by Dan Gleed
That morning I felt my heart as good as dead and its frigid detachment held me in thrall for uncounted time, until the anguish eventually morphed into an aching and permanent sense of loss. A loss that began in all too familiar a way, by gnawing at the edges of my sanity before seeping drop by foul drop into my heart, into my very psyche, where much of it remains to this day. For ages thereafter I walked in a profound and desperate silence. A silence of the soul. A darkness of the night. No matter the sound and fury around me, my shattered heart contemplated only its aching void. What little I can remember of that horrendous morning and the moments that immediately followed ‘the incident’ (I have never been able to call my love’s death throes anything else) are stained and confused by the almost demented outpouring of my strident misery. Actually, had I but known it, shutting down emotionally to act like an uncaring and unfeeling marionette in the weeks that followed probably saved my sanity and thus my life. A life that, at the time, I would gladly have forfeited.
Chapter 60
And what of Nadab and Israfel in all of this? Unable to experience death in the human sense, Roz’s untimely end simply couldn’t and, indeed, didn’t affect them in the same way and to such a depth as it had me. Something I was to learn much later. Neither they, nor any of their fellow Guardians viewed a human’s passing as possessing quite the weight of misfortune that we tend to ascribe to untimely deaths, or any death at all, come to that. For them, it was whether or not the soul was prepared for transition from human to spiritual life that concerned them most deeply. And whether or not they had been remiss in their duties. Trouble was, they knew perfectly well that it was only when the human’s mortal body had been discarded and it was too late to change anything that the essence of the person, the soul, discovered whether it was free to surge out into eternal life or sink into its counterpart: eternal loss.
But for those who had accepted the offer to join God’s family during their lives and not only believe, but go on believing in Him throughout whatever time they had left, the relocation introduced them to an incredible, unspoiled and enjoyable future already prepared in every detail. Even down to a new, perfect and immortal body. And there was the rub: if they hadn’t accepted God’s freely proffered pardon before death, they remained Satan’s property and he was content to simply bide his time until the Day of Judgement, then collect his own and take them down to join him in that ultimate Hell, the lake of fire specifically prepared for him and his associates. So, whilst their general approach to human existence remained deeply influenced by a profound sense of duty and care, a certain laissez-faire attitude to human life or death itself was hardly surprising. Because even as they watched the untimely release of this particular soul, they could also see and hear the scheduled approach of the angels who would escort the now immortal Roz into the King’s throne room, there to be welcomed as the VIP she had so recently become. And as in every such case, they knew the celebrations would already be getting underway, with all Heaven rejoicing over the return home of another of the Redeemed.
Equally true, when it came to accounting for the events of the last few days, not a lot of this would cut much ice with Nadab’s boss, because Nadab had sailed perilously close to one of the cardinal rules, which meant he faced the inevitable ‘helmets on’, one-way discussion that bosses tend to arrange when subordinates have crossed prohibited boundaries. Since the moment he had been created, it had been made clear to every angel slated for Guardian duties that the Lord Jesus Himself was the only one who could approach human beings to offer them the greatest gift of all time: the gift of eternal life as a member of God’s family. Primarily because He was the only one appropriately qualified. Angels were simply not in this league. Since the dawn of time they had known they came into existence to be ministering spirits, expressly to serve humanity, particularly those humans who were destined to attain eternal life with God. Notwithstanding all of which, Nadab was particularly looking forward to his next meeting with Roz because, for the very first time, they would actually be able to talk face to face. Having said which, he could be certain he wouldn’t get another Earth posting. Transgressing one of the cardinal rules laid down regarding humans had demonstrated he wasn’t entirely reliable. Humans, that zenith of God’s creation, were creatures of free will and this, above all else, had to be respected, even if it got them into hot water. That was their choice.
However, in this particular case, Nadab wasn’t sure he particularly minded. In recent years within what humans called Western Society, far too few angels had been able to enjoy the pleasure of observing ‘their’ human acknowledging God’s supremacy, before the fleeting years drew life to an end. And after death it was, of course, too late to change things. Lifetime alternatives, either rejection of the Creator’s offer, or simply deciding to go their own way, were decisions totally respected by God, not just for during their lifetimes but, more importantly, at the great Day of Judgement. The Day on which every action, every thought, every choice would be brought to light and every destiny fixed for eternity. Because that much anticipated, but still future day, would see the final dressing of all Redeemed humans in their new and glorious bodies. Arrayed in special ‘robes of righteousness’ provided by their King, they would be ready for immortal life in the renovated Heaven and Earth. Exactly the opposite to the future of those destined for certain other shores. As clearly shown in the humans’ Book of books.
The moment Roz was hit and even before I’d managed to lower her to the ground, Fatih had taken off. The thought ‘like a startled fawn’ ran bizarrely through my mind, but, actually, his movements were more those of a disconcerted snake. Sliding swiftly out of sight, he left only swaying bushes to close behind him and provide any indication that he’d ever been there, as his headlong rush took him diagonally away from the beach area. Actually, I didn’t bother to note much more than the general direction in which he’d gone. I cared nothing for whether he lived or died. Indeed, if I’d given it any thought at all, I suppose I would have hoped he was caught and that whoever caught him would brutalise him in the same savage way in which my love had suffered. As far as I was concerned, Fatih’s end could not come soon enough, and the more violent his death, the better. So wrapped up was I in the immediate task of cradling Roz’s rapidly cooling body, that I barely even noticed the silent and subdued arrival of the hunters. They drifted in one by one like dark ghosts, checking to right and left as they came, but apparently content their business with the slavers was finished and there was no longer any fear of reprisal. It was only later that I discovered they’d already killed every last one of the remaining men, even the two who’d carried on along the beach. However, these African villagers were not in the same predatory class as those they had pursued and, faced with the enormity of what they’d done to Roz, they were clearly shocked and dismayed. Even as they arrived, they were beginning to question the validity of their actions, to squabble over exactly who was responsible for the lifeless body lying limply in my arms. They even tried to reassure me, saying over and over again, that they did not have a quarrel with either of us.
But nothing they could do or say would lessen my raging anger and sick despair, or the appalled sensations coursing through every vein and artery as I continued to clasp Roz, rocking backwards and forwards, moaning out her name, tearing at my hair and covering her dear face with tear-stained kisses. My heart lay broken and I can’t say how long I sat forlorn on the unwelcoming ground, but I do remember that by the time I returned to any sort of rationality, the sun had long gone, leaving the deep shadows to embrace me in their temporary anonymity. The swift tropical chill also did its work, aided by the ice layering deep upon my soul. Quietly, these twin colds enveloped me in their unyielding grip, shutting me down long before our anxious friends from the ‘home’ village chanced upon us. When we failed to return they had at first decided we were making the most of a little privacy, but by the time they had eaten, the cooking fires had died slowly down and the silvery moon had ri
sen to its zenith, they reluctantly concluded that something was wrong and it was time to start searching. Realising from the borrowed canoe that we must have gone south, the loping run of the young men had taken them at speed along the beach, so it wasn’t long before they came upon two arrow-filled bodies still strewn grotesquely across the sand and realised that something had, indeed, gone terribly wrong. After that, it was but a matter of time before they discovered and spoke with the village hunters, who recounted all that had happened, interspersed with many and prolonged protestations of innocence. What our friends made of this at the time, I do not know. All I do know is that eventually I felt the tug of gentle, guiding hands, the murmur of hushed and stricken voices and the weight of Roz’s body being tenderly lifted away. And with a flash of penetrating recollection I knew I had been here before. First, Matt, now Roz and a light dusting of me in between. Was I set to become the stuff of terrible legend?
Kindly, but firmly, I was persuaded to rise, turn north and follow the men bearing Roz on their shoulders. Miserable as I was, it was an awkward, stumbling journey, eyes blinded by tears and feet made leaden in my sick despair slipping clumsily in the soft sand, despite a sufficiency of light from the moon. Eventually we made it back to the creek where several canoes now lay alongside each other, drawn up like artists’ charcoal sticks above the tidal mark, and I was glad when, safely on the northern shore, we were finally able to quit the soft sand of the beach and turn inland for the huts, there to oversee the tender placing, arranging and covering of Roz upon her own bed. Fortunately, most of the friends who had stayed behind appeared to be still asleep, so, for a time at least, I was spared their questions and sympathy, all of which I know I would have found overpowering.
Instead, with a whispered thanks and a “good night” to the equally tired young men, I moved to ‘our’ hut and sank down on the rough bed that had served the two of us so well for the last couple of weeks. But sleep would not come. Not that I expected it. Not until the horizon over the sea to the east was beginning to lighten could I even begin to reflect rationally upon the enormity of what had passed and, as I watched those first beginnings of a new dawn, a second storm of tears began to fall in earnest. At first, taking stock, my anguished spirit had almost failed as I recalled so much: my part in the awfulness of Matt’s death, failing him in his hour of real need with my disastrous inability to act; the one failure having ultimately led to all the rest. The days of waiting and yearning for healing, which, mentally at least, had never really come. The arrival of Roz and her determined and loving support, despite her understandable fear of my father. My despairing attempt at suicide coupled with an embarrassingly futile effort to escape south for Mombasa as I fell into the hands of the terrifying megalomaniacs intent on their drug and slavery business. The nightmare of my imprisonment and bondage, beatings and solitary confinement. The dhow with its cargo of dejection and hopelessness, its stench and hunger, nausea, clamour and ever-present spectre of death and, later still, the incredible and totally bewildering midnight arrival on the ship’s deck of my erstwhile saviour. Finally, the uproar of escape, gradual healing both of body and soul under Roz’s ministry and above all, the astonishing encounter with a true and enduring love. The latter a privileged experience I could never again expect, or wish, to enjoy. And with that final reflection, the reality and desperation of my situation came roaring back to hit me right between the eyes. But this time, its attentions served only to harden my attitude and strengthen my resolve.
Sometime after the first shards of early dawn had appeared and started to wash the tops of the palms, I realised that no matter what else might happen, I was going to track down my tormentors and hound them without mercy. Beginning with Fatih. At the first opportunity, I would kill and kill again, mercilessly and without compunction. Why so implacable? Because I genuinely felt I had no future and every right to retribution. So with that settled, I determined that once again I would be long gone before the camp awoke. Gone before any policemen could arrive, as arrive they surely would. Only this time, I would travel alone. Alone as before, but this time free to determine my own fate. I was utterly resolved that never again would I succumb to captivity, or oppression. I had been there once and knew what it would take to ensure survival. I’d had enough and, from now on, I would be the hunter and they the prey. The first act of revenge would be directed straight at the man who had brought such dire and enduring consequences upon both of us. And with that I rose from the bed, conscious that there was little time to waste. Every minute spent sitting there was another minute of opportunity handed to the obscenity responsible for Roz’s death, another minute that increased the likelihood of his melting into either the coastal bush, or a local township, where he could stay lost forever.
So, before that could happen, I had to find and take him. Only then could I obtain the answers to my questions and, at the same time, ensure by his lingering death some decline in the guilt and outrage festering in me. And whilst his death seemed of prime importance, he could also tell me who had sent him and, once that was determined, I could probably discover a way to unearth the perpetrator (probably my original purchaser, but perhaps the dhow captain?). Then it would be Giuseppe’s turn and afterwards, the whole rotten horde of accomplices. Beyond which, their living or dying would be a matter of indifference to me and would probably be settled solely by how I felt at the time. Assuming I managed to remain undetected. And with that thought I began scrabbling together a bare minimum of food and water, plus some loops of bowstring that happened to be lying around. One piece of equipment I did make sure of, however, was the recently provided fishing spear, donated so I could feed the two of us on the exquisite local fish. Although an unfamiliar weapon, I had quickly acquired the knack of throwing and stabbing accurately, to such a degree that it hadn’t been long before I was producing a satisfying variety to the menu. Now that skill might well stand me in good stead. Particularly as I had no other weapon and the last time I’d seen my quarry, he’d been armed with what looked like a fairly heavy calibre rifle.
Chapter 61
Israfel was embarrassed. He had watched with genuine concern as my attitude to life had taken a turn for the worse in the aftermath of Roz’s death. Anxious and keeping careful guard that first night, he had brooded over me as I lay tossing feverishly on the bed, unable to sleep, every thought centred on revenge. Brooded, because he cared. Not that he had found my reactions unusual in a human. On the contrary, he had half expected this sort of outcome, but hadn’t been prepared for the intensity of emotions involved, his own as well as mine. In particular, he was not prepared for the surge of almost human anger he had felt when Arcturus had stepped out of nowhere to gloat over me in his arrogant, condescending and slightly patronising manner. It was the carelessness of his approach, the deliberate and obvious disdain for any safeguard that had most irritated Israfel, almost causing him to forget his orders and strike out at the offensive monster. He knew, because he had been briefed, that over the coming years as my life progressed, I would make a number of near-fatal mistakes. But he also knew, even though it had not been overtly stated, that whilst he was there to protect and rescue me before I made any irrevocable blunders, he was also honour bound to allow me free rein wherever possible.
Which was all very well, but how was a Guardian supposed to know when he should or shouldn’t intervene? Surely, allowing an evil spirit any form of influence over me was exactly the sort of occasion on which he should interfere? And yet here was Arcturus, blatantly moving in on me and with no riposte from Command HQ. Apparently, there was nothing he, Israfel, should do about it, except wait. Bide his time. Presumably, therefore, he’d already made the right decision in allowing me the freedom to choose and so (hopefully), to learn from any misjudgements. With a resigned shrug, Israfel rammed his sword back into its sheath and stepped away, signalling to Arcturus he would not be opposed. Which only produced a sneer from that devil’s spawn and the gratuitous advice to Israfel to ‘get s
tuffed’.
Actually, Arcturus couldn’t believe his luck. From the moment I had lost Roz, I had become so engrossed in thoughts of revenge, so taken up with contemplation of reprisals through any unpleasant means I could devise, that I had unwittingly opened a pathway into my soul that was effectively extending an unrestricted invitation to infernal influence. And Arcturus was no slouch when it came to such things, sanctioned or not. All he needed was the merest sliver of opportunity to start drip-feeding his very particular and malevolent inspiration into any human foolish enough to expose himself to his malign power. Admittedly, he’d been advised by his commander not to push this one too far, since Lucifer had been personally warned off by the Lord of the Universe. But here was an opportunity being handed to him on a plate. I was sinking into such a deep and all-consuming hatred that I was gratuitously widening an already undefended channel into my very psyche. And if he, Arcturus, could manipulate matters in such a way as to pass the buck elsewhere, Josephus would hardly mind if Satan suffered as a direct result. But that depended upon ensuring any mayhem couldn’t be laid directly at his own door. Of course, what Arcturus singularly failed to realise in all of this was that he himself was the intended ‘cut out’, should Josephus need a watertight defence. So, here was a human on Satan’s ‘problem’ list, exposing himself voluntarily to any passing evil, all without realising it or, at least, without understanding the enormity of his behaviour. And Arcturus was perfectly placed to seize such a juicy opportunity and, by the same token, get back into the arch-fiend’s favour. Actually, come to think of it, perhaps he could dish Josephus as well while he was at it. Now that would be worthwhile. Even his immediate opponent, Israfel, seemed to have backed off for the time being. Again, Arcturus leered at his rival, but decided there was no point in continuing to flaunt his obvious advantage. Clearly, Israfel had received orders to relinquish the floor. For a brief moment, Arcturus wondered if he was being led into a trap, but then decided he was more than a match for any insolent angel. Particularly this one. Thus reassured, he stepped boldly forward and, to Israfel’s enduring consternation, began to directly manipulate my psyche, insidiously suggesting in graphic detail how I might deal with my enemies.