Trouble with Angels

by S E Holmes

Meanwhile, Bacchus covertly materialised on the Ethereal Realm, concealing himself inside a huge golden statue of Athena, situated in the main forecourt before the Chamber of Greats. He vainly scrutinised his new physique -- it was the slimmest he’d been since Jupiter was a boy! He’d neglected to mention to Nimbus an intention to check on Celestial. The lad would have declared such an act too hazardous, giving many well-reasoned objections. “Can’t argue with what you don’t know about,” Bacchus silently chanted his own trusty motto.

  He scoped the plaza. Jam’s Other was idly seated between columns at the top of the stairs to the entrance, dredging his ear with a finger, balling the wax and flicking it at the patio roof. As well as being utterly unhygienic, he appeared somewhat depressed and less than vigilant. The place had obviously been looted during the search for the Book, providing the opportunity for needless destruction with torn parchment, chunks of marble sculpture, shattered urns and overturned garden settings strewn about. The central fountain was soiled in a way Bacchus thought best not examined too closely, the surrounding lush gardens scythed, uprooted and discarded to wither and die.

  He could not locate Celestial anywhere, figuring she must be held inside, which was not ideal as Azazel was probably there as well. Bacchus pondered his options. He could forgo checking on Celestial and put his faith in Jam’s assertion nothing untoward would happen while she was a useful bargaining tool, or he could do what he usually did and rely on his own judgement. It had saved his skin on numerous occasions (he neglected to note it was normally his own judgement that got him into scrapes in the first place). He decided now was not the time to revise his methods and rashly chose the latter.

  Bacchus could not pierce the dense psychic shield Azazel had in place around the Chamber, and so would materialise inside without forewarning of any changes, and therefore no clear flight plan. This was extremely dicey and often resulted in regrettable circumstances. Bacchus once teleported into the bathing house as Uranus cleaned out his chamber pot and it took him months to eradicate the lingering odour from his finest toga! He would have to be quick, lest Azazel detect his presence. He braced himself and aimed to materialise on one of the chandeliers at the back of the hall. His luck held and Bacchus was able to gain a full appraisal of the situation in a brief glimpse.

  The dark renegade arrogantly seated on Zeus’s Throne, idly exploding golden pillows with a flick of his wrist. A thin layer of downy feathers littered the floor and floated about. Celestial sprawled on a large stone chair -- a new addition to the hall -- her head lolling and eyes glazed. She appeared uninjured. Bacchus recognised the new furniture: it was the Seat of Forgetfulness and it explained something that bothered him. Why Celestial had not fought or managed to get them a message. She was almost invincible when angry, and even Azazel should have experienced difficulty keeping her subdued.

  His questions answered, Bacchus withdrew and rematerialised at the door to Mercury’s room on the outer reaches of their realm. He could move about unrestricted here because it was closer to the Material Realm to aid Mercury’s job as the Divine Messenger. All that human energy created interference across the airwaves.

  Naturally, the door was locked, but Bacchus was unfazed; he had exaggerated Mercury’s security measures so Nimbus would be forced to cooperate with the plan and go to Circe’s more willingly. Mercury was in fact very lax about protecting the contents of his home and kept a spare key under one of the reclining Cupids by the door. This job would be as simple as Cyclops junior.

  Bacchus let himself in and closed the door, locking it firmly against the uninvited. He almost collapsed in the reek of abandoned sports socks and dirty sweatshirts. The guy clearly didn’t go in for regular washing! Nor cleaning -- the place was a Satyr’s communal sauna, with piles of grubby linen and towels tossed over every available surface. Teetering towers of stacked greasy dishes, bowls and cups transformed the room into a cityscape.

  Bacchus would never have believed the usually immaculate Mercury was such a grot. You think you know a person. He gingerly edged his way through the mess heading for the office, carelessly crossing the threshold to his friend’s inner sanctum. The article he desired projected from a decorous pen-pot on the highest shelf. A shrill whirring buzz filled the small room, spreading rapidly to the rest of the apartment. The acute whine was all around and Bacchus could not trace its source. He spun on the spot analysing every nook and cranny and discovered belatedly how sly Mercury truly was.

  “Not bad, old man!”

  From everywhere poured a vast sea of cockroaches, moving over the floors, the walls and the ceiling. Very soon, the isolated clear patch Bacchus occupied would teem with insects. Still, he was optimistic. They were only bugs and he could reach his goal even if it required wearing them as a living coat!

  He strode towards the shelf, immediately beset by blasts of mustard spatter. His robe disintegrated on contact, spewing plumes of acrid smoke. Bacchus coughed and gagged. These were no ordinary roaches! But he’d come up against worse and resolutely barrelled onwards, clothing diminishing shreds. Glutinous blobs of green slime joined the acid and he trod in a large puddle of it. Bacchus’s foot refused to come free as he tried to lift it. The green stuff was incredibly sticky and one leg was immovably glued.

  “Oh, very good indeed! Sorry I underestimated you, Mercury old pal. You do know a thing or two about protection! I guess that makes me the naïve one!” he chuckled to himself.

  Backed into a corner, he had no choice but to draw on his full power, which would instantly alert Azazel. Like all supernatural beings he was attuned to its use. Creeping about as a statue was one thing, wielding the heaven’s awesome influence quite another. Azazel and his crew did not tolerate infringements of their instructions. Bacchus jeopardised Celestial further by showing his presence (they enjoyed sending body parts as a warning and there were no anatomical bits Bacchus thought Celestial could do without). He wrenched his foot free, deserting his favourite sandal upright in muck. Poised in a shrinking discus-sized space, it was now or never!

  He closed his eyes in readiness, when a bottle dropped to the ground as acid ate the last of his bag, scattering his flint and other supplies. He was damned if he would loose Skylar’s liqueur! He bent to retrieve it and a cockroach boldly ran up his now bare leg and bit him on the rump. It stung and he swore crankily and squashed it flat. He jerked upright with the alcohol and his flint in hand, pulled the cork with his teeth and took a bracing gulp as bug feelers tickled his floor-bound skin. He knew it would not merely tickle for long. As the pressure to act reached a climax, Skylar’s words floated back to him, “to fire your courage and ease your angst”. Maybe there was a way to help himself without revealing he was here!

  He took a huge mouthful, wastefully spraying it over the vermin and activating a hail of sparks from his flint. The carpet of cockroaches burst into flame, those in proximity retreating hastily. Bacchus fixed the masses closest to him, barbequing them (and hoping that any remaining would get the idea and recede without him having to squander his entire supply of booze. He’d already donated a sandal!). He repeated the process until his refusal to part with any more of the precious beverage superseded safety issues.

  Mercury’s hovel looked much the worse for the clash with knee-deep fried carcasses and a sooty film of smelly ash coating everything. Bacchus’ special sandal smouldered limply, crumbling to a carbon mound when he tried to reclaim it. He saluted his lost shoe and climbed the lower shelves to pluck the jar from its lofty perch. He waved a cautious hand over the quills and pencils contained within, having learned his lesson not to get smug about the apparently weak fortifications of other’s sacred objects.

  Reassuring himself that there were no further hurdles, he carefully extracted the thin, ornately carved tube. It was Mercury’s hypnotic wand and had the power to put the highest Gods to sleep. Bacchus simply had to blow through it and even Sisyphus, doomed forever to push his boulder to the top of the hill and repeat the procedure af
ter it frustratingly rolled back down, would take a well-deserved nap.

  He could hear the dastardly cockroaches scuttling in a call to arms for replacement troops and he left for Vulcan’s Forge without delay. He would fabricate an excuse for the sorry state his friend’s house was in when they finished the task at hand and saved the universe! It may even give him some leverage if he returned a hero.

  At that precise moment, Nimbus was involved in a heated argument with Jam, as they waited on the boundary of Vulcan’s Forge.

  “We could have stolen some of her shape-shifting herbs, if you had not got yourself pinned down under that appalling excuse for a pet!”

  “For the final time, Circe does not use her herbs to shape-shift! It is a talent one is born with! And I see why you are petless. Small animals and babies probably run from your sunshiny personality!”

  “Whoah! I am not the Dark Angel here. Me, side of good, saviour! Harmony and glory for all concerned! You, side of evil, plague, pestilence and devastation, no-one spared!”

  Jam was about to provide a cutting retort when Nimbus raised his hand. “Wait a minute. How do you know so much about shape-shifting?”

  “Because I have the gift.” Jam eyed Nimbus warily.

  “Show me!” Nimbus demanded, before realising the insolence of his tone. He added, “Please.”

  “It is a skill which matures with age and I am not quite adept at it yet, but I will try.” He screwed up his face not unlike a weight-lifter at the Mt Olympus games.

  There was a miniscule pop! and a horrid Pomeranian -- the type those silly human females lugged in designer bags --appeared at Nimbus’s feet. “Eek!” he squealed, thinking it a porcupine at first.

  A sheepish looking Jam reappeared. “You see what I mean? I was attempting a Siberian tiger.”

  Nimbus nodded sympathetically. “Still… Clever!”

  “And,” said Jam, features shifty. “I will not tell anyone you shrieked like a Fairy at the sight of that sorry example from the animal kingdom, if you forget what you saw at Circe’s.”

  “Deal.” Nimbus had no choice but to sullenly agree. It was another embarrassing fact the Nymphs would value highly, should they ever find out! Nimbus thought he saw a way to proceed on the Ethereal Realm, but could not elaborate as his Guardian arrived.

  Bacchus apparated stark naked, the Horn of the Host slung over his shoulder, wearing a single scorched sandal. Scraps of his robe clung in places to ginger chest hair. His bushy orange eyebrows were singed, giving off the burnt smell of dragon’s breath. There was also a faint alcoholic undertone.

  “So, it went well then?” Nimbus inquired.

  Bacchus held up Mercury’s wand in response and smiled wryly. “Lost one of my lucky sandals!” he said, clearly discouraged by the failure.

  “Seems you lost a little more than that.” Nimbus signalled his state of undress.

  “Hope you did not break a nail,” Jam muttered sarcastically. “Your current dress is precisely the uniform of some of our lower ranked administrative officials, only their trumpets are bigger.” He snickered.

  “Listen sport,” Bacchus said, colouring up. “Hestia awarded me those sandals for discovering the grape vine, one of my proudest moments. I won’t have you besmirching the occasion with jokes about manicures!”

  “You discovered the grape vine? So we have you to thank --”

  “Or to blame,” Nimbus mumbled.

  “I apologise! I did not grasp the sentimental meaning of your sandal,” Jam continued earnestly, offering a bow.

  “I am the God of Wine, after all!”

  “Okay, if we can ditch the foray into the illustrious past of Bacchus and get on with the job?” Nimbus worried they were running out of time.

  They grouped on a craggy buttress near the top of Mt Etna. The volcano belched a poisonous cloud, but was relatively sedate easing Bacchus’s access to the Underworld. He would not have to punt the lava moat today. Jam clapped his hands together -- from him, a resident, this was the equivalent of providing the pass word. A yawning chasm appeared, its rough hewn walls tinged a threatening red by molten rock. Searing heat blasted Nimbus and he had to squint to see a treacherous winding path rising from a vast lake of magma, heading off in the distance.

  “I give you Perdition Road,” Jam supplied theatrically. “Hard to get off, once you’re on. Although lately, since that fool Virgil took his pilgrim through, we’ve had extreme sports nuts fronting to white-water-raft the river Styx and base-jump the Abyss of Doom. Hades had a Griffin when he found out! Shouted the Underworld was a prohibited area, the importance of maintaining cultural heritage and what not.”

  “Fascinating,” Nimbus said tartly, “can we move it along? Remember Celestial?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you! Azazel has Celestial trapped on the Seat of Forgetfulness.”

  Jam broke into fits of the giggles. “Very amusing!”

  Bacchus raised a perplexed eyebrow. Or would have were it not burnt off.

  “I’m so glad she’s not hurt! I wondered how he’d keep her under control.” Nimbus ignored the completely insane Jam, who was still shaking with laughter. He was slightly relieved about Celestial’s predicament, but still eager to get underway. “Here are your herbs. What are they for?”

  “To cover his scent and make him blind to my neighbours.” Jam wiped away tears of humour.

  Bacchus nodded. “The inhabitants of this place can smell sin and corruption, Circe’s weeds neutralise the fact that I am pure of heart and do not belong.”

  “Sin and corruption is the ideal, huh? I would not have thought you needed the herbs,” Nimbus murmured. Bacchus favoured him with a petulant look. “But won’t they recognise you, whether you smell right or not?” Nimbus ploughed on.

  “I have to make a detour first and obtain an item, which will address the problem.” Bacchus packed his scant belongings in a small, new satchel.

  Jam gasped. “You are going after Hades Helmet!”

  He was more intelligent than he looked and Nimbus was a tad jealous. Associating with one smarty-pants was plenty, being forced to hang with two would prove unbearable. Nimbus refused to reveal his ignorance and changed the subject.

  “Whatever! I collected the Book on the way here. You definitely recommend we give it to Azazel and try to get it back after we’ve rescued Celestial?”

  “Azazel will be wary for fakes now and I can see no alternative than to give him the real deal. You’ll need to stall him for as long as possible, so I can bring back help before he reads it.”

  “Just for the record, that plan sucks grapefruit!” For the first time Nimbus and Jam, who wore a doubtful expression, were in total agreement.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  The Princess and the Proxy