The Stairway to Heaven: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a girl, and her society, reach a place called Heaven
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.
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