Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  However, in the end they were always forced to consider the inevitable question: was this, finally, the event promised from the dawn of time (Satan would always strenuously deny it, but everyone knew he was the father of lies), when God would banish them and anything evil to the so-called ‘Hell of fire’? Permanently. Fortunately, humans didn’t generally believe in such a fate either, which made them easier to control. But there wasn’t a single one of Satan’s minions who didn’t feel he knew the truth of it (whatever they might admit to). A reality with which they were faced every time one of their own forfeited his life and was banished to the lower and definitely hotter regions. In particular, that wretched Book prophesied a time of increased activity in Heaven and on Earth just prior to the ultimate Day of Judgement, after which God would apparently fashion a new Earth and a new Heaven. Neither of which would contain anything bad or, incredibly, any of their own kind. Hence the panic.

  So, all things considered, perhaps this was a time when it would be better to retain every well-tried warrior for employment on the front line. After all, they weren’t just fighting on one front. No. Regular squadron detachments still had to be arranged to maintain hostilities on Heaven’s rolling plains, no matter how much the rank and file might rebel against exposure to its painful light, attenuated though it was by their special armour. Absolutely no doubt about it, Arcturus deserved a suitably gruesome disembowelling, followed by banishment to the tender mercies of Abbadon. Indeed, it was true that he, Josephus, got a great deal of satisfaction out of pronouncing such fateful punishments. An immense and continuing pleasure from sending these failures, these useless and depraved spirits who had the temerity to fall short of his demands, to the hidden delights of the pit. So, yes, perhaps in this case he could kill two birds with one stone and add considerably to his overall gratification in the long term. All he had to do was let Arcturus know that his guilt was decided and his expulsion to the pit inevitable and, at the same time, delay the date of execution. Certainly until after Paul Moncton had been dealt with. Perhaps longer if the rumours persisted. That way, he not only kept a particularly experienced legate who could still be useful, but he would be able to revel in the knowledge that Arcturus would have his ultimate fate constantly in mind, with all the terror that would inspire. Machiavellian!

  What’s more, he could also confirm to colleagues and superiors alike just how shrewd he really was. Of course, what neither Arcturus nor any of the dolts he commanded knew was that something had finally been put right by management and reports were, at long last, filtering up to those who needed to see them. And the name of Paul Moncton had featured on a number of occasions. Which meant Heaven really was interested in him. And if Heaven wasn’t soon thwarted, the boy could clearly cause trouble. So, pre-emptive action by Josephus might provide a sop to the usual seething anger and screaming frustration that accompanied encounters with Lucifer. And he could report that for some time he had been preparing to frustrate Heaven. It wasn’t often he could beat Heaven to the draw, but this time he was sure he had exposed one of their favourites before any harm had been done. Reporting this with due solemnity to Lucifer would surely earn him some accolade? After all, Machiavelli might have been viewed as exceptional, but where had he learned his trade? At the hands of the supreme leader, Lucifer, of course (with perhaps a certain degree of help from his evil self). Yes, a good plan. Grunting with the effort, Josephus shifted, opened his eyes, glared at Arcturus, raised himself to his full if rather diminished height and, waving his right hand dismissively, cut Arcturus off, just as he was getting into his stride.

  “Enough, fool! There is no more to be said. You will show Abbadon what a useless blemish you really are… but not quite yet.” Ah, yes. It was all in the timing and he was still a master of the art. As he spoke, his out-of-sight hand signalled with a thumb held vertically downwards, and the demons waiting for the announcement to strike merely shrugged, hid their disappointment and drew their swords with as much noise as they could generate, still happy to teach Arcturus a lesson. Unfortunately, restricted to the flat of their blades on this occasion. Which didn’t stop Arcturus, who hadn’t seen the thumb gesture, or worked out what had really been conveyed, from beginning to wail in abject terror. It was only much later, as he nursed his bruised body and damaged pride that he discovered the precise nature of malevolence intrinsic to an indefinitely delayed sentence of execution. Coupled with his ‘temporary’ assignment to ensure Moncton didn’t change allegiance, the whole bound up with orders to frustrate Heaven. A death sentence, whichever way you looked at it.

  Chapter 47

  Watching me out of the corner of her eye during our first night ashore, Roz had concluded, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she loved me. Nor would her passionate nature brook any intervention in the matter. A nature which adversaries had learned to disregard at their peril (no doubt there were those who could testify to that amongst the crew of a certain dhow). Throughout the night she had stood close guard as I lay, oblivious to the world, stirring fitfully and snoring gently through slightly parted, heavily bruised lips. And during those same hours her love had not only matured, but successfully countered its own uncertainties. Hence, with the dawning of a new day and a long, sleepless night of reflection behind her, she was able, finally and fully, to acknowledge to herself that she could conceive of no desirable future that failed to contain me. So there she stood, in love with a man who had so far given her little cause for hope; a contemporary by birth, but one who might as well have been an alien for all she knew of attitudes and outlook, hopes and fears. Nevertheless, one whom she was convinced held the key to her future. The only obvious problem being whether I would be equally convinced.

  * * *

  And what of me during all of this? How often in those early days of liberty did a return to consciousness simply mean a resurgence of the all-consuming pain that flooded my slowly healing body? I don’t suppose I ever managed to stir without reopening many of my wounds. And that first morning ashore after we’d landed definitely set the standard. Less than twelve hours after what can only be described as a miraculous rescue, everything hurt. My whole world was bound and informed by pain. But at least I was free. Slipping in and out of consciousness, every return to awareness involved a slow, careful stretching of a tentative hand towards the smiling face always ready to welcome me back. She was my first clear, radiant promise that there really was a welcoming humanity out there, and in this case, a promise intertwined with breath-taking beauty. As I continued to feast my eyes on this dazzling image, I realised there was no comparable vision upon which I could hope to focus then, or at any time in the future. Only the deep shadow of the hut in which I lay spared my considerable blushes around this time. And as the days slipped by, I came to realise that I lived for her appearances. When she was not there, I was bereft. When her light footstep sounded on the path outside, my heart leapt for the anticipation of seeing her. I could not get enough of her. Simply to hear her voice was sufficient to make my heart skip a beat.

  Straddling the equator as it does, the central African coastal heat seldom, if ever, lets up. From six in the morning until six at night, day after day, the sun beats down with uncompromising strength. Glaring at the landscape out of a burning, cobalt sky, it turns already arid ground into an iron-hard, dust-smeared radiator. Raising mirages, spawning dust devils, the tropical sun simply drains the life out of virtually anything that lacks a deep root. However you dress, wherever you go during the burning day, the best you can hope for is the relief of a good shade tree, perhaps the thick leafy canopy of a cashew nut tree, or the lighter green of a mango and, if you’re really fortunate, a spot that luxuriates in a fitful breeze. Perhaps a cool veranda accompanied by an ice-cold drink. But not so for me. Not in my recuperation.

  Unwilling to even stir, I was firmly anchored to a fire-hardened wood and sisal cot in the back of an African fisherman’s simple thatch, wattle and daub home. But, wrapped in darkness, I could at least gain some
relief from the relentless glare outside; little enough, but certainly all I was likely to get before evening. And with it, courtesy of my host’s trade, came the overriding stench of rotting fish, permeating everything. Something I can still smell to this day. That cloying aroma triumphed over my nostrils, trickled across my tongue and even managed to suffuse the parrot cage that, for all its foulness, passed as my mouth. A part of my anatomy that hadn’t been graced with a clean-up in months. No breeze stirred in that hut to dissolve the nebulous perfume of fish and I remember the ribbons of sweat trickling like transient spiders as they ran coldly down my back and sides, before combining into small streams of moisture that gathered around and under my legs, armpits and buttocks. At least I was only wearing a kikoi, the grip of the folds wound around my waist providing my one assurance of modesty. Not that I would have minded the alternative particularly. Somewhere in the preceding days I had managed to lose so many of my childish inhibitions, or perhaps they had simply been beaten out of me.

  Thus sheltered and lying quietly, covered in some nameless and presumably antiseptic ointment provided by my carers, a liniment that somehow kept septicaemia at bay, I could hear the endless, lazy rumble and hiss of waves kissing the shoreline hard by the hut. At a guess, no more than a hundred feet from the simple cloth covering at the entrance, thus remaining frustratingly out of sight beyond the foot of the bed. Closer in, the rustling of palm fronds in the ubiquitous coconut palms that stood guard around the loose scatter of mud huts provided the tiny community with an incessant but strangely comforting lullaby. Weariness kept hitting me between the eyes and every so often its inexorable and unavoidable lassitude once again stole quietly over me. Despite the passing of days, perhaps weeks since my rescue, it seemed I was still ready to drift in and out of consciousness at the drop of a hat. Always moving as carefully as I could, I would inch onto my back, from where I could glance upwards to catch the only view available, through the small hole at the roof’s apex, where smoke from the perpetually burning fire drifted off into the brightness of day. Below this obligatory opening, darkly discernible poles, constituting the roof’s circular skeleton, supported an equally blackened thatch, the whole rendered into one by the ubiquitous soot. Still, whilst the days themselves melded into a single, vague shadow, each and every one of them contained that refreshing, vivid spark that maintained my sanity. And had she but known it, she was all I needed, then or now.

  Chapter 48

  There were so many delightful qualities to relaxing in one of the King’s dazzling gardens, but chief amongst them was the sense of utter safety and serenity. Wherever he looked, the Archangel Michael could see the most exquisitely beautiful and extraordinarily diverse flowering plants and succulently leafed trees. Whilst Heaven was remarkable for the incredible variety found in every one of its many dimensions, it was the fact that most of Heaven’s citizens chose to operate in this particular dimension that captivated Michael. As one of God’s Angelic princes, with a seat on the Inner Council, he was charged with assisting in the smooth running of the Universe, which in his case meant keeping Satan’s hordes in check. Thus, his main responsibility revolved around the exercise of strategic and tactical deployment amongst Heaven’s warriors. To his constant delight, the garden stretched away as far as the eye could distinguish and every time he looked up, his visual senses were assaulted by sensuous colour streaming towards him in every conceivable shade and tone. Exhilarating, awe-inspiring, coruscating, ever-changing pigments that were cast in hues far beyond any range the human eye could perceive or mind conceive. A soft, scent-laden breeze wafted gently through the branches of the tree under which he sat, accompanied in its passing by the sound of one of the quietly flowing streams irrigating the flamboyant grounds.

  Everything bore the Maker’s stamp of extravagance. As if to reinforce the point, high above him a jewel-like bird, flashing iridescent in its electric blue, green and virulent red suit, trailed into melodic silence as Michael turned to watch. The echo of its thrilling notes dropped swiftly away as it drew breath for the next exhilarating stanza, the next harmonic verse that would pour unconstrained from a heart made euphoric with love for its Creator. Like every one of the myriad creatures winging the high soaring realms of Heaven, it was an artiste of song par excellence, particularly when expressing itself in paeans of praise. As if to complete the picture, and some distance away, another angel quietly tended to the ripe fruit of a mature old fig tree. And everywhere a mysterious, delicate luminosity suffused the garden, picking out every detail of the exotic foliage in crisp and astonishing clarity. Heaven had no need of a sun to light it. The Glory of God Himself was its light, permeating everything.

  Letting his gaze wander, Michael mused for a moment on how he had used these tranquil grounds almost as his own since the dawn of time. From that first unforgettable moment when he had sprung full grown into dazzling and astonishing existence, conscious that not only was he an extraordinary warrior straight from the hand of God, but aware that he was fashioned as the equivalent of a ‘four star’ General, with the unique and vital responsibility of leading Heaven’s armies. Angel troopers who were even then appearing full grown around him. From shortly after his creation, although held back from providing the outright victory he yearned to deliver against the perfidious traitor Satan (a victory that he knew to be within his grasp), Michael had revelled in his unique assignment. Whether it was dealing directly with Heaven’s enemies, or serving humans, he approached each and every mission with the utmost attention and delight. Never failing to deploy his squadrons to singular and devastating effect. Almost always several steps ahead of the arch-enemy Satan. And continuing to look around, Michael recognised, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he would never grow tired of this role. Or his place in the Kingdom.

  The apparent privilege of such a glorious yet solitary setting was merely to afford him the space to plan effectively. The only way to counterbalance the distraction of Heaven’s happily uproarious citizens. But no matter where he was, the light of God permeated everything. Although, even as he sat considering his most recent orders, it would have seemed to the uninitiated that Michael was himself ablaze with the fire of Heaven. Light flooded out from within his flowing toga and radiated from every pore of his perfectly poised body. An intense, vibrant luminosity, which, from time to time, seemed to flash outwards as if to engulf the careless observer. A white light of holiness, which, for the unclean, came close to being unbearable in its intensity. Which was exactly Lucifer’s problem. For some reason that he could never quite fathom, he and his armed forces were still allowed an almost unimpeded run of Heaven. Under certain strict conditions, he had even been allowed to retain his entrée to the Inner Council. But now, far from being a joy, such remaining hints of intimacy were frightening in the extreme, although he did not dare to question the arrangements. Reason told him that the moment he stepped out of line anywhere near God’s throne, he would simply cease to exist. Yet it was utterly infuriating to know that every citizen of Heaven had been briefed to allow him to pass unchallenged. To be accorded the utmost, if somewhat icy, courtesy, whilst knowing that he was considered no better than dog food, was devastating. To Lucifer, such discrimination was nothing short of humiliation, utterly demeaning to an individual who had once held the highest rank bestowed by Heaven. An ignominy compounded because, what might otherwise be considered a flattering right of access, was quite clearly designed to be a two-edged sword. And every angel, every redeemed human, every animal in Heaven knew it.

  Nevertheless, there had been real moments to savour when he had actually been given permission to meddle with certain humans. Right up to the instant before death. Sadly, seldom beyond that. So far. They readily killed each other, but he could normally only encourage such actions surreptitiously. He and his followers could invade minds unchecked, but they couldn’t indulge themselves physically. He knew, too, that somehow he’d been ‘blinded’. He, who had been the pinnacle of creation, could now only see into a co
uple more dimensions than the humans he so despised. And always, rankling in the back of his mind there lurked that annoying character, Job. A source of very public embarrassment, every time he spotted the wretched man walking the highways of Heaven. How could he forget how comprehensively he’d been outsmarted on that one, although even that paled into insignificance beside his mistake at Calvary, just outside that scruffy little town of Jerusalem (why did God rate it so highly?). He really thought he’d nailed God’s only Son that time. And then Jesus of Nazareth (as the humans called him) had had the temerity to walk into Hell and tell him, Lucifer, where to get off. There had followed an appalling three days of intense light (light!) lancing through the farthest reaches of his dark kingdom, causing uproar. Something from which Hell had never really recovered and, worse, aware of his extreme embarrassment, something his senior commanders never let him forget.