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Kathryn sighed, this long-dreaded conversation beginning to distress her even more than she had feared. "No," she admitted. "And yes. Not an easy question, Angelo. There are forces in this Universe that no one can understand. The veil that divides this plane from the next is very delicate, and sometimes, in cases of extreme need, I suppose it is possible for a discarnate spirit to break through somehow, to give help or guidance. In that sense, I suppose it is possible, but I have never experienced it, so I cannot say that I am certain."

"Ah." Father Angelo Estrada was a warm man, and a kind one, and he could not avoid seeing that the blonde girl facing him was unhappy. "I am sorry," he murmured. "Why is it difficult for you to speak of your beliefs?"

She smiled, but it was not a happy smile. "Because you are my friend. Because we disagree. To speak of what I believe, I would be unable to keep from arguing for my point of view. I have not that right. You have given your life to what you believe, and who am I to try to change your mind now?"

He frowned. "Do you not feel that it is your duty to try?"

"No. That is one of our differences. You are a good man, and for us, that is enough. There is some truth for us in every path to the Light." She stopped as a flash of lightning illuminated the window behind her friend, and the lights inside the house flickered. "I think we're about to have a power failure," she remarked quietly.

He nodded, grimacing. "Yes. I keep candles in the cellar. Wait and I will bring some."

She shivered. "Please take me with you."

"It is not necessary," he told her.

"I don't know what is wrong," she whispered. "Just a feeling. Please."

He softened, smiling at her, and held out his hand to assist her to her feet. A warm arm around her shoulders guided her to the cellar stairs. He reached past her to switch on a light. "Be careful," he cautioned. "The stairs are-- how do you say it?-- peligroso."

"Dangerous," she told him absently. "Yes." Moving slowly and cautiously, and clinging to his hand for support, she put a foot onto the first step. She was off balance, taking her second step, when the world around her disappeared in a savage explosion that thrust her violently forward. She grabbed wildly for some support, but nothing was there, and she felt herself falling out of control for a split second. She landed very badly, her head hitting the floor with a nasty crack. Father Angelo landed a few feet away, on his shoulder, and was momentarily overcome by the blinding wave of nausea that followed the impact.

When he could move again, he struggled to his knees in the pitch darkness, feeling ahead of him with his good arm for Kathryn. His searching fingers found the back of her head and came away wet and sticky. He sniffed at his fingers, smelling the metallic scent of blood. "Madre de Dios," he exclaimed softly, leaning back against the wall behind him. He was afraid to try to move her, especially in the darkness that surrounded them, and he doubted his ability to do so with one arm, anyway. "Kathryn," he whispered urgently. "Kathryn, can you hear me?" There was no response.

A few moments passed like as many years, then he heard her stir and groan. "Kathryn?" he whispered.

"How badly are you hurt?"

There was another moment of silence, then he heard her voice, dry with grim humor. "I have a headache," she remarked. "Is it dark in here?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Good," she responded, with genuine relief. "I seem to have hit the back of my head. Blindness would not be a good sign. What about you? Are you hurt?"

"My shoulder," he murmured. "I don't think it's very bad. Can you move?"

A moment passed before she answered, and he heard the rustling as she attempted to ascertain the answer to his question. "Yes," she told him finally. "Everything seems more or less in working order. Wait a second-- I've a cigarette lighter in my pocket. Let me get my bearings here--" He heard the scratch of the flint, then a tiny flame flickered into existence, dimly illuminating the room.

"Your head," he whispered. "Blood--"

She turned, seeing him at last. He was leaning back against the wall, his face pale and shiny with perspiration. She shrugged, deliberately keeping her voice casual. "Scalp wounds bleed. Nothing serious. You don't look so good yourself."

"Do you think you can find the candles? They were in a chest, under the stairs."

She looked closely at the flame of her lighter for a moment. "There's a draught. Should be safe enough. Let me see what I can do."

She could see what Angelo could not, where he was sitting-- that the stairs had collapsed under a heap of rubble, and the chest was buried under debris. Nothing over the chest looked too heavy to shift, but she was still a little shaky. Picking her way across the floor carefully, she surveyed the situation at close range. The stairwell was completely choked with wreckage. It would be a hopeless task to try to clear a way to the exit, but she could get fairly close to the chest he had mentioned. Pulling a couple of pieces from the stairs free, she got a grip on another piece of wood and heaved, groaning with the effort. It shifted a few inches to one side and fell to the floor. She shuddered and looked up apprehensively, recognizing the piece as a floor joyce from the floor above them. The ceiling above her head was sagging slightly, but did not look in immediate danger of collapsing. She opened the chest and pulled out a handful of candles, then hurried back to her friend.

"Light a candle," he instructed in a whisper. Drip some wax on top of something to hold it."

She did as he instructed, and got a better look at him in the brighter light. "You're in a lot of pain," she commented.

"It doesn't feel good," he admitted.

"Okay-- let me get a closer look." She knelt beside him, her fingers gently probing around the injured joint. He winced and groaned a little, but kept fairly quiet as she examined him. "It's definitely dislocated," she said at last. "I don't think it's broken." She took a deep breath, fighting a sudden sensation of nausea. "Decision time," she added softly. "Angelo, I've had a look at the stairs, and we’re going to be in here awhile. We can't get out without help. If I'm right, and that shoulder is just out of joint, I can make you a little more comfortable by putting it back. If I'm wrong, and it is broken, it may make it worse. It's your shoulder, so you're going to have to tell me what you want me to do."

"You can do this? You know how?"

She nodded. "My brother was a medic for twenty years. I know how. But it's going to hurt like a bitch."

He grinned faintly. "I understand you. Very well. Please try."

"Okay, then. Sit up as straight as you can." She sat facing him, on his left side, and began pulling off her right shoe. She stopped for a moment, shaking her head.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Things got a little blurry for a second. It's okay now." She pulled off the shoe. Placing her bare foot on his chest, just to the inside of his shoulder, she got a firm grip on his left arm with both hands. "Are you ready?" she asked him.

"Get it over," he murmured grimly.

"Right. Take a deep breath. Here we go." She began to pull straight away from his body, gently but steadily increasing the pressure on his arm. The last of Angelo's color left his face, and he began to sweat heavily again, but he said nothing. It seemed hours until she felt a sickening crunch that almost caused her to lose control of her upset stomach. "It's okay," she whispered shakily.

"It's over." She replaced his arm at his side. "Keep as still as you can. I'll try to find something to wrap it with in a moment. I need to keep you warm, as well. Is there anything down here we could use for a blanket-- burlap or something like that?"

His breath left him in a slow, shuddering sigh. "It already feels better," he admitted. "Rest for a little."

She shook her head. "I can't. Angelo, what do you know about concussion?"

He frowned, trying to concentrate. "You should not sleep. Your eyes-- with light, they would not be the same. You feel sick. Maybe vision problems."

"'D' - all of the above," she muttered drily. "All but the eyes, anyway. Impossible to check by candlelight. I must do what I can, while I can-- for both of us. You understand?"

"Jesus," he whispered, a trace of horror in his tone. "I will do it." He began to struggle upright.

"Stay put," she snapped, her voice hardening. "Keep your bloody macho under control, or you'll have a head injury to match mine. I have two hands, I can move more easily now, and it will help me to stay awake. Now where should I look?"

His grin was sour. "I do not like strong women," he jested softly.

Her chuckle was quiet, but genuine. "I know, but we'll argue about it later. Now please tell me what to look for."

"There." He pointed with his right hand. "Against the wall. Potatoes-- in bags. You understand?"

"Yes! Potatoes-- that's good. We can eat them raw. Pretty tasteless, but better than nothing. Is there any water down here? If the pipes are intact, we can last quite some time."

"A sink. Behind the stairs."

She shook her head. "No good. It's well and truly buried. The potatoes should have some moisture, anyway."

She replaced her shoe and got to her feet, lighting a second candle and looking around. Finding a torn bit of metal from the stairs, she tested the edge on it and nodded her satisfaction. Using it to cut the bags, she soon had several slit open-- enough to cover both of them. She dragged a smallish box over to Angelo. "Here-- you should elevate your feet. Can you lift them?"

He raised his feet to the box, and she covered him, then sat down on his right side. All at once, he felt her shivering, and his good arm encircled her shoulders. "You are cold?" he asked her.

She shook her head, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "Just reaction," she assured him. "I'll be all right in a moment."

"Cover yourself," he instructed gently. "Then you should relax. Put your head on my good shoulder here. I will prevent you from sleeping. You are not alone."

With some difficulty, she forced her shaking hands to drag some of the burlap over herself. Then, to her horror, she found herself crying helplessly. He held her with his good arm until she quieted, his own heart aching because he had no other comfort to offer her. When her sobs had diminished to a weary snuffle or two, he spoke again. "Would you like to say a little prayer with me?" he asked her gently.

"I . . . can't," she whispered. "The God that I worship only helps those who help themselves."

"You have helped us both," he reminded her. "I think He will not refuse us help."

"Then you say your prayer, Angelo. I will listen." She laughed softly, a little bitterly. "I think you might not approve of my prayers, so I will keep them silent."

"As you wish," he murmured. "But it is not my place to judge, Kathy."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Really, I am. You didn't deserve that. Can you forgive me?"

A hint of annoyance crept into his tone. "There is nothing to forgive, little friend. Hush, now."

She listened to his soft voice, some of her discomfort with Christian prayer disappearing as he spoke. There was a childlike gentleness to his voice that brought back warm memories of the little Spaniard who had been the dearest friend of her childhood, and she smiled in the darkness. She even caught herself starting to cross herself from long habit, and that brought a quite genuine grin from her. When he fell silent, she snuggled closer to him, seeking his warmth, and let her head come to rest on his good shoulder.

She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, he was shaking her gently. "You must not sleep," he murmured.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I know. But it's hard--" A soft sob escaped her. "Angelo, I'm so scared!."

"I am also afraid," he admitted. "But it does not help to think of it. Perhaps I should tell you a story-- one of the stories I tell my children at the church. Will you listen, Kathy?"

She smiled, comforted in spite of herself. "Yes. I've always loved listening to your voice, anyway."

"That is good," he told her in a very serious tone, but when she turned a disbelieving look on him, his eyes were laughing merrily at her.

In spite of everything, she was startled into an answering laugh. "You never change," she told him.

His eyes widened in mock horror. "God forbid!"

She was still chuckling at his outrageous humor when he drew her head back to his shoulder and pressed his lips briefly to her hair. Afterward, he leaned back against the wall, still holding her close to his side, and closed his eyes. "Now listen carefully . . ." he began.

Kathryn realized that there really was something very unique about his voice as she listened to him. Somehow, he managed to bring the warmth and richness of expression possible in Spanish to her own language. The story he told was light and silly, comical in the extreme-- a child's fable-- but he brought it to life with such exuberance and joie de vivre that she could not resist being caught up in it. For a brief time, he made the horror of their circumstances fade from her thoughts, and she felt warm and safe and happy. When his voice finally faded into silence, she shifted slightly and kissed him on the cheek. His arm tightened around her.

She did feel warm. Too warm! She sat up abruptly, sniffing at the air. "oh, my God," she whispered.

He responded to her evident alarm. "What is it, Kathy?"

"Can't you smell it?"

He sniffed once, then turned a horrified stare on her.

"I thought it was too hot in here," she told him. "We should have been half frozen by now. Fire--"

"Yes," he agreed. "It must be. Do you know of anything we should do?"

"No," she responded in a dead voice. "I don't think there is anything we can do. It's over, that's all. At least this way will be quicker." She looked up at the ceiling. "Probably the floor above will give way," she added without emotion. "Smoke rises, so I doubt we'll suffocate. That's something, anyway."

He took a deep, slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with fury. "Is it to be so easy, then? Is this the woman who said she'd have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, when her time came? The woman who said that God only helps those who help themselves?"

Her voice was weary. "What would you suggest, then? I've looked at the stairs-- it would take at least a week for us to dig our way out. And now, there would be nowhere to go if we managed it."

"Is there no way we could protect ourselves from a cave-in?"

She frowned, beginning to think again. "I can't think of-- wait! Maybe, just maybe--" She pushed herself to her feet. "Which of these walls runs with an outside wall of the house?" she demanded.

He pointed. "There-- to the right."

"Okay. Can you get up?" She thrust a hand at him and braced herself.

He groaned a little as he pulled himself upright. "Stiff," he commented ruefully. "What do you wish to do, and how can I help?"

She gathered up their burlap and shoved it into his good hand. "Come on. The outside wall should be strongest, so wherever the ceiling gives way should be anywhere but there. If we can build some sort of a barricade, we can keep debris from falling on us." She turned to look at him. "It's still not good, you know. We're going to be badly burned. But it's a chance."

"The difference between us," he said, a little grimly, "is that I believe it."

"If we only had some water, we could protect ourselves from the fire," she remarked, looking around for likely looking crates and such. "Still-- you use what you've got." She started dragging material into position, stacking it as high as she could to make a tiny nest against the wall. Once Father Angelo saw what she intended, he used his one arm and his feet to help her as much as he could. When they had dragged the last box into position, she spread a layer of the burlap on the floor against the wall. "Lie face down," she told him. "As close to the wall as you can. This way-- so your bad shoulder is next to the wall. I'll be on the outside, and I don't want to jostle you every time I shift position."

"No. You will be next to the wall. Lie down, Kathy."

She grinned. "Macho again? Okay. I doubt it will make much difference, anyway. It isn't much of a chance, you know."

"Shut up," he said tiredly. "And lie down."

"Yessir." She stretched out on the floor.

He blew out their candle, then lowered himself awkwardly beside her in the darkness, using his good arm to pull burlap completely over them both, then he wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. "Comfortable?" he asked her.

"I suppose so," she replied. "Nothing hurts except my head, anyway. Look-- if you want to pray or something, go ahead. I don't mind. Did I ever tell you what my brother used to say about religion?"

"No."

"He said he didn't laugh at anybody's god-- because, after all, somebody had to be right."

Angelo's soft chuckle was genuine. "He sounds like a wise man."

"He is that," she responded. "Look, I don't want to sound like gloom and doom or anything, but there is something I'd like you to know."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry you're here, but I'm also glad, if you know what I mean."

"I know," he said gravely. "I feel the same way."

"Lord, but I'm tired," she whispered. "Come to think of it," she added bitterly, "I may get to sleep rather longer than I had in mind."

"I know you are afraid," he whispered. "I would like to offer comfort, but I don't know if it would be welcome."

"Window on another world, and all that sort of thing? Thanks for the thought. Actually, we see it as a window onto this world again. All on the wheel, and that sort of thing. Trouble is, I'm not quite through with this particular life. I'd like some more time to store up good karma, if you follow me."

"Yes. A little too well, just at this moment."

"You know, there are times when I wish you wouldn't be so damned understanding. Every time I think I know how you'll react to something, you surprise the hell out of me."

He laughed softly. "You would prefer for me to be angry?"

She sighed. "No, of course not. I'm just talking because I'm too scared to shut up."

"I know that also, my little friend. Do not be troubled. All will be well."

She was silent for a long time. Angelo finally realized, from the even sound of her breathing, that she had fallen asleep. He knew he should wake her, but he didn't have the heart. If these were to be their last moments, at least she would be spared most of the terror. It was already growing uncomfortably warm, and he had no trouble imagining the roaring inferno above. In fact, he could hear it now, like some living thing devouring whatever remained of the house upstairs. Closing his eyes, he began to pray in earnest for a miracle.

When something hit the burlap that covered them, they both flinched, expecting any moment to be burned. To Kathryn's astonishment, it proved to be a rather large droplet of water. She gently shifted Angelo's arm, shoving back the burlap to sit up. He struggled up beside her.

"I wish I could see," she murmured, and he nodded in the darkness.

With an awful tearing sound, the center of the ceiling gave way, crashing down only a couple of feet from them. With it came a raging torrent of water, instantly flooding the floor. It swirled up around their legs in less than f ive seconds.

It was too much. Kathryn screamed and leaped to her feet, jumping back against the wall. "Gonna' change your mind, huh?" she gritted, helpless rage surging completely out of control. "Instead of burn us, drown us! Jesus! He's playing with us!"

A stinging slap from her companion brought sanity back to her eyes. "Don't you see?" Angelo demanded jubilantly, shaking her with his one hand. "It's the Fire Department! It has to be! Hey! Hey! Help! Down here-- in the cellar!"

A face appeared above them, and seconds later a fireman was rapelling down to them.

When Kathryn opened her eyes again, nearly six hours later, her vision slowly focused on Angelo's face. He was sitting on the side of her hospital bed, his arm in a neat sling.

"Hi," she whispered. "How's the shoulder?"

"Sore," he admitted. "I am supposed to take it very easy for awhile, and so are you. I came to ask if you would like to-- how do you say it?-- convalesce together, when we are released."

"I'm surprised," she said drily, "that you are still speaking to me after the way I caved in back there. I'm really sorry about that."

"Had it not been for you in the beginning," he reminded her gently, "neither of us would have survived."

"Angelo, didn't you see where that stuff fell, when the ceiling finally gave way? If you hadn't got me up off my butt, we'd both be singing with your angels. That works both ways. Did you ever learn what happened?"

He nodded. "Yes. They said it was--" He shook his head angrily, searching for the word he needed. "--the gas. Lightning struck, and--"

"Bang," she muttered. "I noticed. By the way--"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Do you remember when we were talking about angels? I just wanted to say that maybe you were right. I had a really funny feeling, back there, and if I hadn't gone down to the cellar with you, I wouldn't even be here. You follow my drift?"

"A warning? Yes."

She grinned wryly. "I guess I can't say it's never happened to me anymore."

He grinned back. "No, you cannot. And I hope you will say yes to my invitation, Kathy, because there is much I would still like to discuss with you."

"Discuss with me?" she queried uncomfortably, wondering if their religious discussion was going to start all over again.

He grinned again at her expression. "Yes. Concerning strong women."

His reward was her startled giggle, followed by a truly wicked grin. "You've got yourself a date, you naughty priest," she teased him happily. "Who's bringing the wine?"

Outside, the sun was just rising. The sunlight shining through the window scattered a rainbow of color over the two friends, erasing all of the horror and fear of the past few hours. Black eyes and blue both laughed merrily, and all the troubles of the world seemed just a little lighter.

Kathryn A. Graham is a licensed private investigator, pilot, aircraft mechanic and handgun instructor in Texas. Also a prolific author, she has written numerous articles, short stories and a science fiction novel entitled Flight From Eden.

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