Mythangelus

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘It is,’ the old man replied.

  ‘My parents live there. I’m going home,’ Jadalan said and the man nodded and smiled; perhaps he too saw a madness there.

  Jadalan wandered the streets of Ashbrilim, eyes wide, steps dragging with fatigue brought on by the assault of stimuli to mind and senses. A thousand brutish odours filled his nose, far removed from the vague perfumes of the land of angels. Everywhere colour and noise whirled around him, indecipherable to his alienated condition. He was almost blind, shaking and nauseous by the time he reached the gates of the palace. The reason for his being there was fading fast in his memory; his body was unable to cope with the drastic differences. Out in the country, those differences had been pleasant, challenging, new. Here in the city, they were cruel and overwhelming. The close proximity of thousands of human souls and human bodies oppressed him; he could sense all their petty cruelties and jealousies, all their dark secrets. Jadalan sank wearily to the ground, leaning upon the closed gates. Never had he felt so ill.

  Then, with a shattering burst of noise, the gates were thrown wide open, causing the wilting Jadalan to cringe further towards the dirt, hands to ears, his stomach churning. Loud shouting and laughter, and the sound of horses’ hooves sounded from within the courtyard. Jadalan crawled to the side, just in time to avoid being trampled by a group of riders trotting smartly out into the city. Jadalan squinted. Shapes blurred before his eyes. He did not know it was Ashalan himself, setting off for an evening’s hunting in the forests and fields beyond Ashbrilim’s walls. Dogs swarmed around the horse’s feet and it happened that one of them was the puppy with which Jadalan used to play, in those days before the angel came. Time moves in a strange way between the worlds. Though Jadalan had been away for many years in angelic terms, only eight seasons had passed in the land of Cos. If Jadalan had returned a different way, or on a different day, it might have been that he’d come back to a place where his family had been dead for years. It might have been that the city itself had fallen to dust. There was no way of knowing. He’d been lucky and the dog that he had petted as a baby recognised his scent, broke away from the pack and bounded up to him, tail wagging wildly. Before Jadalan could move, the animal had covered his mouth with affectionate licks, the touch of love that Variel had warned against, thus effectively destroying any vestiges of memory that Jadalan had retained of the recent past. He lay back in the dust with the dog nuzzling his face, eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

  Ashalan noticed the commotion and sent one of his aides to see what the dog was doing.

  ‘Why sire, it is a lad,’ the man said.

  Ashalan dismounted and went to see for himself. It was as if Jadrin himself lay there, stupidly gazing, but a Jadrin of even finer aspect and ambience.

  ‘The boy is ill,’ someone said. ‘Perhaps diseased.’

  ‘Have someone take him into the palace,’ Ashalan said.

  ‘Is that wise, sire?’

  ‘Have someone take him into the palace.’ The king’s tone was not to be argued with.

  In this way, Jadalan returned home, but without the capacity to say who he was or what had happened to him.

  Because of his beauty, he was taken to the royal apartments, bathed and laid in a soft bed. Ashalan had even considered that this was some relative of Jadrin’s come to seek him out, but Jadrin claimed no recollection of such kin. He watched the boy coolly as the servants tended to his body. He felt he ought to be angry at the way Ashalan had brought him in; it was obvious why, and yet, some part of him, deep within, was drawn to the pale stranger.

  Perhaps I find him attractive myself, Jadrin thought and yet, it did not feel that way.

  When the servants had finished, Jadrin sent them away. He stood and stared at the boy lying there. Yes, he looks like me, he thought. How odd. A vague memory stirred, of a moonlit bathroom and blood, black in the moonlight, pooling on the floor. Jadrin shuddered and the boy opened his eyes. They were the colour of violets.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jadrin asked and the boy struggled to speak. ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ Jadrin had leaned right over him, his voice filled with a tremor that could have been fear. Then a whisper: ‘Who are you?’

  The boy sighed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I am no-one. I am nothing.’

  Jadrin found himself pressed against the far wall, one hand to his mouth. He dared not think. He dared not hope. Nothing.

  Jadalan recovered slowly, but his mind seemed almost empty. He wandered, pale and lovely, through the corridors of his parent’s palace, sat with them to eat, smiled and nodded at their friends, walked in the gardens with his arm through Jadrin’s, became beloved to them. Jadrin suspected who he might be, but never voiced his thoughts. Perhaps Ashalan too had some intimation of the boy’s identity, but a weird kind of fear kept the king and his consort from discussing the matter. Jadalan simply was. He was with them and they were fond of him. People seemed afraid of the boy so Jadrin named him Ailacumar, which was a deity name, seldom used by the populace, but which represented the god in his aspect of wandering youth. Ailacumar hardly ever answered to his name. There seemed within him a deep and secret sadness. He slept for most of every day and though he smiled, would never laugh.

  Variel came to earth in the middle of a forest. He crouched shuddering, beneath the branches of a giant oak, his gossamer angelic robes torn to shreds, his amber skin bruised and scratched. For a while, he could not remember who or what he was, why he was there or where he had come from. The earth claimed him. Stupid with terror, senseless to a degree even more than Jadalan had been, he was unaware of urine pooling beneath him, melting the last of his clothing. He had come to earth and its coarseness claimed him instantly, as if resentful of his aetheric origins. Learn reality, She said. Feel pain and fear; piss yourself.

  By nightfall, under the softer caress of the moon, Variel stumbled painfully along a forest track. The ground beneath his feet tore his flesh, even the light of the moon burned him. He was unprepared for a visit to Earth. Lailahel was experienced and knew what precautions to take, how to modify his form. Variel was virgin and ingenuous and the Earth mocked him.

  Eventually, he found shelter in a byre at the edge of the forest. Lights burned in a farmer’s cottage nearby, but he was too terror-stricken to seek aid there. Animals moved patiently in the musty darkness and he lay down in the hay, shivering himself to sleep. There were no thoughts of Jadalan, not even any thoughts of home, just a bewildered and helpless vacuum in his mind. All he desired was rest and warmth.

  In the morning, the farmer’s daughter came to milk the cows in there and found him. She ran shrieking to the cottage. ‘There’s a dead person in the byre, Papa!’

  The farmer, his sons and his wife hurried out to see. They thought Variel was a girl at first, until they carried him back to the cottage and saw the finely formed organ between his legs. The farmer’s wife made a sign to protect herself from spirits. ‘It’s a man-woman,’ she said. ‘A faery messenger.’

  ‘We must put it back where we found it,’ one of the sons said to his father. ‘Its people will come for it.’

  ‘It’s near dead,’ said the daughter. ‘I’ll fetch a blanket.’

  As the family debated what to do with their unearthly visitor, Variel groaned and writhed and opened his golden eyes. The family gasped as one, which under other circumstances would have been comical. Variel put his hands over his face and made a terrible sound of despair. Bravely, the daughter went and wrapped the blanket round his shoulders.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the mother.

  Variel stared up at them helplessly. Their odour, their physical strength, their animal forms virtually made him feel sick. He shook his head and closed his eyes, hot tears squeezing between his lids.

  ‘Are you of the faery?’ asked the farmer, gruffly.

  Variel shook his head. He could not speak.

  ‘Obvious what this creature is,’ said one of the sons proudly. ‘A freak. Probably from one of the travelling
fairs. Probably got lost, and separated from its people. Is that right, stranger?’

  Variel could sense these people desperately wanted answers about him. He was weary, sick and afraid. He nodded his head. It seemed the best thing to do. And they accepted that.

  The farmer’s daughter’s name was Phoebe. A kind-hearted soul, she took Variel into her care, nursing his constantly solidifying physical form back into health. Variel simply lay on a low cot in Phoebe’s room, staring at the far wall for three days, watching the sunlight and the moonlight cycle and slide and feeling himself change, become clay. He lay there thinking about what his angelic father had told him and how all those words were becoming truth. He was conscious of the heaviness of his body, the unweildy solidity of his flesh. He could smell himself beginning to emanate the animal odours of humankind. He could feel all that was magical about himself draining away.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Phoebe woke before dawn as usual to attend to her chores and then, as sunlight burned away the grey, came to bring Variel a bowl of cereal foamy with warmed milk. Previously, Variel had been unable to stomach more than a mouthful, so Phoebe was rightfully surprised as she watched her unearthly charge heartily consume half of the bowl before clutching his stomach with a groan. ‘You feel better today then,’ she said, eyes round as coins. Variel had not spoken to her yet. She had to sit down when he said,

  ‘Yes. In a way, I think so.’

  What a strange voice this person had. ‘What are you?’ Phoebe asked. ‘What is your name? Where do you come from?’

  Variel remembered what Lailahel had told him about humans pelting him with stones and thinking him a freak. He was unsure of what to say and merely opened and closed his mouth a few times.

  ‘You are afraid,’ Phoebe said. ‘Don’t be. You are among friends here. We will not harm you or send you back, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

  ‘No-one can send me back,’ Variel said, and told her his name.

  Phoebe seemed content with that for the time being and offered him some of her youngest brother’s clothes to wear.

  The family gathered for breakfast and, for the first time, Variel joined them. The kitchen was dark and pungent. Dogs and cats continuously put their paws onto Variel’s lap where he sat, begging food. Variel was afraid of them. He was less than an animal in this world, for even animals knew the way of things here and how to behave. He was also uncomfortably aware of the curious glances cast his way, disgusted by the brutish table manners of Phoebe’s male relatives. Even though Phoebe tried to encourage him to drink a glass of apple juice, he dared put nothing in his mouth, for fear of bringing it right back onto the table.

  At length, Phoebe’s father pushed his plate away, uttering a resounding belch of satisfaction and announced, ‘Mother, it is not right that wench, strange as she is, should be dressed up as a boy. See to her togs and have Phoebe show her the chicken runs.’

  Thus Variel learned that in this world at least he was destined to be a she, however odd, and from that moment it was true things became easier for him.

  So Variel learned the lore and customs of working the land. She found that, after a while, it came as a natural and enjoyable thing to do. She did not mind the long hours or the hard toil and found her new human body became less of a burden as time went on. With Phoebe’s encouragement, she began to take care of her appearance, and took joy in the lissom athleticism of her form. Slim as a whip she was, sinewy as a boy and fast as a hare. She could wrestle with Phoebe’s brothers and not be bested, she could fell a tree with the heaviest axe and still be a fey, languid beauty in the lamplight at dinner. The family came to adore her and could not remember what the days had been like before the flame of Variel’s presence had come to warm their home.

  Variel could not believe that the world of men could offer such pleasures as she now beheld. The miracle of life, the changing banner of the seasons, delighted her and filled her with awe. As an angelic being, isolated in the realms of light, she’d had no thought for the Great Goddess of the Earth. Now, Variel embraced her as did all the farming families in the community.

  One night she and Phoebe went down to the pool hidden in a sunken spinney in the farthest paddock. It was the night of the full moon and Phoebe wanted to bathe naked in the waters to entreat the Goddess for the powers of attraction. There was a young lad working for a neighbouring farmer for whom she’d developed a craving. Variel was happy to comply with her friend’s wishes. Indeed, she looked upon Phoebe as a sister now. As she sat on the bank of the pool, watching the farmer’s daughter raise her wet, pale arms to the sky, Variel reflected on how long she had been in this place and for the first time was visited by a pang that reminded her of Jadalan. He seemed a creature of her dreams nowadays, an insubstantial idea that bore no relation to her life as she now lived it. Her past life had become similarly unreal. Now she was a young woman, with a young woman’s needs and feelings, if not possessed utterly of a young woman’s physical form. This was what the Goddess had decreed and Variel considered that the Goddess was indeed a benevolent Being to have so tolerated her on the Earth. It was almost as if she’d been rewarded. How wrong Lailahel had been and yet, how right too.

  Phoebe came swimming to the water’s edge. ‘You look thoughtful, Variel. Are you alright?’ she asked.

  Variel smiled. ‘I was thinking of my father,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you miss him?’ Through veiled remarks made by Variel, Phoebe had gleaned Variel had been found in such a distraught condition because of being exiled from home by her angry parent. It was a subject they rarely discussed, for Phoebe sensed it gave Variel pain to think about it.

  Variel wrinkled her brow. ‘Miss him? How odd. I never thought of it that way. I suppose I do, but there’s no point grieving. I’ll never see him again.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Phoebe asked carefully. From Variel’s dreamy expression she was thinking the father must have been a wild and handsome creature.

  ‘He was an angel,’ Variel replied, laughing. ‘I was an angel too and he kicked me into the world of men.’

  Phoebe laughed too. ‘You are a strange one, Variel. Your sense of humour is peculiar at times.’

  Variel frowned. ‘No, I lied. I was not kicked into the world of men. It was my choice. I loved a man. I followed him. But now it’s like a dream.’ She turned and stumbled away from the water, one hand to her eyes, the other blindly reaching forward.

  Perplexed and concerned Phoebe scrambled from the water, her wet skin gleaming like silver, and hurried after her, not even pausing to dress herself. ‘Variel, stop! Come back!’ She ran after the swiftly marching Variel and laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  Variel spun around, shaking her arm from Phoebe’s hold. ‘Am I human, am I?’ she demanded angrily.

  Phoebe was frightened and confused. Had Variel gone mad? ‘Of course you are,’ she soothed, and then remembered the weird, shimmering body she had found in the byre, the odd sexuality of it, the alien feel of it. ‘You are now,’ she amended.

  Variel snarled. ‘Don’t be so sure!’ she snapped and then with another lightning change of expression began to cry and raised her face to the moon. ‘Goddess, what am I? Can I truly live here in contentment? Am I worthy of such a thing? Or will I one day petrify and shatter and break like a crystal shard? Oh, help me! Help me!’

  Phoebe was concerned that one of her brothers on his evening chores might hear the commotion and come to investigate. She dragged the protesting, wailing Variel back into the hollow, where the surface of the pool was ruffled by the night breeze. The water grasses rattled as if the Goddess herself was concerned at what was happening. ‘Get into the water!’ Phoebe ordered, tearing Variel’s clothes from her back. ‘Come on, hurry! Get into the water!’ Above them, a vast, pale moon sank towards the trees at the edge of the meadow.

  Shivering and weeping, Variel removed the petticoats and undergarments that were gifts from Phoebe’s mother. ‘Do not look at me,’ she said.


  Phoebe turned away her face. She did not look back until she could hear Variel splashing into the pool. Crouched down below the surface, only Variel’s face showed above the water, her eyes wide and black, her white-gold hair floating around her head like wet silk.

  Phoebe stepped into the pool and held out her hands. ‘Pray,’ she entreated. ‘Pray, Variel, pray! Don’t lose it all. Gain more! Pray!’

  Phoebe’s hands ached from the iron grip of Variel’s weirdly strong limbs. Tears squeezed from between her own eyelids with the pain. The water felt like ice around her legs and stomach. Everything hurt and Variel’s face was pinched into an ugly expression of helpless pleading, of determination, of angry strength. Suddenly, with a final agonising squeeze of her hands and a shuddering gasp, Variel threw back her head, and releasing Phoebe from her grip raised her arms to the sky. With a fluting peal of triumph, Variel rose up from the water, her wet hair clinging to her body, and Phoebe backed, splashing, towards the bank, wiping her face. It was as if she beheld an embodiment of the Goddess herself. From between the strands of Variel’s encompassing hair, proud, blooming breasts jutted like perfect fruit; an area that had been rather devoid of swelling before. The waist curved in as if carved from perfect wood and, as Variel strode through the water to the bank, Phoebe could clearly see that was no longer the slightest evidence of masculinity between her legs.

  Wild-eyed, Variel stood upon the bank. ‘I have been answered!’ she cried, fists clenched and raised above her head.

  Phoebe scrambled up the bank. She could not speak. She knew she had witnessed some kind of miracle but it had been so awesome, so strange, she was unsure whether gods or demons had been responsible for it.

  The next morning, Phoebe was awoken by a chilling cry from Variel’s bed. In an instant she hurried to her friend’s side, throwing back the blankets, fearing some reversal of last night’s event. There was no need to worry. Clutching her stomach, Variel struggled from the bed, where the bottom sheet was stained with red. There could be no mistake. Variel was truly a woman. The Goddess had visited her with the indelible mark of femininity. As the earth, as the beasts, as the birds themselves, Variel was one of the Goddess’s creatures now. A fertile female. It was then that she knew it was time for her to seek the city of Ashbrilim.