Carnival

Gabriela walked until she had pushed the smell of smoke to the back of her mind. She realized that she was hungry. I can play now, she thought. I can play and get money to eat instead of picking up trash, but I have to find people. The dusty sidewalk was deserted, but there was a poster on a telephone pole. Gabriela's head ached. She was dizzy, and the letters swirled before her eyes. The big, red word “CARNIVAL,” though, was clear. She squinted, tilted her head, and made out where it was. She made her way there, stood by the entrance, and played.
Within a couple of hours, she had more than enough for lunch and dinner. She was bored, and she had enough money for some tickets. She tucked her trumpet under her arm and headed for the rusty ticket booth. A man with rotting teeth leered down at her.
“H-h-honey,” he said. “I-I'd g-g-g-give y-you a roll for f-free if I could s-s-see under that s-shirt.” He smiled. Gabriela took a step backwards.
“I d-didn't m-mean to s-scare you h-h-honey. I t-thought y-you was one of the g-g-girls f-from over th' antique sh-shop. L-lotta them h-have b-b-b-been through h-here t-today. L-l-listen. I'l g-give y-you t-ten tickets free.” He did. She bought ten more and headed for the tilt-a-whirl. It was noon, and the lines were short. She guessed that it was a week day and most people were at school or work. Why aren't I? She asked herself. No answer was forthcoming, so she decided to ignore the question, at least for a while.
A young man with wavy, chestnut hair in fashionable diseray let her on along with an old lady who held the hands of two grandchildren. He offered to watch her trumpet, but she shook her head and carried it with her. The metal arms, spotted with brown rust, creaked as the machinery clanked to life. As they rose, Gabriela saw
Fire. Fire, fire in the sky and wings, great white wings-so white-big enough to block the-No, she thought. I'm not going to think about it. I'm not going to think about the-
She saw it. She saw wings, her wings, seven feet long from top to bottom, more than three feet across. Each feather shone like a thin sheet of brass as she flew through a bleeding sunset. There were cries and moans below, but they seemed so far away, distant. The people down there were insects, butterflies, their lives beautiful, iridescent, and brief. As she raised her trumpet to lips like fire with hands that had turned to molten gold, she saw the universe reflected in her bell, rising, falling, singing. Wars and plagues played out before her eyes. Atoms split. She could hear it, too. The voice of a woman wailed in ruins. A man cried out in the wilderness, and she could see the hairs of his garment and smell the locusts and honey he had eaten on his breath. She saw a billion or ten billion births and watched Chicago burn, heard steel grind and clash on steel and glass, half-molten, crazed with heat, hit pavement as two towers slid into the street. She was flying high, but a dove had somehow swooped down from above her. It cried out as it passed, and its voice was more like the battle scream of an eagle than a gentle coo. Its voice bent somehow, and a sound that was not quite a sound, a voice that was not quite a voice, rang in her mind.
It was less a noise than two thunderheads clashing over a battlefield covered with heavy artillery. It was an atomic bomb, a red tsunami that she felt was taking curious pains to be gentle. Anything but its most gentle touch would have torn her mind apart. She could not hear it. She could not translate it, but she did understand it.
SOUND YOUR TRUMPET, ARCHANGEL!!! it said. She did. The sky cracked. The earth shook. Gabriela threw up. The ride stopped.
Gabriela staggered away and ordered a Sprite to settle her stomach.