Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  But the boy was not aware of Luchy’s words.

  The girl turned away and left.

  ***

  Luchy rode in the direction of the Décamon, spurred by the need to visit the religious sanctuary. In it, she would find relief for her thoughts. Besides, she wanted to hear the theories of Father Crisondo and Savarb on the destruction of the village.

  Savarb, who had assumed the role of captain of the resistance in the days of the massacre, was now solely devoted to religion. He had lost his hearing in one ear. Lucky for him that he had only lost one.

  To the girl’s surprise, the Décamon was full. She could see the oratory from outside and the benches in front of it where hundreds of faithful sat waiting with their hands folded in prayer and eyes lost in the heights. She dismounted from Sureña and tied the reins to a post.

  When she entered the Décamon, a stench reached her and made her retch. It came from the benches. The faithful were dressed in rags, and in their hands and faces, a prolonged lack of hygiene was noticeable. She noticed one person who did not move and realized he was dead. That poor soul had died while waiting. But the stench did not only come from these people. On the floor were leftovers of food, excrement, and the remains of daily life, which the rats, cockroaches, and other opportunistic vermin were taking advantage of. Then Luchy understood that these people were not waiting for service: They lived there, praying. What is this? she wondered.

  The girl began to move forward. Her steps echoed against the stone in that crushing silence, but the noise failed to disturb anybody. All of them seemed like statues, petrified by their everlasting wait. A metal decoration fell to the floor with a loud clang. The worshipers turned with their beseeching gaze. Luchy felt terror at the sight of those faces with their sunken eyes, dry mouths, and calloused skin. The desperate souls, seeing that she was no more than a girl from the village, turned back to that almost immaterial state. The girl relaxed.

  To defeat a man or a woman, you don’t need to cut off their limbs; all you need to do is to cripple their spirit, Luchy told herself. She headed toward the Décagon in search of the priest.

  “Daughter of the Gods, welcome to the dwelling-place of the helpless, the weak, and the faithful. What is the matter, my child? Have you come to join the prayers of the unfortunate?”

  “Father! What’s wrong with these people?”

  “Calm down, calm down. Don’t be hasty in your judgments. They’re men and women who have transferred their sorrows to the Gods. They don’t know what to do, and they’ve sought peace in faith. Here, at least, they find hope. Outside, there’s nothing but madness.”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide. Despite the gloom the sanctuary was sunk in, the priest noticed her reaction.

  “No, no! This isn’t right. Father, what happened three years ago? What’s happened to us?”

  The man of faith stared down at the floor, and his eyes filled with tears. “We’re doomed forever, my child. The Gods whom we venerate so much have abandoned us, and now all that’s left to us is sadness and desolation.”

  Without thinking, Luchy slapped the priest’s face. Several people behind her saw it and did not even flinch. He rubbed his cheek, half-ashamed and half-cowering, like a child who knows he has misbehaved.

  “What’s the good of this sanctuary if all it inspires is hopelessness and defeat? It’s time to get moving, with arms and hands, with soul and mind. We can’t let the people give themselves over to nothing but prayer. We’ll only encourage worship of apathy, and that’s the direct road to complete destruction.”

  ***

  Toward six in the evening, according to the sundial, a carriage moved toward the sentry posts. They were still a long way away when the driver pulled on the reins and came to a halt.

  “We’re here!” he cried.

  Puzzled, the passenger got down. Judging by how far they had come, he calculated it would take him at least half an hour to walk to the post. This was not the only surprise. From a distance, he could see that the entrance to San San-Tera was a pile of rubble and ruins. He could even smell the stench; he understood why the driver had stopped the carriage. For a long time he had wanted this destination, but now he was not sure about going on. San San-Tera was a graveyard of ghosts.

  “Isn’t your duty supposed to be to take me where I asked you to?”

  “Are you insane? Nobody gets close to that accursed place. There isn’t a more rotten village in the whole region.” The driver snorted. “They say a powerful demon came out of the ground and devoured half the village.” He took a breath and continued. “In other times, this was a land of great ranchers, but they’re all dead. This village is finished. I don’t understand why they’ve sent you from Démanon. Is it a punishment?”

  The young man bit his lip at these words. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Damasio and Orolio wanted to get rid of him, and sending him to San San-Tera was a way to do it unobtrusively.

  “Unload your luggage, sir. I want to get away as soon as possible, even better if it’s before sunset. And I’d advise you to do the same. Make haste to get to your destination before the sun sets. And prepare yourself for the horrors you’re about to witness.”

  The suitcase fell to the ground and bounced amid a cloud of dust from Meetings Road that was deserted at present since nobody came to San San-Tera except to commit suicide. The carriage lost no time in turning and driving away as fast as it could amid a wake of dust.

  The passenger had no choice but to make his way to the post at a brisk pace, as the driver had advised him. He went through the ruined entrance as the sun was beginning to fall and the shadows were lengthening. Luckily, his luggage was light and did not encumber him when he had to dodge what was left of the ruins. He went along what seemed like the main road of the village that had houses on both sides of the street. From doors and windows, a few faces peered out. In their eyes was suffering but also a certain curiosity towards him; something between terror and admiration. The visitor felt like he was surrounded by madness.

  “It’s another demon!” someone shouted from a house. The young man ducked as he saw a stone the size of his fist flying toward his head.

  “This bastard has come to fuck us over even more!” they shouted from another house. More faces leaned out, attracted by the commotion.

  “The Gods are sending us a messenger!” cried a boy of thirteen or so. He had no legs and walked on his hands, nimbly and vigorously. People began to come closer. Some began to touch the young man’s back, his head. They muttered the words angel and salvation. When the visitor noticed the nails scratching at his skin, he took fright. He began to be infected by their hysteria, and with panic clutching at him, he ran like a madman.

  The rabble, like some predatory organism, ran after its prey. They stumbled into each other, stepped on each other, and some died under the feet of the crowd. The traveler ran for his life without letting go of his suitcase, his strength almost gone and feeling like a chicken fleeing from a horde of hungry dogs. He renewed his efforts when he glimpsed the statues of the Slegna Flamon, eroded by time and war, and the Décamon.

  Presently, two men appeared at the entrance, probably alerted by the shouting. They carried swords and torches. The visitor ran toward them, relieved to find someone on his side.

  “Get back, you rabble! Back! He’s one of ours! Get back!” Crisondo shouted. The other threw a thick liquid on the ground, drawing a long line like a border in front of the horde. He put his torch to it, and soon the fire took hold with the flames gaining height. The priest and his assistant pushed the young man behind their backs and wielded their swords to threaten the crowd, which stopped as soon as it came up against the wall of fire.

  “Get back! He’s one of ours!” Crisondo repeated. “He’s a man of faith. Don’t you see the brown toga?”

  “We want his flesh! He’s a demon!”

  “We want his blood, he’s an angel, come to save us from the rubble!”

  “We want them to pay for w
hat they did to us!”

  Crisondo and his assistant looked at each other, uncertain and worried. With a gesture, they turned to go back into the Décamon and close its heavy doors.

  The young sacristan collapsed on to the floor. His skin was reddened by the scratches.

  “They’ll go away soon,” said the man with white hair and thick eyebrows that framed a pair of sad but lively eyes. He wore a black toga. This must be the priest of the Décamon.

  “Our neighbors are confused. If they believe they’re confronted by the cause of their misfortune, they hurl themselves like an avalanche without thinking. My son, at last our wish is fulfilled. Démanon has taken pity on us and sent us help.” Crisondo offered his hand to the young man and helped him to his feet.

  “Your name?”

  “Argbralius,” the young man said, still stunned.

  “Argbralius, this is Savarb. During the massacre, he rendered magnificent service to the village.”

  The sacristan noticed that the man’s face was furrowed with deep scars, although his gaze already revealed more than enough about the profound sorrow he would never recover from.

  “My apologies, Father,” the young man said and burst into tears. He missed his home, Ágamgor, when he had lived with Vurgomm, and then the life he had shared with his friends during their training as sacristans. Now he found himself in a violent village, a victim of misfortune, far from the warmth of his loved ones, with no family and, apparently, no salvation.

  “Everything’s all right, my son. I’m sorry your arrival in the village has been so frightening, but it might have been even worse. We’ve seen several people dismembered by the rabble.”

  Savarb was studying the young man of faith. With his short black hair, thin eyebrows, nondescript nose, thin lips, white skin, deep, dark eyes, and gaunt, languid build, the sacristan did not appear intimidating. But there was something in those eyes that revealed a hidden strength. Savarb was sure of it, but he could not tell to what end the young man would use that power. He took it upon himself to watch every step Argbralius took from that moment on.

  “Come with me, I’ll show you to your room,” the priest said.

  The young man followed him along a corridor with benches on both sides that were crammed with people sleeping, others simply sitting, but all still as if they were petrified. The stench they gave off was indescribable. The boy could think of nothing but the cleanliness of Démanon, which discouraged him still further.

  “Father, what are they doing here? The Décamon is for—”

  “Since the disaster, the rules are different now, Argbralius. Our neighbors have been coming and occupying the oratory benches. They’re only seeking the protection of the Gods.”

  The young man noticed that the priest felt uncomfortable speaking of this and did not want to insist. He felt a gaze pierce his skull; it was Savarb, who had not taken his eyes off him since he had entered the temple. Facing the oratory was a door which the priest opened. It fed into another corridor with a door on each side. He opened the door on the right and went in.

  “This will be your room for several years, Argbralius. You’ll sleep here and rest from the day’s labors.”

  Savarb went in too and loaded some bundles which had been lying ready in one corner on to his shoulders. He walked away swiftly.

  “Savarb used to sleep here,” Father Crisondo explained. “Now we have to find him another place to sleep,” he added, with a wide smile that shook his gray beard. “Son of the Gods, the night is coming on, and my poor bones claim their rest. Make yourself at home. Savarb will show you where the washroom is and the limited kitchen we have. You can eat and drink anything you want. Well then, it’s getting late, and there’s a lot to do tomorrow. Now you’re here, we’ll take the opportunity to have a full mass.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be in my new home,” the young man said with sadness in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to spread the good message around our empire for many years. Tomorrow will be a wonderful experience.”

  The priest went away to his room on the other side of the corridor. Argbralius was left alone in silence. From the oratory, he could hear the wailing of the desperate people who were crowded inside the temple. He looked around. The walls were of stone, cold and empty. The only decoration was a simple straw bed.

  Chapter III – Seraph Found

  Flying was a pleasure, one of the greatest, and he felt it in every fiber of his being now that he was endowed with substance. After a long search, he had found the meaning of his existence, had abandoned his existence as a ghost, and returned to the tangible world.

  The wind wounded his face with its icy caress. The thickness of the clouds slipped through his hands and left a trace of dampness on his fingers. The temperature up here was very low but experiencing the immensity of the heavens and the earth was well worth enduring a little cold. Watching the sunrise, he had thought there was no more sublime beauty; he had been wrong, but how could he have imagined this? One or two tears escaped. He wept freely with a smile on his face. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed nature and her warm embraces. His chest hurt. Feeling his emotions thrumming, he put force into his flight until he reached a furious speed. It was the depths of night.

  The God of Light went on flying over the mountains, accompanied by nothing but silence and the uncertainty of darkness. In the dark, he found comfort. He let his mind wander, like a sailboat on the ocean. He flew over a great lake he had never known existed. On the surface, he glimpsed the faint reflection of the moon and became aware of a new beauty on that silver face. Without realizing it, he had arrived at the ranch. There was his home, there were his memories, and there were Luchy and Lulita.

  It was like an emotional blow that left him stunned for a moment. He could see them, and now that he was material once more, they could see him too. They could sit down together and talk. Did he really want that? Teitú, meanwhile, went on flying close to his master. The small being awoke the wonder of the young boy who was still there within the God of Light. Some day, he might be able to learn more about his origin. Now, on the other hand, he had to focus on what was under his feet: his home, his loved ones. They were about to find out that he, Manchego, was not dead. The God of Light gathered his courage and began to descend.

  ***

  Luchy tossed and turned between the sheets, unable to sleep. What on earth’s the matter with me? Am I going crazy? I should’ve kept to myself instead of asking myself questions and going out to investigate. What a hellish business, all these concerns! she thought, dazed. She told herself she was still awake because she was going over the general’s proposal in her mind, even though her heart was beating in a way that was not normal. She sat up in bed. With eyes wide, she tried to penetrate the darkness as if something in the room were the cause of her wakefulness.

  She got dressed, took a dagger, and clasped it to her belt. She was going out. It was not the first time she had done so at this hour of the night. More than once, she had gone to the observatory to witness the spectacle of night unfolding, and then the early hours and dawn. But today, things were different.

  Something had changed; she had changed. Despite the darkness, she reached the front door without hesitation; she knew the place by heart. She turned the handle and opened the door. A gust of cold wind struck her face and brought her to her waking senses completely. A half-moon shone in the sky like a silver brooch. The grass was slightly wet with dew. She went down the hill to the plantations. The breeze was light, and clouds obscured the moon now and then. She glimpsed a hump of land that grew as she approached. How many times had she come this way with Manchego? She smiled and almost at once writhed in pain. How stupid you can be as a child. No, not stupid. Naïve, she corrected herself. I never guessed how much I loved Manchego.

  The wind strengthened. A cold gust came down from the Devonic Range of Simrar, but she went on. She climbed the hill and reached the Great Pine. The old tree had withstood the destruction. Other t
rees and plants, in contrast, had been devastated. She sat down and leaned her back against the trunk where Manchego used to. She closed her eyes and let herself drift with the flow of nature.

  ***

  How could he let his family know that he was alive? And not only that he was alive, but also that he was the God of Light, and so he had always been? His whole body, every fiber of his being, tensed. For a moment, he wanted to flee, but he knew that would not solve anything.

  He landed on the roof. He looked down at himself and saw nothing but rags. He still wore his grandfather’s llama-wool vest, with a torn white shirt under it. His pants reached his knees, and his black boots were worn out. It was certainly not the ideal outfit to present himself in after so many years, but no kind of clothing could soften the impression his appearance was going to cause. He could knock on the door at noon, at lunchtime. He would say “hello” and act like any young boy. How would he hide his wings? They would notice at once that something had changed. I’m Manchego. I died and I’ve come back to life. I’m alive and now I’m a demigod.

  No! There was no way he could say that!

  He spread his wings and, with a leap, flew toward the observatory. He missed the Great Pine, the peace he used to find leaning against its trunk. He needed to calm down and think carefully about how he was going to manage things.

  ***

  Luchy opened her eyes all of a sudden. The wind had dropped. She closed her eyes again without knowing that above her head an angel was watching her with his heart racing.

  ***

  It’s Luchy! Teitú said.

  Alac could not believe it. There was the love of his life. Just before he landed on the hill, he’d seen her under the tree. He managed to change his course at the last moment and alight on the branches. The forced break in his flight caused a noise which woke the girl, but luckily she did not notice what had happened and closed her eyes again. The God of Light breathed out heavily with relief. He had been on the point of ruining his return, a moment he wanted to be perfect. What was Luchy doing here, at this hour? She was sad. By the Gods, she was beautiful! Even in her sadness! Manchego felt the urge to put his arms around her.