale-and-carrots crowd. She had prepared for our visit, and the spread that she produced included sliced roast beef, sliced ham, sliced chicken breast, a variety of cheeses, three artisanal breads that she baked herself, potato salad, three-bean salad with bacon, and numerous condiments. She intended that we accompany dinner with icy bottles of beer kept in a refrigerated drawer at thirty-six degrees, and she was met with no objections.
The Dionysian nature of the buffet suggested the indulgent last meal of those condemned to death, but if Panthea foresaw that this feast would be followed by multiple fatalities, she had the grace to keep that knowledge to herself.
Her dining room, an industrial-chic space, featured two big round tables of polished pine with seating for eight at each, to accommodate gatherings of her family. We sat at one table with an open chair between each of us, and yet the moment felt intimate. The room was illuminated by maybe sixteen flames wimpling on wicks in red cut-glass cups and by pulses of fierce lightning that flared through the small windows and made shadows leap as if they were agitated spirits. The effect was like a séance with refreshments.
Noble Winston sat on what would otherwise have been the empty captain’s chair between Bridget and me. He accepted pieces of beef from her—refusing them from me—but never begged, behaving with the decorum of a prime minister.
“What you call Screamers,” Panthea said, “were once beautiful beings, not monsters in appearance, though in their minds and hearts they became monsters. I’ve dreamed of them for fifteen years. My dreams aren’t just dreams, but lessons in the reality of the cosmos. I’m being instructed in dreams. The Screamers are from the first universe, which preceded ours. The envious among them corrupted all of their kind, seeding suspicion and resentment that became hatred, which they called a virtue, bitter hatred so destructive that they brought Earth to ruin. That devastated world was the legacy they made for themselves. The physical appearance of those who survived the destruction then changed to reflect the condition of their souls. They became immortal monsters in the prison of that first universe. When they were beautiful and radiant, they were called Rishon. When they became monsters, they were called Nihilim.”
The softness of her voice and the ease with which she spoke reminded me of a girl, Annie Piper, at the orphanage. Annie was eight years older than me, and for a few years when my age was in the single digits, she read stories to us, tales written by others but also by her. They were stories of things that had never happened and could never happen, but she told them with such quiet verve and conviction that we believed them and wanted to continue believing even after time robbed us of our sense of wonder. Encouraged by Sister Margaret, who took a special interest in her writing, Annie went to college on a scholarship, and we all expected great things of her, at least that she’d become a well-known writer one day. Instead, she dropped out of college after a year and drifted into some other life she evidently preferred, and we never heard from her again.
Sad as that was, I could nevertheless understand it. Writing novels seems like a glamorous and exciting occupation, although in reality I suspect that it’s a lot less glamorous than professional wrestling and only marginally more exciting than being a librarian.
To create good fiction, you have to like people enough to want to write about the human condition—but close yourself alone in a room for a large part of your life to get the job done right. It’s as if a wrestler forsook the ring in favor of getting his own head in an armlock and slamming himself into walls for a few hours every day.
“We are the Rishon of the second universe,” Panthea continued, “though we’re a species with fewer gifts than those that the Rishon of the first universe possessed. Think of it like this—the genome of those original Rishon was edited to make us humbler and give us a better chance of avoiding the arrogance that would destroy our world as they destroyed theirs. The Nihilim, those you call the Screamers, can never by their own choice cross from their universe into ours. But the worst among us, the most morally deranged, are able to open a door to them, invite them, which is what happened long ago.”
Sparky said, “What dunce would invite those wormheads?”
Winston chuffed as if in agreement.
“A dunce,” Panthea said, “who believes all the legends that are based on the Nihilim, who knows the Nihilim by other names that have been given them in myths that in fact are not merely myths, a dunce who admires them for their selfishness and ruthlessness, who wants them to make him powerful. There are rituals to open the door, but it’s not rituals that draw the Nihilim. They’re drawn by the passion of those who call them. Rituals aren’t essential. The Nihilim can also be welcomed into our world by someone who’s been consumed by such an intense desire for power that he or she will commit any crime, any atrocity, to gain dominance over others. That person becomes a doorway without even knowing it.”