Jack Blackwell was dead. He studied the headstones surrounding him on the hill. They glistened black, yellow, and blue in the sunrise, semi-transparent as if carved from crystal. Antique cemeteries were common in the American Midwest, forgotten or abandoned by long-dead pioneering families. But these headstones, with their bright colors, seemed to be well preserved.

Movement at the bottom of the hill caught his attention, and he shifted his gaze to the line of trees beside the country road. His motorcycle rested on its side at the bottom of an embankment. Its back wheel spun lazily, and the red and silver Ducati emblem was smashed into the side of the black gas tank. A large rock must have caught the bike after it careened into the massive white oak tree. Close to the performance machine, next to an ancient wooden fence post, gnarled and faded, a body lay sprawled in the long grass. Tree leaves above the scene glistened orange and red in the light from the October sunrise.

Jack pulled in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He enjoyed the solitude of secluded back roads. The ghosts of abandoned farmhouses that dotted the landscape settled his nerves and calmed his treacherous mind. When he finally opened them, he found himself gazing in the opposite direction, at a large tree on the hilltop above. He glanced back over his shoulder, down the hill, to be sure his wrecked motorcycle and body were still there as if anchoring him to the world, or to be sure he was still dead. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

After catching sight of his bike and his body, he lifted his gaze to the tree once again. Its branches flowed into the sky like water from a giant fountain, engulfing the horizon. Its roots twisted through the earth, reaching down to the center of the world, a life perfectly balanced between heaven and earth.

“Haven and Earth,” a gentle voice said.

“What?” Jack turned to find an old man sitting cross-legged on top of a large black headstone. “Did you read my mind?”

“Of course,” the old man said. Time had etched deep lines into the chestnut-colored skin of his face, but his electric blue eyes were sharp as they studied him. The man’s loose-fitting shirt and baggy brown pants swayed in a breeze Jack did not feel.

“What is Haven?” Jack asked.

“Haven is where you are going,” the man said. “And the life tree rests between Haven and Earth.”

“What about heaven or hell?”

“Useful myths created by people. Like the life tree.”

“They aren’t real?”

“Of course they’re real.” The man’s bright eyes sparkled when he spoke.

“But you just said they weren’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I don’t understand,” Jack said.

“You will, but for now, you are traveling and need only focus on that.”

“Traveling where? Are we in Heaven or Haven now?”

Jack looked back down the hill toward his body.

“Oh no, we are in the In-between.”

Jack sighed and said, “I just want it to end.”

“It has,” the old man said, turning to the scene below.

“So, I’m dead?” Jack asked.

“For now,” the old man said.

A split-second urge. Twist the throttle. Aim for the tree. He always felt urges to commit violence, to strike down those around him. But this time, the voice compelled him to harm himself, and this time, he acted on the impulse. It was supposed to be his first day back to work after calling in sick for days. After sitting in his apartment downtown, drowning the voice inside his head with pain killers and Valium.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, that’s what the doctors called it. But he knew it wasn’t PTSD. It was the demon deep inside his mind. And he was losing the will to fight it. The doctors didn’t know about the demon. The voice that painted the world in grim tones, feeding him images of death and whispering of tragedies to come. In a desperate effort to banish the voice, he joined the military just out of high school. If he could fight for a cause larger than himself, and commit violence against a deserving enemy, he might quiet the whispers. It had worked for a time. But the more brutality and suffering he saw, the stronger his urges became.

Jack turned to the old man once again. “You mean, I may not stay dead?”

“Exactly,” the old man said, “I’m pleased that you understand.”

“But I don’t. How do I not stay dead? And who are you?”

“Go to her, up the hill. She will have the answers,” he said, nodding toward the tree.

“Who?”

“Millae, she has come for you. It is a great honor.”

“Who is Millae?”

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“The creator.”

“God?” Jack stared at the hilltop. “God is a woman named Millae?”

When no answer came, he turned back to the old man but found only the black headstone. The yellow, blue, and red stones shone brightly in the rising sun. Tiny intricate symbols crawled across the surface of each one, sparkling with blue electricity, as an unseen hand etched new inscriptions into the stones. When the alien script covered the entire surface, the symbols started over from the top, replacing the previous etchings line-by-line. He imagined the script laying out the stories of the dead and dying.

He wondered if his life story was being etched into a headstone somewhere on the hill. It would be a short one. It would say, “Here is a man who went to high school, fought wars, and was killed by the demon lurking in his own mind.” Jack took a few slow steps up the hill, his blue jeans, draped over riding boots, swishing in the grass. As he crested the hilltop, he found that it stretched from horizon to horizon. It was barren except for the tree, which swayed in the breeze he still could not feel.

“Hello?” he called into the silence, stepping close to the tree. “Are you here?” he whispered, placing his palm on the rough bark of the trunk. The canvas of the world shifted around him. Colors melted into each other. The sky blurred from the red of a rising sun to a deep, even blue. Only the tree remained. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against the back of his hand. He wasn’t sure why he did this, but it felt right.

“Easy,” he said. His hand trembled against the tree, the sharp angles of the bark digging into his palm. “Keep your head.” He had to keep the demon locked away, and his vision from going red. He pictured a locked steel door like the ones his old military unit used to detain prisoners in the bowels of the deepest, darkest detention centers.

After another moment, he turned to find the swaying green grass replaced by a small island of red sandstone. Stumbling to the edge, he gazed down a sheer cliff wall at an ocean far below. The waves stretched as far as he could see. Steeling himself against a sudden sensation of vertigo, he turned away to find a woman with pale skin studying him. She sat beside a pool of white liquid, framed by a sandstone archway. Behind him, he sensed the life tree straddling the worlds.

“Your demon has fled,” she said.

“Where are we?” he gasped.

The woman’s long dark hair glinted blue in the glaring sunlight. Loosely tied behind her neck, it spilled down over light-colored robes. Her brilliant green eyes sparkled when she spoke. “You are on the Isle of Song,” she said. “A memory of it, anyway.”

Her voice was truth. It laid bare the insecurities beneath every voice, in every conversation, Jack had ever had.

“Are you God?” he asked.

“If that is what you need,” she tilted her head toward him and smiled. “I am many things. Mostly, I am Millae. The first in these worlds, and you are one of my first-born.”

“I don’t understand,” Jack said.

“You will.”

“But I’m dead, the old man said I was. And we’re in the… what was it? The In-Between?”

“You are, yes, but I have created this construct just for you and I.”

“Why?”

“Because there is work to do in the physical, so you must return.”

“But I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt anymore.” Jack thought of the handgun in his apartment. Of sitting on the edge of the bathtub, cradling it in his hands. Of willing himself to send a bullet ripping through the back of his skull and wincing at the thought of it ripping through someone else’s. The voice urged him to unleash his rage on others, not himself.

“But you did not harm the innocent,” she said.

“How do you know, I might have,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You did your best to protect those around you. Especially from yourself.”

After that night, Jack took his handgun and every kitchen knife he owned down to the pawnshop. “But I failed—”

“You didn’t fail,” Millae said, “because, in the end, you took your own life instead of innocent ones.”

Jack nodded, closing his eyes, recalling the split-second impulse, the twist of the throttle, the bark of the white oak tree flashing before him.

“Open your eyes, Jack, you must remember every detail of this island. The urges you felt in the physical world were not entirely your own.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked, opening his eyes. He stepped around the pool and kneeled before the woman.

“I am only one half of the creator, Jack. The other half, Jode, embedded a remnant in you as you were born. You carried this sliver of malevolence with you. But now you have come to the In-between once more and your consciousness will be clear.”

“I’ve been here before?” Jack asked.

“You have not been to the Isle of Song in a very long time, but the In-between, yes. All living things pass through the In-between before they are born and after they die,” Millae said.

Jack stared into her eyes. “And the man in the cemetery? Was he Jode?”

“No child, he is an Ancillary. They help travelers through the In-between, nothing more. They are creatures of ONUS. They appear to those who need them as they need them to be.”

“I needed an old man in a creepy cemetery?”

“Apparently so,” Millae said, eyes glowing.

“Was I possessed by the voice?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she said, drawing her words out thoughtfully.

“And I’ve been reincarnated before?”

“Yes, child. Consciousness uploads to Haven and downloads to the physical in the cycle of rebirth.”

“I don’t want to download.” He thought of sterile corporate cubicles, of war, of filthy interrogation rooms and terrorists. Of the dead and dying. Of sand and blood. “I want to stay dead.”

“We have little time, Jack, your body is dying.”

“Let it die,” he said, turning his gaze to the silvery pool of water. It felt familiar and comforting. But his reflection shimmered on the surface for only a moment before morphing into a vision of his body sprawled next to the wrecked motorcycle.

“There are those who need you in the physical, Jack. You do not remember now, but you will.”

“Is my father in Haven?”

“Your father?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “He died while I was overseas.”

“Oh, your father in this life, child. ONUS only knows.” She waved a dismissive hand.

“I broke his heart when I was a kid. Will I see him again?”

“There is no way to know. ONUS wills the rebirth of humans.”

“I have to tell him I’m sorry, I have to—”

“There is no time, your body is dying. But if you download now, your questions will be answered.”

“How?”

“You will find someone who awakens you. Only with her will you remember the key you have lost and how to find it. You are free of Jode’s Remnant and the way will be clear.”

“The voice won’t be there?”

“It won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“You must find her and the key to the Isle of Song. Find the Isle, Jack.”

Millae reached across and touched his hand, sending a jolt of electricity dancing up his arm. A stillness settled into him and the questions slipped from his mind. He pulled his hand away and lowered his fingertips to the pool, brushing the surface. As he touched the water, a light consumed his vision, swallowing Millae and the island.

“You must remember the Isle of Song Jack, every detail.” Millae’s voice rang in his ears. Didn’t he have more questions? Didn’t he want to stay with her longer? Or go somewhere else? Where was it? Somewhere he could rest, maybe. “Find her, Jack.”

He gasped and yanked the helmet from his head, rolling onto his back in the grass. Looking up to the red and orange leaves above, he said, “Find who?”