Visitants-Stories of Fallen Angels and Heavenly Hosts

by Stephen Jones (ed)

  She snuggled close with a kind of sigh, and presented her lips to be kissed. In the half-light her lips were black. We kissed for a little, and I stroked her breasts through her blouse, on the couch; and then she said:

  “We can’t fuck. I’m on my period.”

  “Fine.”

  “I can give you a blow job, if you’d like.”

  I nodded assent, and she unzipped my jeans, and lowered her head to my lap.

  After I had come, she got up and ran into the kitchen. I heard her spitting into the sink, and the sound of running water: I remember wondering why she did it, if she hated the taste that much.

  Then she returned and we sat next to each other on the couch.

  “Susan’s upstairs, asleep,” said Tink. “She’s all I live for. Would you like to see her?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  We went upstairs. Tink led me into a darkened bedroom. There were child-scrawl pictures all over the walls—wax-crayoned drawings of winged fairies and little palaces—and a small, fair-haired girl was asleep in the bed.

  “She’s very beautiful,” said Tink, and kissed me. Her lips were still slightly sticky. “She takes after her father.”

  We went downstairs. We had nothing else to say, nothing else to do. Tink turned on the main light. For the first time I noticed tiny crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes, incongruous on her perfect, Barbie-doll face.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like a ride back?”

  “If you don’t mind leaving Susan alone ... ?”

  She shrugged, and I pulled her to me for the last time.

  At night, Los Angeles is all lights. And shadows.

  A blank, here, in my mind. I simply don’t remember what happened next. She must have driven me back to the place where I was staying— how else would I have gotten there? I do not even remember kissing her goodbye. Perhaps I simply waited on the sidewalk and watched her drive away.

  Perhaps.

  I do know, however, that once I reached the place I was staying I just stood there, unable to go inside, to wash and then to sleep, unwilling to do anything else.

  I was not hungry. I did not want alcohol. I did not want to read, or talk. I was scared of walking too far, in case I became lost, bedeviled by the repeating motifs of Los Angeles, spun around and sucked in so I could never find my way home again. Central Los Angeles sometimes seems to me to be nothing more than a pattern, like a set of repeating blocks: a gas station, a few homes, a mini-mall (donuts, photo developers, laundromats, fast-foods), and repeat until hypnotized; and the tiny changes in the mini-malls and the houses only serve to reinforce the structure.

  I thought of Tink’s lips. Then I fumbled in a pocket of my jacket, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  I lit one, inhaled, blew blue smoke into the warm night air.

  There was a stunted palm tree growing outside the place I was staying, and I resolved to walk for a way, keeping the tree in sight, to smoke my cigarette, perhaps even to think; but I felt too drained to think. I felt very sexless, and very alone.

  A block or so down the road there was a bench, and when I reached it I sat down. I threw the stub of the cigarette onto the pavement, hard, and watched it shower orange sparks.

  Someone said, “I’ll buy a cigarette off you, pal. Here.”

  A hand, in front of my face, holding a quarter. I looked up.

  He did not look old, although I would not have been prepared to say how old he was. Late thirties, perhaps. Mid-forties. He wore a long, shabby coat, colorless under the yellow street lamps, and his eyes were dark.

  “Here. A quarter. That’s a good price.”

  I shook my head, pulled out the packet of Marlboros, offered him one. “Keep your money. It’s free. Have it.”

  He took the cigarette. I passed him a book of matches (it advertised a telephone sex line; I remember that), and he lit the cigarette. He offered me the matches back, and I shook my head. “Keep them. I always wind up accumulating books of matches in America.”

  “Uh huh.” He sat next to me, and smoked his cigarette. When he had smoked it halfway down, he tapped the lighted end off on the concrete, stubbed out the glow, and placed the butt of the cigarette behind his ear.

  “I don’t smoke much,” he said. “Seems a pity to waste it, though.”

  A car careened down the road, veering from one side to the other. There were four young men in the car: the two in the front were both pulling at the wheel, and laughing. The windows were wound down, and I could hear their laughter, and the two in the back seat (“Gaary, you asshole! What the fuck are you onnn mannnn?”) and the pulsing beat of a rock song. Not a song I recognized. The car looped around a corner, out of sight.

  Soon the sounds were gone, too.

  “I owe you,” said the man on the bench.

  “Sorry?”

  “I owe you something. For the cigarette. And the matches. You wouldn’t take the money. I owe you.”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. “Really, it’s just a cigarette. I figure, if I give people cigarettes, then if ever I’m out, maybe people will give me cigarettes.” I laughed, to show I didn’t really mean it, although I did. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Mm. You want to hear a story? True story? Stories always used to be good payment. These days ... ,” he shrugged, “... not so much.”

  I sat back on the bench, and the night was warm, and I looked at my watch: it was almost one in the morning. In England a freezing new day would already have begun: a work-day would be starting for those who could beat the snow and get into work; another handful of old people, and those without homes, would have died, in the night, from the cold.

  “Sure,” I said to the man. “Sure. Tell me a story.”

  He coughed, grinned white teeth—a flash in the darkness—and he began.

  “First thing I remember was the Word. And the Word was God. Sometimes, when I get really down, I remember the sound of the Word in my head, shaping me, forming me, giving me life.

  “The Word gave me a body, gave me eyes. And I opened my eyes, and I saw the light of the Silver City.

  “I was in a room—a silver room—and there wasn’t anything in it except me. In front of me was a window, that went from floor to ceiling, open to the sky, and through the window I could see the spires of the City, and at the edge of the City, the Dark.

  “I don’t know how long I waited there. I wasn’t impatient or anything, though. I remember that. It was like I was waiting until I was called; and I knew that some time I would be called. And if I had to wait until the end of everything, and never be called, why, that was fine, too. But I’d be called, I was certain of that. And then I’d know my name, and my function.

  “Through the window I could see silver spires, and in many of the other spires were windows; and in the windows I could see others like me. That was how I knew what I looked like.

  “You wouldn’t think it of me, seeing me now, but I was beautiful. I’ve come down in the world a way since then.

  “I was taller then, and I had wings.

  “They were huge and powerful wings, with feathers the color of mother-of-pearl. They came out from just between my shoulder blades. They were so good. My wings.

  “Sometimes I’d see others like me, the ones who’d left their rooms, who were already fulfilling their duties. I’d watch them soar through the sky from spire to spire, performing errands I could barely imagine.

  “The sky above the City was a wonderful thing. It was always light, although lit by no sun—lit, perhaps by the City itself: but the quality of light was forever changing. Now pewter-colored light, then brass, then a gentle gold, or a soft and quiet amethyst ...”

  The man stopped talking. He looked at me, his head on one side. There was a glitter in his eyes that scared me. “You know what amethyst is? A kind of purple stone?”

  I nodded.

  My crotch felt uncomfortable.

&nbs
p; It occurred to me then that the man might not be mad; I found this far more disquieting than the alternative.

  The man began talking once more. “I don’t know how long it was that I waited, in my room. But time didn’t mean anything. Not back then. We had all the time in the world.

  “The next thing that happened to me was when the angel Lucifer came to my cell. He was taller than me, and his wings were imposing, his plumage perfect. He had skin the color of sea-mist, and curly silver hair, and these wonderful grey eyes ...

  “I say he, but you should understand that none of us had any sex, to speak of.” He gestured towards his lap. “Smooth and empty. Nothing there. You know.

  “Lucifer shone. I mean it—he glowed from inside. All angels do. They’re lit up from within, and in my cell the angel Lucifer burned like a lightning storm.

  “He looked at me. And he named me.

  “‘You are Raguel,’ he said. ‘The vengeance of the Lord.’

  “I bowed my head, because I knew it was true. That was my name. That was my function.

  “‘There has been a ... a wrong thing,’ he said. ‘The first of its kind. You are needed.’

  “He turned and pushed himself into space, and I followed him, flew behind him across the Silver City, to the outskirts, where the City stops and the Darkness begins; and it was there, under a vast silver spire, that we descended to the street, and I saw the dead angel.

  “The body lay, crumpled and broken, on the silver sidewalk. Its wings were crushed underneath it and a few loose feathers had already blown into the silver gutter.

  “The body was almost dark. Now and again a light would flash inside it, an occasional flicker of cold fire in the chest, or in the eyes, or in the sexless groin, as the last of the glow of life left it forever.

  “Blood pooled in rubies on its chest and stained its white wing-feathers crimson. It was very beautiful, even in death.

  “It would have broken your heart.

  “Lucifer spoke to me, then. ‘You must find who was responsible for this, and how; and take the Vengeance of the Name on whomever caused this thing to happen.’

  “He really didn’t have to say anything. I knew that already. The hunt, and the retribution: it was what I was created for, in the Beginning; it was what I was.

  “‘I have work to attend to,’ said the angel Lucifer.

  “He flapped his wings, once, hard, and rose upwards; the gust of wind sent the dead angel’s loose feathers blowing across the street.

  “I leaned down to examine the body. All luminescence had by now left it. It was a dark thing; a parody of an angel. It had a perfect, sexless face, framed by silver hair. One of the eyelids was open, revealing a placid grey eye; the other was closed. There were no nipples on the chest and only smoothness between the legs.

  “I lifted the body up.

  “The back of the angel was a mess. The wings were broken and twisted; the back of the head stove in; there was a floppiness to the corpse that made me think its spine had been broken as well. The back of the angel was all blood.

  “The only blood on its front was in the chest area. I probed it with my forefinger, and it entered the body without difficulty.

  “He fell, I thought. And he was dead before he fell.

  “And I looked up at the windows that ranked the street. I stared across the Silver City. You did this, I thought. I will find you, whoever you are. And I will take the Lord’s vengeance upon you.”

  The man took the cigarette stub from behind his ear, lit it with a match. Briefly I smelled the ashtray smell of a dead cigarette, acrid and harsh; then he pulled down to the unburnt tobacco, exhaled blue smoke into the night air.

  “The angel who had first discovered the body was called Phanuel.

  “I spoke to him in the Hall of Being. That was the spire beside which the dead angel lay. In the Hall hung the ... the blueprints, maybe, for what was going to be ... all this.” He gestured with the hand that held the stubby cigarette, pointing to the night sky and the parked cars and the world. “You know. The universe.”

  “Phanuel was the senior designer; working under him were a multitude of angels laboring on the details of The Creation. I watched him from the floor of the Hall. He hung in the air below the Plan, and angels flew down to him, waiting politely in turn as they asked him questions, checked things with him, invited comment on their work. Eventually he left them, and descended to the floor.

  “‘You are Raguel,’ he said. His voice was high, and fussy. ‘What need have you of me?’

  “‘You found the body?’

  “‘Poor Carasel? Indeed I did. I was leaving the Hall—there are a number of concepts we are currently constructing, and I wished to ponder one of them, Regret, by name. I was planning to get a little distance from the City—to fly above it, I mean, not to go into the Dark outside, I wouldn’t do that, although there has been a some loose talk amongst ... but, yes. I was going to rise, and contemplate.

  “‘I left the Hall, and ... ,’ he broke off. He was small, for an angel. His light was muted, but his eyes were vivid and bright. I mean really bright. ‘Poor Carasel. How could he do that to himself? How?’

  “‘You think his destruction was self-inflicted?’

  “He seemed puzzled—surprised that there could be any other explanation. ‘But of course. Carasel was working under me, developing a number of concepts that shall be intrinsic to the Universe, when its Name shall be spoken. His group did a remarkable job on some of the real basics—Dimension was one, and Sleep another. There were others.

  “‘Wonderful work. Some of his suggestions regarding the use of individual viewpoints to define dimensions were truly ingenious.

  “‘Anyway. He had begun work on a new project. It’s one of the really major ones—the ones that I would usually handle, or possibly even Zephkiel,’ he glanced upward. ‘But Carasel had done such sterling work. And his last project was so remarkable. Something apparently quite trivial, that he and Saraquael elevated into ...’ he shrugged. ‘But that is unimportant. It was this project that forced him into non-being. But none of us could ever have foreseen ...’

  “‘What was his current project?’

  “Phanuel stared at me. ‘I’m not sure I ought to tell you. All the new concepts are considered sensitive, until we get them into the final form in which they will be Spoken.’

  “I felt myself transforming. I am not sure how I can explain it to you, but suddenly I wasn’t me—I was something larger. I was transfigured: I was my function.

  “Phanuel was unable to meet my gaze.

  “‘I am Raguel, who is the Vengeance of the Lord,’ I told him. ‘I serve the Name directly. It is my mission to discover the nature of this deed, and to take the Name’s vengeance on those responsible. My questions are to be answered.’

  “The little angel trembled, and he spoke fast.

  “‘Carasel and his partner were researching Death. Cessation of life. An end to physical, animated existence. They were putting it all together. But Carasel always went too far into his work—we had a terrible time with him when he was designing Agitation. That was when he was working on Emotions ...’

  “‘You think Carasel died to—to research the phenomenon?’

  “‘Or because it intrigued him. Or because he followed his research just too far. Yes.’ Phanuel flexed his fingers, stared at me with those brightly shining eyes. ‘I trust that you will repeat none of this to any unauthorized persons, Raguel.’

  “‘What did you do when you found the body?’

  “‘I came out of the Hall, as I said, and there was Carasel on the sidewalk, staring up. I asked him what he was doing and he did not reply. Then I noticed the inner fluid, and that Carasel seemed unable, rather than unwilling, to talk to me.

  “‘I was scared. I did not know what to do.

  “‘The angel Lucifer came up behind me. He asked me if there was some kind of problem. I told him. I showed him the body. And then ... then his Aspect came upon
him, and he communed with The Name. He burned so bright.

  “‘Then he said he had to fetch the one whose function embraced events like this, and he left—to seek you, I imagine.

  “‘As Carasel’s death was now being dealt with, and his fate was no real concern of mine, I returned to work, having gained a new—and I suspect, quite valuable—perspective on the mechanics of Regret.

  “‘I am considering taking Death away from the Carasel and Saraquael partnership. I may reassign it to Zephkiel, my senior partner, if he is willing to take it on. He excels on contemplative projects.’