Boundless (Unearthly) by Cynthia Hand Page A

take deep breaths, the way I learned in happiness class: cleansing breaths from the belly. As you enter the labyrinth, the pamphlet says, let go of the details of your life; shed thoughts and distractions. Open your heart and quiet your mind.
    I do my best, but part of me is already tensing, bracing for the vision, the blackness of the room, the terror I feel. I keep walking, trying to clear my head, the way I always do to call glory, which is coming so easily these days. You’d think this would be easy, too, but for whatever reason, maybe because having the vision is a bit like being slapped in the face, it’s not the same.
    I reach the center of the pattern. I’m supposed to stop here and pray. Receive, the pamphlet says.
    I bow my head. I’ve never learned how to talk to God. The concept seems as far away for me as making a personal phone call to the president of the United States or having a conversation with the Dalai Lama. Which is ironic, I know. I have angel blood in my veins, the strength of the Almighty worked right into my cells, God’s intent for me, His plan. Whenever I call glory, I feel that power, that connection to everything that Dad talks about, the warmth and joy and beauty that I know must be where God is. But I don’t know how to communicate in words with that presence. I can’t.
    I look up, and there are angels all around, and I feel their eyes on me, solemn and questioning. What are you doing? they ask. What is your purpose?
    “What is my purpose?” I whisper back at them. “Show me.”
    But the vision doesn’t come.
    I wait five minutes, which feels like longer, then sigh and make my way back through the pattern the way I came, faster this time. This is where the pamphlet tells me I’m supposed to enter the third stage: Return. Join with a higher power, come together with the healing forces at work in this world.
    I’m so not feeling the healing forces.
    I put my shoes on, suddenly exhausted and cranky and frustrated by my failure to connect. I better get back and start working on that nap, I think. The paper can wait. So much for finding Angela. So much for figuring out my vision.
    So much for clarity.
    The vision hits me as I’m biking home. It’s cloudy and chilly out—not Wyoming cold by any stretch of the imagination, but still cold enough to make me want to get warm and cozy under the covers. So I’m biking pretty fast, hurrying, when I suddenly find myself in the dark room.
    This time it’s happening further along in the vision than it’s ever happened before. The noise, that high-pitched sound that echoes around us, is still ringing in my ears. It’s giving us away, I realize. It’s drawing their attention.
    There’s the flash of light, as blinding as always.
    “Get down!” Christian yells, and I dive for the floor, roll out of the way as he comes from behind me swinging a sword, a flaring, bright, beautiful blade, which he raises over his head and brings down hard. There’s a clashing sound like nothing I’ve ever heard before, worse than nails on a chalkboard, and then a curse and a low laugh. I scramble backward until my back hits something hard and wooden, my heart pounding. It’s still so dark in here, but I can make out Christian fighting, his light slicing the air around him, trying to get at the dark figures closing in on him.
    Figures, I realize, plural. Two dark figures. He’s fighting them two to one.
    Stand up, I tell myself. Stand up and help him.
    I jump to my feet, my knees shamefully wobbly.
    “No,” Christian yells. “Get out of here. Find a way out!”
    There’s no way out without you, I think, but I don’t have time to form the words because, without warning, somebody else yells, “Look out!” and I’m back on the sidewalk at Stanford, where I’m about to crash my bicycle.
    There’s no avoiding it. I swerve wildly but hit the half wall of a brick bicycle ramp. My bike stops. I keep going, soaring over the ramp, hitting the ground hard,