by Paula Guran
The word apocalypse originally meant “revelation”: the disclosure of something previously hidden. In the Christian New Testament, the Revelation of John (in Greek: Apocalypsis Ioannou), describes the ultimate triumph of good over evil and, consequently, the world. Apocalypse is commonly used today to connote total devastation or the end of the world as we know it. Angels play many roles in John’s Apocalypse, but the most prominent capacity is to bring judgement to those on Earth. The angels in Peter M. Ball’s story are not biblical, but they do bring judgement.
If you ask Mike, the problem with the angels is they smell like laundry powder. They have that real caustic, back-of-thethroat kind of smell that burns itself in. Mike is sick of having that smell in his throat 24-7, and he wants it gone.
There’s an angel on the roof of the Nite Owl when Mike comes in for the late shift. He thinks it’s the same angel that’s been following him for six days, but all the angels look the same. The angel is nude, covering its gaunt body with black wings and gauze bandages around its hands and feet. Mike’s stuck in the puke-yellow Nite Owl uniform that makes everyone look sick.
Conventional wisdom says six days of seeing the same angel increases your chances of a purging. Mike tries not to worry about it. He’s got a graveyard shift, ten ’til morning, the one he traded with Skull last week before the angel showed up. Skull says he’s playing a gig with his death-metal band tonight and that’s why he can’t work. Mike doesn’t buy that for a second. No one plays death-metal after midnight on a Saturday anymore, not unless they’ve got a death wish.
Not that Mike cares; he likes the nightshift. He waves to the angel.
“Hey,” Mike says. The angel crouches down, mute shadow against the sky, wings spread out so they eliminate a broad swathe of stars. People say you’re supposed to avoid talking to angels but Mike figures it isn’t going to hurt. It’s been six days after all, it’s not like anything he does in the next couple of hours will make a difference.
They use fluorescent lights in the Nite Owl. Mike’s eyes are raw after a week of being followed by an angel and its smell so the fluorescents make his eyes water. The entire building creaks every time the angel on the roof moves. Mike takes Patty’s spot behind the counter and changes the radio station on the stereo.
“You look tired,” Patty says. She’s too young for this job and prone to stating the obvious.
“Whatever,” Mike says. “Have a good night, yeah?”
The angel makes people nervous, so the first hour is dead in the water. Nothing happens until Elvis shows up at midnight. Not the real Elvis, he’s still dead, just an Elvis whose parents happened to be big fans of the King. Elvis disappears into the fridges at the back of the store, stocking up on the staples that will take him through ’til morning. His next stop is the magazine aisle. Elvis paws through the racks and picks up a Playboy. He considers it for a few seconds and looks up at the ceiling, then shakes his head and puts it back. The other side of the aisle is filled with foil-wrapped chocolates. Elvis grabs a fistful of Violet Crumbles and dumps them on the counter.
“Hey,” Elvis says.
“Hey,” Mike says. He yawns and rubs his eyes. Elvis shuffles from foot to foot. The sliding doors open and a small group of club-girls wanders through fresh off the bus and hungry for hot dogs. Four girls in the group, and one of them is hot, all bare midriff and long legs.
“You got an angel on the roof,” Elvis says. He’s maybe twenty-six and soft, belly bulging beneath his loose-fitting Sex Pistols T. Elvis doesn’t want his parents to think he shares their music tastes, and he wants to hide his gut. He has the kind of belly you want to poke.
Mike starts ringing up the Cokes and the chocolate. The angel on the roof shifts its weight again, just a little, and the entire building creaks. One of the girls squeals, the club-girls always squeal, and the floor is full of dropped onions and hot dog buns. The other girls giggle. Mike finishes ringing up the last Crumble bar.
“That’s twelve seventy,” he tells Elvis. They look at the mess on the floor by the hot dog bar. Mike says, “Yeah, I might have noticed the angel.”
Elvis fishes in his pockets. Then he stops.
“I wanted a pack of cigarettes,” he says. “Sorry. Winnie Blues.”
Mike turns around and picks up a pack. One of the girls has put a hot dog in the microwave. The smell of melting cheddar starts fighting back against the angel smell. Mike rings up the cigarettes and tosses them into a plastic bag with the Coke. Elvis has noticed the club-girls now. He’s gawking at the hot one.
“How long do you reckon it will hang around?” Elvis says. “The angel, I mean.”
Mike shakes his head.
“They’re usually here for a couple of hours, at least,” he says. “This one’s mine though; it’s been following me for days.”
“Man, that sucks,” Elvis says. “Why the hell did you come to work?”
Mike yawns. “What else are you going to do? Repent? You know how the winged bastards work.”
Elvis grins like he does, but he doesn’t. All he’s got are theories, just like Mike. Just like everyone else. It’s stupid, if you ask Mike; all those purges and no one knows a damn thing for sure. All they’ve got are theories.
The angel smell is getting worse. The first of the club-girls makes it to the counter. She’s carrying two hot dogs, a literbottle of Coke and a purse held open so she can dig for her wallet. It’s the hot one. Elvis swallows, really loud and noticeable. Mike rolls his eyes.
“Hey,” the girl says. She’s a looker, but her voice is a little nasal. Mike doesn’t mind that too much when they’ve got good legs. He probably shouldn’t be thinking that on a day like today, but he does.
“Hey,” Mike says. Elvis stands there, running fingers through his lank hair. The girl flicks him a quick look and a nervous smile.
“Hey,” Elvis says. “Did you see the angel on the roof? He’s a beauty, yeah?”
“Sure,” the girl says. “I guess. I didn’t pay much attention.”
She pulls a pack of Life Savers from the stand by the counter and adds them to her pile.
“I don’t really believe in angels,” she says.
Mike rings up the Life Savers and her hot dog. Elvis blinks a couple of times. The girl starts dredging the bottom of her purse for spare change. It’s a silver purse, metallic and shiny. It hurts Mike’s eyes.
“You’re kidding, right?” Elvis says. “About not believing in angels? I mean, they’re right there.”
“No,” the girl says. “There’s something there, but I don’t have to believe it’s an angel.”
Elvis looks at Mike. Mike focuses on the cash register. It beeps obligingly as he scans the bottle of Coke.
“So, what, are you – stupid?” Elvis says. “What about the purging?”
The girl shrugs.
“Haven’t got me yet,” she says. She pushes a fistful of change across the counter and picks up her hot dog. She gives Mike a wink. Mike doesn’t want any trouble with a crazy woman, not even a hot one.
“Why?” Mike says.
“Why what?”
“Why don’t you believe in angels?” Mike says.
The hot girl flashes Mike a smile, just a quick one. She loops the purse on her forearm and picks up the Life Savers and the Coke.
“Bumper stickers,” she says. Elvis shakes his head. The girl waves to her friends in the aisles and points outside.
“Have a nice night,” Mike says, and the girl walks outside and flops onto the bench beside the bus stop. She’s just inside the light that spills out from the sliding doors of the Nite Owl. She puts her Coke on the concrete and starts eating the hot dog. Elvis stares at her through the glass door.
“Wow,” he says.
“Yeah,” Mike says.
“She was hot,” Elvis says.
“Yeah,” Mike says. The other club-girls finish up at the microwave. Elvis has the good sense to shut the hell up while they pay for their food. When they go outsid
e they cluster around the bus stop. There is eating and laughing. Someone points at the angel. They’re all wearing big, chunky, dangly earrings.
“What do you reckon her name is?” Elvis says.
“Candice,” Mike says. “She seems like the type.”
“You think?” Elvis says. “I dunno. I was thinking something a little more traditional. Mary-Anne? Annabelle? Something Anne-ish.”
“What about Anne?” Mike says.
“No,” Elvis says. He fishes one of the Coke cans out of his bag and opens it. The fizz sparks the air for a few seconds. “She’s Anne-ish, but she’s not an Anne.”
Mike watches the girl through the window. She’s a redhead, but he doubts the color is natural.
“No, I guess not,” he says.
The angel on the roof shifts its weight again, and this time it flaps its wings. Mike and Elvis hold their breath, listening to the soft whap-whap-whap of the black feathers. It’s too slow for the angel to be taking off, so they start breathing again. Outside, the girls are caught in the thick breeze of the angel’s wings. The girl who is probably-not-an-Anne is smoothing her bottle green skirt. The other girls struggle to fix their mussed hair.
“I reckon she’s probably a philosophy student,” Elvis says, “one of those brainy, existential types in disguise. That’s why she doesn’t believe in angels.”
“Philosophy’s dead, remember?” Mike says. He tries not to sound bitter, but it doesn’t work. He wishes someone would dim the fucking florescent lights. He wishes the angels smelled like something nicer, like fresh bread or lavender.
“Not altogether dead,” Elvis says. “I saw this thing on Today Tonight about these rogue classes that still exist, reading Nietzsche and Sartre in secret. Probably a little Camus on the side.”
“You think?” Mike says. He’s never liked Nietzsche readers, even before the angels. He starts tapping his fingers on the counter, drumming out the chorus to some Adam Ant song on the radio. He checks his watch. Seven hours to go. He can take a break at three. The caustic angel-smell gets stronger, thick and heavy like the angel has started sweating. Mike blinks back tears as the smell works its way towards the back of his throat. He contemplates getting a bottle of water out of the fridge.
“I reckon she’s probably a hairdresser,” Mike says. “She’s got the look.”
“You think?” Elvis says. He swills the last few drops of Coke out of the can.
“It’s the hair,” Mike says. “She’s got one of those flick-things going at the end. No one has those at this time of night, not unless they know what they’re doing during the set up.”
Elvis rubs his chin and watches the girl who’s probably-notan-Anne.
“I dunno,” he says. “She might just have some really good product. They sell product that good.”
Elvis pats his pockets, looking for a lighter. One of the girls outside makes a joke and not-Anne laughs. Her laughter is high and tinkly, like tapping a wine glass.
“I dunno,” Elvis says. “A hairdresser. You really reckon?”
“I reckon,” Mike says. He yawns without bothering to cover his mouth. The girls have lost interest in their hot dogs by now, but that’s okay. No one can really eat an entire Nite Owl hot dog. Not even when they’re drunk. It’s a sign of sanity.
“So do you reckon the angel-thing would have worked?” Elvis says. “As a pickup, I mean. If she’d believed in angels.”
“No,” Mike says.
“No?”
“There’s nowhere to go,” Mike says. “What do you say after that? Hope we’re safe here? Ever seen them purge? When was the last time you went for an absolution?”
“We could talk about the Arrival,” Elvis says. “What we were doing, where we were; all that kind of stuff?”
“Downer,” Mike says. “Remember the first purge? You really want to start comparing notes, working out who lost who?”
“We could talk about what constitutes a sin,” Elvis says. “I mean, that’s supposed to be flirty, right? If you can get them talking about something naughty? Anything that gets them thinking in the right direction?”
Mike shakes his head. It’s too late to be putting up with Elvis.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Mike says. “And she wouldn’t have done you regardless. She’s hot.”
“And I’m not?”
Mike rolls his eyes and Elvis grins. An angel would have purged Elvis years ago if the world was a fair place.
“It used to be easier,” Elvis says. “Fuck it. It used to be so much easier.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “I guess it did.”
The laundry powder angel-smell rolls through the Nite Owl, so strong that both of them have tears in their eyes. They both gag and cough, trying not to breathe. The angel starts to move again. This time the wings are thumping hard and fast, the angel is taking to the air. The entire store creaks. Mike puts both hands on the counter, holding himself steady.
“Shit,” Elvis says. “Look at that.”
He points a finger through the glass door, towards the bus stop and the club-girls and the angel shadow that falls over them as wings block out the street lights. The bandaged feet drop down through the frame of the glass doors, cracking the concrete as the angel settles onto the ground. It spreads its black feather wings. It points at the girl who is probably-notan-Anne. Mike checks his watch, twelve thirty-two. Technically right, but somehow it seems like cheating. Sundays don’t really start until you wake up and the church bells are ringing.
“Shit,” Elvis says. “She was hot.”
The club-girls are screaming. One of them is begging, but not not-Anne. She’s just whimpering quietly, tears on her cheeks. The angel hugs her close and the wings start flapping. Lazy flaps, just enough to slowly get back to the roof. There are still a couple of hours ’til dawn, and that means the angel’s got to wait. The building creaks again and a little dust falls from the ceiling.
“Told you,” Elvis says. “Philosophy student.”
He pops the top of his second can of Coke and unwraps a Violet Crumble. Mike closes his eyes and pretends he can’t hear not-Anne whimpering on the roof. He pretends that flutter in his stomach isn’t relief. Not-Anne’s friends are buzzing outside, all bleating cries and desperate mobile calls. Like the cops give a damn when divine retribution is involved.
The angel will be carrying not-Anne into the sunrise and no one will do a goddamn thing. That’s how purging works. The angel carries you away and no one knows what happens after that, but Mike’s willing to bet it’s not good. The angels look sad when they’re carrying people away, and that’s never a good sign.
Six hours and forty-two minutes until Mike can go home. Another three hours and twelve minutes until he gets his break. The angel is back on the roof with the hot girl held in his arms, waiting for the sunrise so he can take off and no one will see not-Anne again. Elvis finishes his Violet Crumble and pulls the plastic wrapper off his pack of Winfields.
“Outside,” Mike says.
“Come on,” Elvis says. He has a cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his hand.
“Seriously,” Mike says. “Out.”
He jerks his thumb towards the sliding door and the hysterical girls. He wishes he could go out and smoke with Elvis. The angel smell in the Nite Owl is so thick Mike wants to spit it out, again and again and again.
Lammas Night
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Although very little can be solidly confirmed about Count Alessandro di Cagliostro, it is highly likely he was Giuseppe Balsamo (2 June 1743–26 August 1795). A skilled forger and gifted con artist, Cagliostro claimed he possessed occult powers. And, as Chelsea Quinn Yarbro once pointed out, he was “one of the most famous, most sloppy of the eighteenth century self-proclaimed magi”. He could not even get his calendar right: the events portrayed in this story take place on Beltane Eve not Lammas. Beltane – the solar opposite of All Hallow’s Eve/Samhain – celebrates fertility and the advent of the
season of growth on 1 May. Lammas takes place on 1 August in the northern hemisphere. But, as Yarbro discovered, Cagliostro once claimed in a letter that Lammas was in April. The author was happy to accurately convey this example of his typically slipshod mysticism while granting him the possibility of some true dark powers.
Inside the circle that held the pentagram the air shimmered and, in the dark, cold room, Giuseppe felt he was staring into great distances.
The shimmer broadened, and now it was time to speak the final summons. Giuseppe cleared his throat and took a firmer grip on the sword he carried, though he knew it was useless against the forces he called. “Io te commando . . .” he began in his Sicilian-accented Italian. “I command thee. I, Count Alessandro Cagliostro . . .” There was a sudden popping sound, like the breaking of glass or a burst keg and the air was still once more.
Giuseppe flung down his sword in disgust. He should have known better. He could not use any but his real name, and although his title was self-awarded and therefore, he felt, certainly as valid as the unpretentious name his parents had given him, he knew that the demon would not respond to anything but plain Giuseppe Balsamo.
Of course he couldn’t do that. No one in Paris knew he was not a nobleman, and he could not admit it now, particularly with the threat of prosecution for fraud hanging over him. He had already had trouble in England. He could not afford to fail here in France. He had promised to raise a demon, and he would have to do it.
The demon would not come to any name but his baptismal one.
Giuseppe sank onto the cold floor, the stones pressing uncompromisingly against his naked buttocks. The sweat, which had run off him so freely, grew clammy and smelled sour. He touched the old ceremonial sword he had picked up in Egypt six years before. The old sorcerer had guaranteed that sword, and Giuseppe knew now that the mad old man had not spoken idly.
One of the candles set at the point of the pentagram guttered and the hot wax ran through the edge of the chalked circle. In spite of himself, Giuseppe flinched. If the demon had still been there, the circle would not have bound it any longer. If that had occurred when the ceremony was under way, no one would have been safe. A shudder gripped him that had little to do with the cold.