War Angel (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  Tramos spread his wings, and Darius watched as the wings soared across the sky, piercing the veil. The colors screamed loudly at him; rainbow on white; light before dark, and the music. The unseen choir; the genesis of the chorus as the plumes of white tore through the clouds as they raced across the sky, amidst shining light. There was a hum, a chorus, a crescendo, as Tramos wrapped his muscular arms around Darius, carrying them upwards, farther into the sky.

  He looked down at the small coffin, sitting on a cloud, and it seemed so foreign. So dark and dull against the vibrancy of the world he now found himself in. And still, being held against Tramos, and his powerful body, of being wrapped in his arms as he was carried across the sky, it did not matter that he was nude. It did not matter that the wind blew through his hair and against his face.

  For the sun, the brightness they flew towards, was warming. Inviting. Reassuring. The treasure had been found. There was no longer time in the coffin. And when he opened his eyes, he saw the brilliant sun, the light fingering its way towards them, as Tramos flapped his wings, carrying him, protecting him, reaching across the sky.

  *****

  Delia snapped awake as the Captain announced on the PA system that the flight was preparing to land in Miami shortly. Delia looked over, and saw Antoine lying back on his seat, his eyes closed. She reached over and shook his shoulder. “Antoine!” she said. She shook his shoulder again. “Antoine, wake up! We’re almost ready to land!”

  Antoine’s eyes fluttered open and he raised his arms, letting out a yawn. “What…what is it?”

  Delia leaned closer to Antoine. “I was dreaming. Of Darius!”

  Antoine’s eyes widened and he turned to face Delia. “Of Darius? You are kidding me. What was in the dream?”

  Delia nodded. “I think he’s alright, Antoine. I believe he still exists. And that he is being protected.” Antoine leaned back and looked out the window. The morning sun was just starting to lighten the night sky. He saw the white and pastel buildings of Miami rise into the sky. He looked over at Delia and then back out the window as the plane approached. “You know, this place always feels like home to me. For some reason. Forget Badulla. This is where I feel most at home.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “This is where you found yourself. You came of age here. It’s quite profound in one’s life. Badulla is full of memories. Of Darius finding you in the Café, of your mother and father…but Miami is where you grew into your leadership role with the immortals. And found yourself.”

  Antoine and Delia’s plane landed at Miami International Airport just as the sun was rising. Delia looked over and noticed Antoine’s eyes were red-rimmed. She did not say anything, and they exited the plane in silence. As they meandered through the terminal, Delia gave Antoine a few concerned glances, as he appeared to be moving through the terminal in a trance.

  Passengers darted around him as he kept his slow pace. When they reached ground transportation, he finally spoke.

  “I have a car here,” Antoine said. “It’s out in long term.”

  “How long has it been there?”

  Antoine shook his head. “Weeks. Maybe even a few months. I parked it there when we headed to Lyon and I didn’t give it another thought.”

  Delia let out a whistle. “That’s going to be quite a bill.”

  Antoine shook his head as he hailed a shuttle. Within minutes, a white van pulled up to the curb and they climbed inside. “Antoine!” the driver beamed. “I have been watching your show! And look at this! You’re in my van! You’re back in Miami! Word on the news was you went to Europe and closed your house up.”

  Antoine smiled wanly and introduced Delia. “With the fires, I thought I needed a break from Miami.” The driver said he understood, but remained beaming. As the van pulled away, into the crowded terminal traffic, the driver started asking about Club Sacrafice.

  “Well, glad to have you back man!”

  The van pulled into morning rush hour traffic as Antoie looked out the window, saying nothing. The driver broke the silence. “It was a shame about the fires, man,” he said, navigating a merge. “It was all over the news.”

  Antoine looked out the window. It still seemed dreary. Cloud cover dominated the sky, which spat rain droplets on the windshield. “They got my house too,” Antoine offered. “Not just the club.”

  The driver’s eyes widened and Antoine noticed the driver watching him through a massive rear view mirror that spanned the length of the van. “No kidding! I’m sorry, man. Damn, you need a place to stay?”

  Antoine looked up and made eye contact with the driver in the rearview mirror. He smiled. “We’ll be fine,” Antoine said. “But thank you for the offer.”

  The driver looked back at the road. “There just seems to be so much chaos that erupted in the city recently. These fires. Not sure what’s happening.”

  “Agreed.”

  Delia reached into her purse for some dollar bills and handed them to the driver as the van pulled up to the satellite lot. Antoine stepped down onto the pavement and turned around and looked at the driver as he waved and pulled away.

  Delia placed her hand on his shoulder. “That’s your silver Mercedes, isn’t it, Antoine?” He nodded as he fished through his pockets. A few moments later, the trunk raised. He tossed their bags inside and they climbed inside the car. Antoine thought nothing of the parking fees as he pulled out his heavy, metallic Black Card.

  BACK IN VATICAN CITY, Monsignor Harrison dialed the phone and waited for Delia to answer. He looked at the clock, counting back the hours, in an attempt to figure out what time it was in Miami versus Rome. When he was about to give up and send a message, Delia answered.

  “They’re restarting the inquiry,” he said. He grabbed a suitcase out of the closet and started packing neatly folded clothes inside. “There’s talk that we must have representatives sent to the astral plane to plead our case for redemption. At least one representative. I was found guilty, but when I told them more about George, they agreed to stay the inquiry. Now they’re saying we need a representative.”

  “But that means…”

  “A single immortal. One who can be chosen.”

  “How can that work?” she asked. “A single immortal to represent all of us? Don’t we have different sectors who don’t have any desire for redemption?”

  Monsignor Harrison paused. “That means whoever goes, must die. I don’t know, Delia. That’s a steep price to pay.”

  Delia sighed. “But it’s to redeem our entire kind. We go in to Antoine’s estate later tonight. Antoine left on his own to check on it, but should be returning to pick me up soon. We’re going to find that manuscript. There may be an answer in there. Might help give us some direction.”

  “You mean The Quest for Immortality?”

  “We suspect there may be some answers in that manuscript. But fear it may have been lost in the fire. In the meantime, has anyone talked about who is going? Who will represent our kind?”

  “Nothing yet. Everything could change once the inquiry reconvenes. Antoine’s sector was affected the most, more than any other sector, and I would suspect that he will need to be here for the questioning. They haven’t called for him yet, but I can see that coming. Once you both finish your business in Miami, we’ll definitely need you both back in Rome.”

  Delia hung up the phone from her conversation with Monsignor Harrison and moved through her cottage, opening drapes. She and Antoine had been in Miami just a short time, enough time to open up Delia’s cottage in Coconut Grove, to remove the dust cloths from the furniture, and for Antoine to head out to check on his estate.

  It was unusually cool in Miami and Delia had felt the immediate need to get a fire going. Delia sat back on the couch, hung her head down, and examined her cup of tea. The fireplace crackled as a sudden light rain pelted against the windowsill. She reached for a cube of sugar and spoon. It clanked against the china as she stirred the hot liquid. She picked it up and brought the cup to her lip
s and paused. There were footsteps in the hallway. She turned around. “Antoine? Are you there? Are you back?”

  There was a shuffling of feet from an unseen source. Lightning flashed and illuminated the room in pale blue light. She gasped as the door slid open. A tall, imposing dark figure stood in the doorway. Thunder crashed as the power went out, darkening the room.

  Her eyes widened and she dropped her teacup with a crash. “You! You have returned!”

  The dark figure did not answer, but moved forward. The darkness from the storm kept the visitor’s identity a mystery.

  Delia stood and looked at the figure. “I know who you are,” she said. “Why have you come for me again?” The fire crackled and bathed the room in a warm glow.

  The figure reached his arms up towards his head, reached back, and removed a hood, revealing long, golden hair. “Don’t you see, dear Delia?”

  “Tramos? I thought…”

  “Who did you think I was?”

  She looked down. “A dark visitor from my past. He’s been haunting me my entire life…”

  He nodded as she reached down towards the coffee table and lit a candle. She blew on the match and left it in an ashtray. The candle reflected a warm light on his face.

  “Why do you come?” she asked.

  Tramos sat in a chair opposite the sofa. Delia sat.

  “I have heard you, Delia. Calling. Questioning your sanity. And I know you see me in your dreams.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have seen you. And I have seen me with you. And I saw Darius. On separate occasions. But just on our flight over here, I saw you with Darius.”

  “He still exists,” Tramos said. “He is out there.”

  “In the astral world? Does he walk among them? In the heavens?”

  “I have brought him out of his coffin. He is in the light, dear Delia.”

  She nodded and smiled. “You carried him across the sky with your wings?”

  Tramos nodded. “I did.” And then he looked concerned. He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Have you lost your wings, Delia? Do you remember when we flew together?”

  She closed her eyes as a solitary tear streamed down her cheek. She breathed in deeply, reached up, and squeezed his hand. “Yes…” she said. “I remember. Flying above the beach. You carried me. Protected me….”

  Her eyes fell. “I’ve seen her, Tramos. I still see her. Even though she slithered down the cross. She still haunts me.”

  He sat back. “Claret....the ultimate time traveler…”

  Delia closed her eyes and thought back to Jerusalem. “Does she still exist too?”

  Back in the days of the dusty, stone room which she shared with her for years. In the days when she would follow her through the market in search of the ‘holy ones’; in search of the lost cup, the One who those in those days would be called the Messiah.

  “Do you remember the days of Jerusalem?” She felt Tramos put his hands on her knees. “I want you to keep your eyes closed,” he said softly. “Go back to the days of Jerusalem. When she was with you. In the early days – when she had just transformed you. Do you remember?”

  Delia’s eyes remained closed, but she nodded.

  “Go back,” Tramos said. “And tell me what you see…”

  Delia remembered Jerusalem.

  She could still feel the sun beating on her skin; the dust, the dry air. And she could see the sun rays shining through the hanging, colorful tapestry. It was perched over a small, square table, held up by two wooden sticks.

  “Come on!”

  She heard Claret calling.

  Delia could recognize her striking red hair.

  Her face was shifted in anger, and her hair was mussed and matted. She reached her hand out. “They are coming with stones! They will stone you to death!”

  She followed Claret through the market, dodging the shoppers, until they approached a mob of people, throwing their fists into the air and laughing.

  “What is it?” Delia asked. “What is happening?”

  Claret turned around and faced her.

  Her eyes were wide and she bit her lip. “The square. It’s mobbed. They are whipping Atticus!”

  Delia’s eyes widened. “What?! Can’t we do something? How did they find him?”

  Claret shook her head as Delia pushed ahead, parting her hands between arms of those wearing colorful robes. As she approached the clearing she watched in horror. “Atticus!” she screamed. A whip cracked on his back, as he cowered to the ground. His clothes were torn and shredded; long, bloody gashes ran up and down the length of his back; an expanding red lake of blood was forming underneath Atticus.

  The soldiers stopped their whipping and looked over at Delia. The taller soldier took a step forward, never taking his eyes off Delia. He glared at her. “Is that not Delia Arnette? From the Atarah family? She protects whores!” He pointed at her. “Grab her!”

  The crowd chorused. “Whore! Whore! Whore!” Fists were balled and punched into the air to join the shouting.

  Two soldiers ran from the side and grabbed each of Delia’s arms.

  They dragged Delia over to the tall soldier.

  She looked down at Atticus.

  He slowly raised his head and looked up at Delia. The whites of his eyes seemed almost glowing against his dirty, sandy skin. Blood was caked and dried on his hands and arms as fresh blood oozed from the sores on his back. He reached his arm up towards Delia, his eyes wide and pleading, as he opened his mouth. Blood dripped from the side down his chin.

  Delia looked down at him. “How did they find you?!”

  She was jerked upwards and was staring the tall soldier in the face.

  “Stone her!”

  The cheering from the crowd swelled “Stone her! Kill her!”

  And then Delia was brought back.

  She opened her eyes.

  Tramos was sitting before her, his eyes looking directly at her. The fire had died down, as did the storm. It was much quieter, and the power had returned. Tramos reached over and turned on a small lamp on the end table.

  “What happened after the soldiers decided to stone you?”

  Delia sighed. “It was Claret. She appeared from the crowd. I could feel the pressure on my arms. Her hands grabbing them. Her face. The intensity of her eyes. And her long red hair. The soldiers…they were so strong. Their grip was so tight. I can still feel it. They were dragging me through the crowd, to the clearing. I can still feel the stones piercing my back. And the sand on my arms and face. I could see the people had stones in their hands. They were standing and watching me. Taunting me. They picked them up from the ground while they still had fresh blood dripping from them. Poor Atticus. It’s like it had just happened only yesterday.”

  “Claret came and rescued you?”

  Delia nodded. “I looked over and saw her. She was fighting her way through the crowd. The soldiers held me and turned me to face the crowd. They kept shouting ‘whore! whore!’ all while Atticus lie on the ground bleeding. Like they forgot about him.”

  “And what became of him?”

  Delia took a breath. “Well…”

  She thought of Atticus.

  Of when she first saw him. Across the market, tending to Camels. She could see him, bent over, holding a wooden bucket in front of the animals, looking away from her.

  He was young, sandy, blonde hair, and strapping bare, brown muscular chest. He had removed his robe and wore a wrap around his midsection. He carried a wooden bucket of water and placed it on the sand in front of the camels. He raised his head and looked over at Delia.

  He raised his arm and waved.

  Delia was jolted back to the present as Tramos placed a platter of teacups and a small pot on the coffee table with a light clank.

  “Did you have a romantic affair with him?”

  “No, no, Tramos. Nothing like that.”

  “Why were they whipping him?”

  Delia reached for the teapot and a fresh cup. As she we
nt to pour the tea, the spout rested on the brim of the china cup with a slight clank. Steam rose as the hot brown liquid poured out. Tramos sat back patiently, his hands flat on his thighs. He watched Delia intently.

  “Atticus was the one who took the cup. He was the one.”

  Tramos stood. He started pacing. “What do you mean? Wasn’t that Claret who took the cup? On the night Christ had His Last Supper?”

  Delia shook her head. “That is what we have been led to believe,” she said. “But I know otherwise. I saw it. I waited in the garden Gethsemane and watched the whole time.”

  Tramos leaned down close to Delia. He brought his face directly across from hers. She could smell fresh blood on his breath. “So Atticus did it? He took the cup?”

  She leaned back and looked up at him. “It was Atticus. Claret never did it at all.”

  Tramos shook his head. “I don’t understand why he would be whipped for that. Why would the people even care? I mean, they had crucified Christ at that point. Why would they care about the cup?”

  “Even they couldn’t deny the power it holds. And Because Atticus was associated with Judas. Any association in those days was a death sentence.”

  Tramos shook his head. He reached out and grabbed Delia’s chin.

  “Come again?”

  Delia’s face fell. She reached for his arm and pushed it away. He fell back into the chair. “It wasn’t Claret,” she said. “As I told you. Atticus did it. He was quite close with Judas, and that’s how he got access to the cup.”

  Tramos’ eyes widened and he pointed at her. He stamped his foot on the floor for a moment. “You mean Judas Iscariot?!”

  Delia was taken aback for a moment. “Yes…” she said slowly. “The one who betrayed Christ.”

  “Yes!” Tramos exclaimed, standing back up. He dashed over to the other side of the room towards the wet-bar. After a few moments of sifting through clanking bottles, he turned around. “Antoine keeps some Absinthe back here, doesn’t he?”

  Delia shook her head. “Yes, he keeps some here since the fire at his estate. He has a special spot for it.”