Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  “Paul, there’s so much to tell you and I want to hear your story too. But perhaps I should start.”

  At that I turned back towards her and settled myself carefully against the thwarts, eager to listen. “Yes, but most of all, I want to know how you got here and how you found me. I didn’t think anyone could possibly know where I was. In fact, how did you know? When I was dragged onto that slaver, I thought I’d finally had it.”

  Roz leaned forward and took my hand carefully, something I found strangely comforting and, smiling with appreciation, I nodded for her to continue. Thinking quickly, she determined I would have to know everything, even her deepest feelings, so she decided there was nothing for it but to go all the way back to the last time we’d been together. Sparing nothing, but beginning with her deep hurt at being told she wasn’t wanted, she related in detail all that had happened between my flight from Eldoret and her appearance on the dhow. Astounded and somewhat ashamed, I listened in silence as she told me of her defiance in the face of despair and of her determination to find me, whatever it might cost. And paying close attention, not only did my admiration for and delight in this extraordinary and selfless girl grow steadily stronger, but the fragility of my position hit me full and square between the eyes.

  Now, for the first time, I could begin to appreciate the whole picture and to understand why we hadn’t just sailed into Malindi and gone straight to the police, or at least the nearest doctor. From what I was hearing, a visit to the local police station would simply have ended in our arrest, questioning and no doubt impossible demands for proof of innocence. And virtue was the one thing I couldn’t prove without corroborating evidence from at least one of the many crooks with whom I’d been in contact. Without them to confirm what had happened, how likely was it that I would be believed and so avoid yet another spell in yet another gaol? After all, from where would the proof come, when the only tangible part of the whole chain of events was probably already on its way north to Somalia? Obtaining corroboration would require more help than the police force was likely to provide. Slavery behind, gaol ahead. It was going to be down to me alone, I thought. Anyway, for now it seemed like an impasse and too great a problem to even begin to consider. So when I did eventually come to it, I’d have to be a bit sharper than I currently felt. Besides, right then there wasn’t a single part of my body that wasn’t in active rebellion. From my throbbing head to my lacerated feet, everything hurt and that ensured the impossibility of rational thought. So, thrusting the quandary weakly aside, I took refuge in closing my eyes and leaning carefully back against the thwarts. Not forgetting to roll my head onto her shoulder.

  Was it only a heartbeat, or was it hours later? I couldn’t tell but, warmed by the regular shift between sail shade and beating sun, my grateful body had relaxed, lulled by the gentle, insistent rocking of our transport. With the advent of a slight breeze coming off the land, there was change in the air temperature too but, even better, I could detect a definite, if modest, lessening of pain. Always assuming that wasn’t just down to lack of movement. Whatever else, I felt a sense of detachment: of being safe, hidden in a womb, of being protected from anything that could offer further hurt. A sensation I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. If ever. Almost immediately deep and irresistible sleep drifted back over me and with it, a further unknown passage of time. So, just as before, I was unable to determine how long it had been before I felt the gentle scrape of the boat’s keel against soft sand and heard the altered sound of water lapping against a beached object. Strong hands lifted me and momentary shafts of flashing pain rippled down my back and thighs. But that didn’t last long. Despite the transfer from boat to hut, I quickly and firmly faded into oblivion again and was aware of nothing further until thirst drove my body reluctantly back to consciousness and to that now familiar feeling of being closely watched. Albeit and unknown to me, Roz wasn’t the only one doing the watching.

  Chapter 45

  “So what”, the sibilant, baleful, almost whispered demand taunted, “So what exactly kept you from reporting your incompetence immediately?”

  Still seething from the way he had been virtually ignored by the commander’s Aide-de-Camp (a useless lackey if he’d ever seen one) but inwardly quaking with fear, Arcturus waited in the certain knowledge that this time, without some sort of a miracle (detested concept put about by the Enemy), legendary legion commander though he felt himself to be, he was nevertheless doomed. Surreptitiously, he glanced around at the almost familiar surroundings. He’d been here before, but if ever he needed his wits about him, it was on this occasion, because there was no doubting the supreme danger facing him. True, he’d been centre-stage before, ranged in front of the same high-ranking demon, the same dark power. However, in the past he’d always been here to receive some reluctantly offered accolade or other (why was success so resented in Hell’s corridors?). Sometimes he’d even been here to receive a begrudged promotion, following the extermination of yet another superior who had fouled up, just as he now stood accused.

  * * *

  Exposed and unarmed, Arcturus waited in the middle of the vast and threatening cavern, whose deep shadows masked its far reaches and whose sparsely furnished galleries hung heavy with an eerie stench of sulphurous death. A bouquet that pervaded any and every stronghold belonging to his satanic lords and masters. Senses honed from eons of in-fighting, Arcturus didn’t need to be told that from within the darkness several pairs of scheming eyes, vertical slits narrowed by anticipation, were staring in unblinking calculation and cruel expectation, as their owners waited for the expected charade to play itself out. Eyes that belonged to impatient and ambitious contemporaries, every owner as ready and willing to run a blade through the ill-fated legionnaire as spit, if they thought it would further their own dire cause. For them, Arcturus simply represented a block on the promotion ladder. For him, they symbolised death. All they had to do was wait and, when the commander gave his usual ‘thumb parallel to the floor’ signal, Arcturus would be dispatched in a few gory seconds. They knew it and he knew it. Yet here, in front of him, the emaciated old putrescence that was his commanding officer remained utterly still. To Arcturus, he seemed almost hesitant, leathery old wings that denoted a once high and glorious rank within the Heavenly host wrapped tightly around his scabby back. Curiously, eternity had been far less kind to him than to most of them. Almost as though he had somehow been infected by the humans’ problem of ageing.

  Yet for all his vacillation, Josephus remained a terrifying threat. Prescience gripped him and Arcturus shivered with fear. There was a well-documented and, for the moment, tightly controlled ferocity reserved within that tense, uncanny and completely uncharacteristic stillness. Undecided his nemesis might still be, but involuntary shivers of dread continued to course through Arcturus who, despite or perhaps because of the circumstances, still fought to hide any hint of weakness. It was a very long time since he had himself first waited and watched from that very gloom, slavering just like the ones he couldn’t quite see, as his erstwhile squadron commander had stood where he now stood. A very long time since he had first observed the blind rage that underpinned the nightmarish hierarchy constituting all authority in the kingdom of the fallen. And yet, was it possible he really had detected a momentary indecision, perhaps moderation in the well-practiced malevolence? He could only hope (dread word that, mostly confined to the humans he so despised). And for his part, watching the terrified legate standing to attention in front of him, Josephus was surprised to detect few obvious signs of the fear he normally instilled in subordinates. Clearly, this centurion was different, although why, he could not for the moment fathom. But it gave him pause to think, to reflect for a while on the millennia he had been in control, the countless times he had initiated deliberate mayhem and untold obscenity from this very office, this epicentre of his power. The arch-demon swayed slightly, hunching low behind the huge ebony desk that hid his twisted, almost useless legs from the gaze of the helpless
offender, still braced stiffly in front of him.

  Sweat was beginning to bead Arcturus’ temples, but given the threads of heat emanating from the ground beneath him, that was hardly surprising. Below him waited a drop too awful to contemplate and, worst of all, he had no hope of taking anyone else with him. When you get right down to it, misery really does love company. And Arcturus knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that as soon as his commander gave the signal, nothing could stop the inevitable and devastating attack with which the spectators would react. First disembowelling him, they would then slowly and ostentatiously open the covers to the awful pit from which there was never any return. And watch with ghoulish fascination, as he took the last long fall to his doom. Not for the first time in his existence, Arcturus despaired. The awful nature of his treachery towards the God of the universe, perpetrated in those far-off and heady days of rebellion, once more crashing down around him. How often had that happened? He had no idea. So often in the early days he had dreamed of reversing that offensive and precipitate decision, of throwing himself on God’s mercy, but he’d always known in his heart of hearts that the very luminosity of Heaven would destroy him. The rebellion had wrought its devastating and irreversible changes. He had fallen from grace and that was that. From that very first moment he had known he was incapable of going back, of surviving in divine light. Darkness suited his fallen nature and his conscience was now too seared to recognise or even properly remember the gratuitous and utterly destructive error that had led to his ruin. The original decision to throw in his lot with Satan. There was simply no way to make amends, no way to regain the beauty of the Heavens he had once known, the endless peace and rewarding purpose he had once experienced in such incredible abundance. And that embodied the very nature of his personal Hell. To know for all time, for all eternity, that on the one occasion when it had mattered, really mattered, he had made the wrong choice. And how he had paid for that since. Paid endlessly for what he had immediately afterwards realised was almost unimaginable stupidity. Once again, misery wrapped its ghastly chains around his desiccated heart, and hopelessness skittered across the cesspit of his mind, dragging him ever further into wretchedness. What could be worse than being condemned to live on throughout eternity, weighed down with burning chains, ordained to maintain consciousness indefinitely, unable to pull down the final curtain? Ever. Moreover, to be mired in the fiery pit that allegedly awaited him was utterly beyond his comprehension. For despite Hell’s official position on the matter, he was certain this was indeed the pre-destined fate they all faced. Only in his case not yet, please. Not yet. To forever know you were locked into the single most stupid decision it was possible to make in this universe and burn for it? Truly, that was Hell.

  Then, cutting through his fevered reverie and as though from a great distance, Arcturus caught the feral menace of his inquisitor. “Tell me exactly why you lost Paul, excrescence? And tell me in a way that doesn’t leave you dangling on the end of my sword.”

  For sure the last thing Arcturus needed was to remain preoccupied, but true to form, his commander’s words concentrated his mind wonderfully. Only why was the chief concerned about the young man? Surely the problem had been the woman? Hadn’t the angels left him alone right up until the time she had appeared below the slaver? As far as he knew, they had never shown much interest in the young man called Paul. Yes, the girl was interested in him, but these humans, especially the young ones, were always showing an interest in one another. In fact, it had long been his job to spoil such interests wherever he had found them. To sour relationships whenever he could or, at the very least, to break down trust, especially by diverting them into perverse sexual cravings. Above all, to ensure they didn’t accept the Enemy’s open invitation to ditch their allegiance to Satan and place their hope, their future, their trust in Jesus of Nazareth, the Creator’s Son. That was basic to any demon’s mission. But was it possible that, too caught up in the fundamentals of what he was supposed to be doing, he had missed the obvious? Laid himself open to the most dangerous charge of all? The loss of a soul to the Enemy. Yet even in his extremity, Arcturus recognised he was being handed a sliver of hope, a possible amnesty, and a future that hadn’t been there seconds before. He had actually been invited to provide an explanation that might not signal his immediate death. Why, he had absolutely no idea, but that hardly mattered. If the boy really was the problem and Josephus was still talking to him, it was highly likely Paul hadn’t changed sides yet. There could be a way out. His particular skills must be needed if the boy was to be terminated without arousing Heaven’s ire. It was the only rational explanation.

  Thinking with the lightning speed for which he was duly notorious and rapidly factoring in the assumption that it was the boy who interested the boss, Arcturus launched what he saw as his only chance. To plead mitigation on the grounds that he’d kept the boy from fulfilling Satan’s worst fears (a pure guess); that the boy and the girl were now together where he could, so to speak, kill two birds with one stone and the legionnaires assigned to him had been far worse than any he had been saddled with before (no lie there, by way of a change). Yes, there was possibly a ‘get out of gaol free’ card somewhere in there. So he’d better keep some of that powder dry for the denouement. A bit of clever nuancing of the fact that not only had he been understaffed and saddled with a completely useless guard force, but his present circumstances were the direct result of decisions made by a demon Arcturus knew to be currently out of favour (a master stroke!). But he would have to begin by assiduously stroking the commander’s massive and perverted ego.

  “Honoured Commander-in-Chief,” he began: “Since the dawn of that wonderful day when you stood firm with our supreme lord and master, His Satanic Majesty, the great Prince Lucifer, and together with him, founded this invincible kingdom, you will know that I have served you loyally and with every ounce of my being in the many ranks you have seen fit to bestow upon your humble servant….”

  Chapter 46

  Josephus’ eyes closed momentarily as the opening words stroked his battered psyche and provided a certain balm to the juddering waves of foreboding that, for some considerable time, had been coursing through his depraved spirit. Allowing his attention to wander, his mind fled to the ill-received tidings of particular adjustments in the Heavenly realm brought to him recently from the outer reaches of the empire. Tidings that had not, could not, remain secret for very long and that, he suspected, were even now sweeping the corridors of power, in the guise of whispered outrage. Outrage that would gain in strength with every repetition. Rumour following upon rumour, no doubt accompanied by nervous eyes darting to and fro, limbs trembling and hearts failing as the dreadful possibilities behind the gossip expanded rapidly from imagination to received fact. If things ran true to form, someone, somewhere, would yet again start putting two and two together to make five, having noted, with growing panic, the seemingly inexplicable and substantial increase in Heavenly activity.

  True, such rumours were forever sweeping the satanic courts. Equally true, one day there would be real reason to panic if the Creator’s special book, that odious collection of sixty-six texts they called the Bible, perversely enough brought together under one cover, was actually reaching its prophesied conclusion: utter humiliation and catastrophe for Lucifer and his kingdom. There couldn’t be a single one of Lucifer’s hangers-on who didn’t know what those Scriptures foretold, who hadn’t surreptitiously read the script, even if very few would admit to the act and even fewer to giving the writings any credence.

  In official circles the Bible was only ever referred to as “that monstrous manuscript” and it was unanimously loathed and formally distrusted, if for no other reason than it had been presented as a gift to what God considered to be His foremost act of creation: His beloved humans (which left them, the ‘fallen angels’, where exactly?). Humans considered it to be ‘their’ Bible and those Satan had once been entitled to hold captive as his personal slaves, with no hope of rem
ission or pardon, now claimed it set out the terms for their manumission or liberation. All tied up with Jesus, that embodiment of God, who they’d managed to crucify just outside Jerusalem. Josephus still shuddered at the memory. Until that terrifying day, every human had been Satan’s by right, each one of them having forfeited their freedom by willingly and/or knowingly rejecting God as their king. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, those same humans had remained the singular and all-consuming object of God’s love. The ultimate reason behind His every act of creation and preparation, as He structured the universe for its final destiny. Namely, the honouring of humans as restored members of His family, fellow heirs with Jesus to the riches of Heaven. The very person whom Satan had had killed, but whom he hadn’t been able to stop rising up from the grave three days later.

  And there was the nub of the problem. One which he, Josephus, had never been able to fully grasp. Despite his and Lucifer’s every effort to disparage and destroy the God/man relationship, uncounted hordes of the despicable humans still put their trust and hope in His Son, Jesus. And the idiots were forever quoting the Bible. Which, many were convinced, set out history from God’s point of view, together with an account of His merciful love for them. And they referred to this book as ‘His Written Word’, and to Jesus as His ‘Living Word’. And if neither he, nor Lucifer (indeed, none of the hierarchy) could fully comprehend the deal, then it was surely no coincidence that their minions, Hell’s apathetic denizens, showed even less understanding. How could the prophecy that mankind would one day attain to higher rank than angels be allowed to happen? Why, it would mean they might even have authority over Satan, the greatest sentient being ever created. Sacrilege! Even God had once called him ‘the Bright Morning Star’. Which Josephus knew was still able to stiffen Satan’s spine ever so slightly, whenever the subject came up. Before his mood inevitably turned, yet again, to fury over his spectacular fall from grace and his eternal exile from the real corridors of power. Annoyingly, even the humans Satan had managed to turn back from worship of God to a worship of himself, far too often acknowledged (despite themselves) that the Creator’s book retained a certain life and truth of its own. No matter what Hell did to offset its influence, that ‘Book of Books’ still spoke to all men everywhere about the One who had made them, and to whom they owed their true allegiance. Disgustingly, it even majored on sacrificial, romantic and all-consuming love (And how could anyone continue to believe such things in the face of all that Hell put out to the contrary?).