For that one mistake--though he agreed it was a large one--she made him suffer. Alone, cut off even from his brethren, the other Fallen Ones. He lived in solitary while the stars died and birthed, while galaxies spun into extinction, while the Earth filled with more and more humans, some of whom still had hope and faith and goodness and souls that strived toward perfection.
“You ruined it all,” she had said.
As if he didn’t know. As if he was stupid as an animal or a human. He knew at what cost he’d lost the life of Caesar. He knew they might have been able to take full control of the entire world. He knew he was…
A failure.
He looked left and right, as if expecting a blast of light to penetrate the unfathomable dark that embraced him. A light that would remark on his truthfulness and then ask him questions he could never begin to answer.
He said it aloud, just to hear himself speak. I am a failure, a miserable failure. His voice was mellifluous and captivating, the voice of an angel.
Yes, he’d failed, but hadn’t he suffered enough? Didn’t Angelique make drastic mistakes herself, like taking over the dead body of a child? Yet she went without chastisement. Only he was punished, forced into spending eternities in the void.
Alone.
He didn’t expect justice. That was one thing that would always be denied him. But he did yearn with every fiber of his being to be flesh again, to feel the wind on his skin, to savor the chill of water cascading over his face, to walk in the sun and lie naked beneath the moon. He wanted flavor on his tongue like he remembered from before. Cherries, red and juicy, figs brown and meaty, the mouth-watering taste of goat roasted with garlic cloves and the heady scent of wine sweet with honey. He wanted all of it, everything, Every Thing, that could only be experienced on Earth. On the perfect planet.
Men. Oh the men and women who had been given the Earth as their home, never once realizing how precious it was! His envy was so large it was like a boulder on his wide shoulders. Men were stunted, powerless, and without a shred of worthiness; they lived short and ridiculous lives. Why had all of it been given to them? He, on the other hand, once incarnated, could conceivably live for hundreds of years, thousands! He’d never make the mistake again of turning his back on friend or foe; he would never be tricked again. As human, an angel was frail and could lose the body he possessed. But if he had another chance, he would be powerful, worthy, and drink in every atom of pleasure the planet extended to a living being. He would know paradise and worship it.
If only Angelique would allow it.
So he had begged her. And in so doing the hate he felt rose to white hot flame, almost to the brink of consuming him, but she had not known that, hadn’t even suspected what it cost him. It might have taken him a thousand years, he had no idea of time passing, but it had taken a long time for him to perfect an empty mind his queen could not read. So when he sounded contrite and apologetic, she would not know how very much he despised her and how unapologetic he really felt.
He tried to remember why she was the ruler of the lost servants. Certainly it wasn’t because she was the most perceptive, for she wasn’t. Or because she was the most brilliant, since she wasn’t that either. Maybe it was because she was the most determined. The strongest willed. It had been so long since the fall that how she’d come to be his master was lost in the long silvery wisps of time. She had probably just been the most opportunistic angel among them--taking control while others wailed and gnashed their teeth at being separated from God.
He stared ahead of him again, into nothing, into darkness, into the bowels of Hell. He felt time trickle by so exasperatingly slowly that he knew soon he would have to close down his mind and hibernate. The instant Angelique relented and called him to Earth, he would hear the siren call and come completely awake.
But for a while, despite how it scourged him and made him want to fly apart into a billion particles, he continued staring into the deep, into the far reaches, into the nowhere prison that was neither space nor non-space, neither here nor there, neither dead or alive. He let the Nothing fill his eyes, fill his mouth, fill his mind, and allowed it to devour his soul.
And then he was at one with it, drifting into dreamless oblivion, a being without regret or yearning. And in this way, the only way possible, he waited. Waited.
CHAPTER 11
ANGELIQUE IN SPAIN
When it was time to go, she was ready. She was given a few days warning and was able to make plans. She had a small woven bag filled with food--dried fruit and meat and various nuts natural to the island. What she couldn’t carry was sufficient water for drinking. She would have to find the supply on board the ship and secret it away in a pigskin bladder she had fashioned to hold liquids. She also had stolen a small tin pot with a screw type lid from the kitchen. It was a fine piece of work brought on shore by the Spaniards, along with other pots and pans fashioned from metal. She could use the pot for relieving herself, and she would later find a way to dispose of those excrements overboard once on the ship.
The most important item she carried with her was the cloth drawstring bag of gold coins. They were her ticket to a new life. Had she not put the thought into the Spanish priest’s head to favor her with gold coins for the work she did, he might never have come to think of it on his own.
She had thought of everything. Not that the voyage would be easy. She knew it would take a very long time to reach Spain. The ordeal before her was monumental, but not impossible. Once she was determined to succeed at a task, nothing could stop her.
One day before Columbus revealed he would be leaving with crews for his ships, she waited until after midnight, gathered her things, and walked into the calm surf beneath a dark, moonless sky. She could not take one of the soldiers’ outriggers. She had to swim out to the massive, waiting ships.
It was a long way for anyone to swim, much less a child burdened with supplies, but Angelique was no ordinary child, and her entire future depended on making it.
A little over half way to the ship, she tired and let herself float on her back, buoyed by the tightly woven bags she hauled with her. She stared into the sky, salt water sliding from the corners of her eyes. This would be the last time she would ever see the sky from this part of the world. When next she saw the sky, she would be in a new country, one she knew nothing about except for the few things her friend, the cleric, had told her of his home.
Far off toward shore she could see a few dots of firelight. Behind the white beach and the buildings of the new town the land rose like a clutch of hump-backed whales, the forests black and thick.
She would not miss the island. She was happily shed of it. Goodbye, she thought. Goodbye!
She turned over in the water, wallowing in the soft waves, and thrust out her small arms to pull herself the rest of the way to the closest ship. She was almost there.
#
Angelique lay inside a wooden casket of cloth, breathing evenly. She had her things stored at her feet. Though she had changed out of her wet clothes, her hair still clung to her scalp and smelled of the sea.
While living in the cave high up the mountain, waiting for the right moment to interact with the Spaniards, she had taught herself a valuable skill. In order to make time pass without it impinging on her conscious, she perfected a way to shut off her mind, lower her heart rate, and close off the world. She floated in a wandering way through a gray static world that was too close to the outer void, but at least it saved her energy and killed the time. That skill would be needed for such a long, difficult sea voyage.
When she had gotten aboard the ship and sneaked below decks without the soldier guard noticing, she felt an exuberance overwhelm her senses. Free at last! On her way!
Then when she had slipped into the hold of the ship and smelled the tang of raw wood that made up the ribs of the hull, she had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the deep gloom.
She found the stacked crates and chests and caskets of goods, opening the lids on t
he ones she found unlocked until she discovered the large chest she now lay inside. It was just half full of cloth, beautiful cloth, sensuous to the touch. She fingered silks and satins and cotton so smooth it was like caressing a baby’s skin. She almost groaned with delight and clapped a hand over her mouth. She knew the Spaniards were a civilized, developed people, but to possess such exquisite treasure as this was beyond anything she expected. Not since the time of ancient Egypt had she felt such beautiful material.
This, she decided immediately, was where she would lie hidden. This would be her berth for the long trip. Day and night she would lie upon this bed of sweet-smelling material, dreaming of one day owning dresses made from them. Silk would flow around her, satin would swath her shoulders, cotton would wrap her in its crisp arms. As she lay dreaming inside the darkness of the mighty oak chest, she would dream of a rich life, a civilized life full of gold, jewels, and the finest cloth to dress her little body. She would dream of meats in gravy and breads leavened with eggs, of roasted peppers, exotic fruits, and wine to wet her palate.
Yes, she would be fine in the dark hold of the ship, rocking and swaying through the ocean wide. She had food to sustain her, a source of fresh water in great round caskets just down the aisle and near the stairs. She had her cushioned bed, her dreams, her desires, and the future awaiting her in a gracious land called Spain.
She smiled into the secret dark. She was the luckiest angel in all creation.
#
She was not as lucky as all that, she decided. They had been underway for merely minutes when the ship lurched, slowed, and stalled. Overhead she could hear pandemonium. She must see what the matter was. She crept carefully from the chest, then up the narrow stairs. She lifted the hatch just an inch oh so slowly then held her breath to listen.
The sailors were shouting about a shipwreck on the rocks of the bay. They crowded the railing while pointing and calling out.
One of the three Spainish ships had been crushed on the rocks while trying to sail away through the powerful undercurrent and resultant waves. While she lay in the hold, held in darkness and quiet, the weather had whipped up the waves and one of Columbus’ ships had foundered. This was a disaster. They would turn back for the land. Her neatly made plan was falling to ruin before her eyes.
Back at the chest she sat upon the cushion of cloth and held her head in her hands. She would have to start over. She would have to get off the ship, hide in the jungle so the priest could not find her, and wait for the remaining ships to set sail again. This meant replenishing her store of foods and formulating the plan all over anew.
Her fists tightened and her lips pulled back from her teeth. Curse these Spaniards! How could they make such a mistake as to lose a ship on the reef? How could she think to trust them to take her all the way to Spain when they couldn’t get off the island intact? The fury built to such a pitch in her heart that she wanted to shred the beautiful cloth, tear off the wood slats of the chest, and kick over every keg of water in the hold.
Yet she sat still and quiet. She calmed herself with a discipline far beyond her years. So it was with things of the world, she thought. Plans made, then broken. Journeys begun and abruptly ended. Human beings were faulty creatures full of mistakes and regular disasters.
She began to listen to the noise above board while the hours passed. She would know when it was safe to venture forth, to swim to the island.
Deliberately clearing her mind, she sat with hands folded in her lap, waiting.
#
It was not that long before the last two ships in Columbus’ small armada was ready to try sailing out of the harbor again. Angelique used the time to refine plans in her head and to daydream and fantasize about the future in a new world. She had sneaked into the rectory kitchen and found plenty of dried foods to fill her bags. She stayed in the jungle just outside the new city, watching for the commander in his fine breast plate. Wherever he went, her gaze followed.
Finally she saw the men readying the outriggers to take them to the ships. They were soon to be on their way for the second time. And though she had not heard him, she was sure Columbus had threatened the captains and crew about floundering on the reef this time.
That night she re-boarded the ship. With great stealth she lifted the hatch and shimmied into the hold, hurried to the waiting chest and climbed into it. She knew they would leave at sunrise. That night she slept peacefully on the luxurious mattress of fine cloth, happy once more to be on her way.
It was weeks later before the first blow descended to toss the ship like a toy through monstrous waves. Where she lay in the chest, she was lifted right off the stacks of cloth, slamming into the lid, shielding her face with an arm. She let out frightened cries that only served to scare her further. She was tossed to one side of the chest and then rolled back to knock against the other. She spread out her legs and dug in her bare toes, trying to grip the wood to keep herself from being thrown around inside the chest.
She could not hear the howling wind or feel the sting of torrential rain, but she knew the ship was being lifted on waves tall as mountains and dropped into sloughs deep as crevasses. Biting her lower lip hard enough to bring blood, she fought to keep herself steady in both body and mind. She could not let the storm undermine her determination to survive the voyage. Nothing short of death was going to keep her from Spain. If the ship floundered, if it rolled or sank, she would go down with it. There was nothing to be done about that, no way to prevent it. She could imagine the cold waters filling the chest, rushing over her, closing off her air. Drowning, drowning, going down into the dark, silent deep.
In times of crisis she had no one to pray to, no god to save her. Just as the ship was a speck on the great roiling ocean, she was but a dot in the greater universe, equipped with only her wits and few supernatural powers to hold off catastrophe.
The winds blew. The storm screamed. The ship bucked and groaned, rose and dropped, yawed and teetered like a terrible drunk. But it held fast. And in the end, after hours of terror, Angelique felt the sea change that brought quiet. It was as if after the violence, the dragon sea, worn out, had suddenly gone to sleep.
Pushing up on the chest lid, she carefully crawled from what could have been her final resting place at the bottom of the sea. She had to hold onto the crates around her to get her sea legs working before she collapsed. Her hands trembled. She breathed heavily. Once she could see in the dark she noted that most of the goods had weathered the tossing and turning. She needed to repack and straighten the few that had come loose and spilled their bounty across the hold’s flooring. She did not want the Spaniards looking in and having to tidy up.
Finally, calming herself, she hurried around the hold, lifting and storing and straightening until all appeared as it had been before the storm hit. Satisfied with her work, she went again to her private chest and crawled into it with a sense of despair. How long would the voyage last? How far was the country of Columbus? Would her food stores last? Would another storm rend the ship into splinters and send her to the dark sandy bottom?
The nagging questions would not cease until she deliberately turned off her mind and let her consciousness float away into the still darkness. She had faith she would survive the trip. She had to. It was her destiny. She had not survived two hundred years on the primitive island only to lose this body to the winsome sea. In the hull of an explorer’s ship. In the wooden chest of beautiful cloth. God had no power over her on this plane of existence. He could not harry nor dispose of her. He had kept hands off this planet since its beginning.
He could not cast her out.
#
More storms struck the ship during the journey, but the worst that happened was when the wind died and the ship stood still. In these quiet days at sea she could feel the tension among the crew as boredom set in. One of Columbus’ people came into the hold merely to rummage around. Angelique did not know what he searched for but she suspected he was just trying to find something in which
to occupy himself. He wasn’t supposed to be there, she knew that. Each day a crew member came down the steps to take water from the stores, but other than that the hold was off limits to the crew.
When she sensed the lone searcher near her chest, she held her breath. Go away! She thought frantically. Go away from here. If he opened the chest and discovered her, she would have to take action. She kept a silver handled dagger close by her side in the darkness. It had been stolen from the priest's study. She would bury it in the man’s eye socket were he so unfortunate as to look into her hiding place. But he did not. He passed by her, stumbling as if drunk, and moved on to another part of the hold.
A month after that close call, there was a noisome furor above decks. Land had been sighted! She heard them calling out, Land! Land ahead!
She sighed into the darkness, closing her eyes. Finally they had finished the voyage. It had been a long, perilous trip. She had run out of food days before and had been forced to roam the ship looking for the larder in the night. All she had found was a bit of rancid fried bacon and a crust of hard bread. She had wondered then if they would ever cross the endless sea. She wondered how much longer she could keep herself hidden.
Yet here they were. Land. Spain. Home.
This night would be her last imprisoned in the chest in the stuffy hold. Once the Spaniards had gone ashore, she would crawl from the chest, take her bag of gold coins, and scamper down the gangplank to the new land. Over the long journey she had formulated a plan to survive in a Spanish city. She could not do it alone, being a child. She needed an accomplice.
A helper.
Someone she could rule.
CHAPTER 12
LIFE IN A CITY
Her name was Patricia. She was in her late twenties with good teeth and a strong, square, peasant's face. Angelique had disembarked the ship without incident and lost herself in the throng of people still on the streets late in the evening. She had no choice but to hide until morning, skulking like a little mouse behind dark corners and in the shadows of buildings.
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