by Alex Bell
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said quickly, and tried to continue with the conversation.
But I hated to have to look at her when the aura was this colour. It seemed to freeze my eyeballs in their sockets. And the sight was a crushing and brutal reminder, shattering the illusion that I had been so enjoying up until that point. We were not safe at all. This was not a warm and happy place, as it appeared. And I had just spent the whole day buying baby supplies for Casey for a child who was the focal point in an ancient War; a child who might grow up to be the next Hitler and inflict unendurable suffering upon hundreds of thousands of people in a battle that would last almost thirty years. And I one of the few people - really one of the only two people who could do anything about it - I was sitting here eating pastries and doing nothing.
‘I, er . . . just have to go to the bathroom,’ I said, needing a moment to collect myself.
The bathroom was empty when I got there, so I ran the tap and splashed some cool water on my face. I had told Stephomi sharply that the child would belong to Casey once it was born. But now, in the face of the burning black aura that clung about the teenager’s body, I found myself beginning to doubt those words. What good would a demon child bring Casey? All day I had been telling her how happy she would be once the baby came, but what if that thing brought her nothing but further anguish? What if my decision was not being loyal to Casey at all? Suddenly, I wished I had not spent all day getting her so excited about her unborn child. Christ, what the hell was I doing here?
I looked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening. I expected the man who walked in to go over to the urinals, but instead he walked over to the sink next to mine and started washing his hands.
‘I always wash my hands before eating,’ he remarked conversationally.
I jumped severely at his voice, and fear shot through me when I looked at him. I recognised that American drawl and those heavy lidded eyes. It was the Judge. The Judge from the nightmare I had had several months ago in which I had been found guilty of witchcraft in Salem and been dragged outside at this man’s command to be burned at the stake by a bloodthirsty mob.
‘Hand me a towel there, would ya, fella?’ the man said, indicating the paper towels by my side.
Wordlessly, I handed him one. He showed no sign of recognising me whatsoever. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ I asked suddenly.
The Judge looked at me for a long moment before shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said with a smile.
‘We never met in . . . Salem?’ I persisted.
The Judge laughed. ‘No, I’ve never been to Salem, son. My family’s from there, though.’
‘Oh.’ I looked at him doubtfully. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but it was definitely the same man. It was definitely him. If someone else walked into the bathroom right now, I wondered . . . would they even be able to see him? Or would it just look like I was stood here talking to myself?
‘We’ve never met before, then?’ I asked again.
The Judge smiled good-naturedly. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Perhaps I was just getting myself wound up about nothing after all. With a puzzled frown, I turned to go and rejoin Casey, but as I did so, the Judge’s hand brushed my arm. And at his touch, flames shot up all around me, roaring with a frenzied heat. I could feel the stake at my back and the blisters around my wrists where the rope bound them together, and beyond the flames I could see the mob shrieking with pleasure as my clothes caught alight. I screamed, somehow managed to free one arm, and beat frantically at my clothes where they were smouldering, the acrid smoke stinging my eyes and making them water.
And then suddenly the fire was gone and I was in the bathroom of the patisserie again, panting, sweat running down my face. I wondered if I’d screamed aloud or just in my head. From the expression on the Judge’s face, I guessed I’d screamed aloud. But the strange thing was that now he barely looked like the Judge at all. Perhaps there was a very slight physical resemblance, but it most certainly wasn’t the same man.
‘Jesus Christ, Mister!’ the American exclaimed. ‘What the hell is your problem?’
And he backed away from me and out the door, clearly glad to escape. But this doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything at all. I felt in my pocket for the rosary beads Casey had given me, and quickly recited the Lord’s Prayer through once to make sure. I . . . I think I might just have . . . overreacted.
I hurried us out quite quickly after that, anxious to get back to the safety of my apartment. We walked back across the square through the traditional Budapest Christmas Fair that always sets up there - a gathering of Hungarian craftsmen and artists selling their wares. I’d been a few days before and found it very festive, with the food carts selling hot wine and sausages and a musical carousel for the children. This time I just wanted to get home. The sudden craving for solitude was such that people’s eyes seemed to burn into me like acid.
But as we walked back through the Christmas market set up in Vörösmarty Square, a young man hurried out towards us from behind one of the crafts stalls. He was slim and tall, although not as tall as me, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a diamond earring sparkling in one ear. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved white top but no coat. I suppose he was good looking - he had high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, and he certainly had a nice manner - but ... he gave the most extraordinary thing to Casey. We stopped when he approached us, one arm held behind his back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve just got to stop you for a minute.’
I stared at him in surprise, for he had spoken to us in English, although I couldn’t quite place his accent.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked Casey.
She told him before I could stop her. He smiled. ‘I’m Raphael. There’s something on my stall I think you might like.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry but I really can’t afford to—’ Casey began, but the young man cut her off.
‘I’m not asking you to buy anything,’ he assured her hurriedly. ‘It’s Christmas. Please consider it a gift.’
He brought his hand round from behind his back and for a moment I thought he would be holding a flower or something equally presumptuous. But when he uncurled his fist, it was to reveal a small Black Madonna. It was without doubt a beautiful piece, carved from onyx and embellished with rich gold and red in the robe. There was a golden crown on her head and in her arms she held a black child, also adorned in a lavish gold and red robe with the same tiny crown on its head. This was no trinket he was giving her - this was an expensive and exquisite work of art. But for all its beauty, I couldn’t prevent the grimace of distaste at the sight of the sinister looking thing.
Alongside Mary - the chaste, pure ‘official’ virgin, there exists an ‘unofficial’ virgin - black, mysterious and all-powerful - associated with beings that pre-dated Christianity . . . Pagan goddesses and Ebony Ladies of the Underworld . . . Of course, Black Madonnas are found in churches, but the Catholic Church does not officially afford them any special significance: black and white Madonnas alike are claimed to be the same. Black Madonnas are still depictions of the Virgin Mary; it’s just that the artist chose to craft her from smooth ebony or Lebanese cedar wood or cold black onyx.
But there are rumours that the Black Madonnas were never meant to represent the Virgin Mary - that they stand for someone else altogether. And, unofficially, the church has taken to painting over their Madonnas with whitewash, to discourage the pilgrims who insist on affording them such an undue and inappropriate significance. For the Black Madonnas are associated with sexuality, fertility and procreation rather than chastity, and are credited by their followers with having supernatural powers. If the Black Madonnas are supposed to represent the Virgin Mary in some form, it is quite clear they represent something else as well - something a little older and darker - and I was not at all comfortable with Casey accepting this gift from such a stranger. He seemed harmless enough, but this was hardly
normal behaviour, was it? I hoped Casey would refuse the Madonna, but I could tell she was flattered as well as delighted with both the gift and the good looks of the man who was giving it to her.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Raphael said. ‘I wish you and your baby all the best.’
‘Is Budapest crawling with angels?’ Casey joked as we walked away, still beaming and examining the tiny Black Madonna in her hand as we walked.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Gabriel, Raphael . . .’ She laughed. ‘I half expect Michael and Uriel to turn up on my doorstep any day now and tell me I’ve won the lottery.’
I glanced sharply back at the young man behind his stall, but then shook my head impatiently. Angels don’t wear jeans and earrings. If every man with an angelic name really was an angel, then that would mean that Zadkiel Stephomi and I were not human either. I expect a feeling of Christmas spirit made that young man give Casey the gift. Or maybe he was hoping to get a date out of it. My eyes narrowed at the thought. If that was his intention, he could forget it - I was looking after Casey. She belonged to me now because I loved her the most. I am hers and I would do anything in the world she asked me to. But I expect my jealousy is unwarranted anyway. This Raphael guy was simply trying to be kind. I just wish that he could have picked a less inappropriate, less sinister thing to give her.
That night I had the dream that had so shaken me back in October. Once again, Casey and I were outside on the dome of St Stephen’s Basilica, and once again snow fell around us. Again Casey gave birth to a perfect baby boy, and again I turned to pick up a blanket to wrap him in. But this time when I turned back, there was no writhing black demon on the ground. The baby was still there, but now there was a tiny pair of delicate feathered wings on his back - rainbow coloured, from emerald green to yellow to pink to sapphire blue. And the child glowed with golden light where it lay surrounded by snow at the top of the cathedral. It’s said that it wouldn’t be possible for a human to look directly at the angels of the higher realms without blinding themselves with beauty, much in the same way that directly looking at the sun would blind the naked eye with its brilliance. And in that moment, kneeling there in the dream world, I felt I could understand that; for this newborn creature on the ground before me was so enthralling, so utterly breathtaking, that I struggled to breathe with the joy of it.
But then the wooden doors behind us banged open and Mephistopheles was standing there in the doorway, smiling coldly, a woman on his arm. I knew the woman too, for she had visited my dreams before. It was Lilith, in all her dark, seductive, twisted sensuality. Horror suddenly froze me as I realised what dreadful danger the winged newborn baby was in. I reached out to grasp the child but Lilith was too quick for me and had swooped down to pull the crying baby from the ground by its wings. I winced at the roughness with which she handled him and tried to get to my feet to get him back, but Mephistopheles was holding my arms, freezing me solid with his demonic touch, so that all I could do was watch in horror as Lilith devoured the baby before its screaming mother’s eyes.
‘God will forgive me,’ Mephistopheles murmured in my ear with soft mockery. ‘He’ll forgive us all eventually.’
And with the demon’s words still echoing in my mind, the dream scene tore away from me and I woke up sweating and shaking in my bed.
25th December (Christmas Day)
Today was beautiful to begin with. Casey and I went to a Christmas service in St Stephen’s Basilica in the morning. The heavy snowfall during the night had dressed the city in a frozen, fine white robe of Christmas finery that sparkled at us as we walked through the streets to the cathedral.
People seemed more friendly than usual, and every family we passed stopped to wish us good morning and a merry Christmas. It was odd, really, and I wondered what made the day so special, so magnificent, for those who were not religious. For me the day was sacred for marking the time when Jesus Christ was born, but I couldn’t understand what made the day anything other than ordinary for non-believers.
The sun shone radiantly through the stained-glass windows of the Basilica, the holy music of Christmas hymns lifted to the great arched roof, and sculptured angels gazed down upon us in virtuous approval. We ate out for both lunch and dinner, since neither of us knew how to go about cooking a Christmas meal. I didn’t want Casey to be sat on her own in her apartment all day thinking about her family, so I tried to fill the day with things to keep us busy. I’m sure she appreciated the effort but I know she couldn’t help thinking of her parents and her brother, and the Christmas she had been having with them just this time last year. But for me, having someone to share Christmas with was wonderful. I had not been condemned to spend the hallowed day sat in my apartment staring at the walls thinking about Nicky and Luke after all.
‘Do you miss Luke?’ Casey had asked me at one point.
I looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t remember him.’
‘But do you miss him anyway?’ she persisted.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Does that sound crazy to you?’
‘No,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I love my baby and I’ve never even met him. I don’t even know where he’s come from! That’s crazy, isn’t it? How can you love someone so much when you don’t even know them at all?’
When we returned to our apartment building late after dinner, Casey invited me in for a glass of hot mulled wine. Of course, I gladly accepted since I hadn’t given her her present yet, not really wanting to do it in front of everyone in the crowded public restaurants.
We walked in to Casey’s drab little apartment, and I thought as she heated the wine that I really should look into moving both of us to better accommodation in a nicer part of the city. She had decorated her apartment for Christmas even though she was alone. She told me that she had bought the few cheap decorations and strings of ribbon at one of the open-air Christmas markets with her last pay cheque. I loved her for the small, rather pathetic Christmas tree that stood on the kitchen worktop, decorated with grubby bits of ribbon, and for the cheap wreath she had hung on the door.
‘I hope today hasn’t been too hard for you,’ I said, as I watched Casey arranging mince pies on a plate.
She shrugged. ‘I really miss my family,’ she admitted. ‘All of them. Even though I know that the way I remember them is a lie. My parents . . . hurt me so much that I know they couldn’t have been the people I thought they were, because those people would never have dreamed of hurting me the way they did. So when I miss my parents, I know I don’t really miss them, I just miss the people I thought they were. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid it does.’
‘Thank you for being there,’ Casey said, turning to look back at me. ‘You don’t know what a difference it’s made.’
‘I’ll always be here when you need me,’ I promised, and I had never meant anything more in my life. I would follow her to hell and back if I had to.
Casey smiled at me, handed over a mug of mulled wine and put the plate of mince pies on the table. Then she sat down herself and placed a small wrapped package before me.
‘What’s this?’ I asked stupidly.
‘A Christmas present, Gabriel,’ she said, laughing. ‘What do you think it is? I didn’t use the money you gave me,’ she added quickly. ‘It really is from me. I sold a few things to get it.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said, upset by the idea.
‘They were only things I didn’t need any more anyway,’ she said, brushing it aside. ‘Open it, then. I hope it’s okay. You’re not very easy to buy for.’
In all honesty, if I had unwrapped it to find a slice of stale bread I think I would have treasured it like a holy relic until the end of my days. We had been strangers before. Look where I had brought us. Casey wanted me in her life now. She trusted me. I wanted to freeze this moment, for it seemed impossible that I could ever be happier than I was right then.
When I folded aside the Christmas wrappin
g and the white tissue paper beneath, a shining black object on a silver chain fell out onto my hand. It was a carved black onyx crucifix glinting with tiny flecks of gold. I adored it at once. Surely Nicky herself could never have bought me a gift so perfect.
‘I got it from the Christmas market in Vörösmarty Square,’ Casey said. ‘People used to believe the crucifix would protect them from evil. You’re going to think I’m being stupid but . . . would you mind wearing it? Under your shirt or something? I know it’s silly but I’d just feel better if I knew you were wearing it.’
I looked at her, a stupid grin on my face. ‘You worry about me.’
Why did that please me so much?
‘Of course I worry about you, Gabriel. We’re both in this up to our necks, aren’t we? Don’t you feel frightened sometimes?’
Not for myself. It was clear that my own life had ended when my family had died. But here, now, this had become something more than friendship, hadn’t it?