by Kim Wilkins
She shook her head in puzzlement.
“Do it. You will see why.”
“What shall I say … Oh!” As she spoke the words tumbled freely. “Oh. Oh, I can speak. I’ve never … I can speak.” It was the most incredible sense of liberation, and of imminent danger, as though thoughts could now escape from her without her consent. “I can speak. I can’t believe it.” She sang a few lines of a tune Mary always sang, then realised her voice was off key and stopped, laughing, pressing her fingers to her mouth.
“It is not permanent,” Lazodeus said. “I’m sorry, but that is not in my power at the moment.”
“Will it ever be?” she blurted.
“Perhaps, eventually.” He smiled. “For now, you must be satisfied to feel this effect only on occasion, and those occasions only when I am with you.”
“Do not say that, for I shall want you with me all the time,” she said, then checked herself for her boldness. “I mean …”
“You called me for a reason?” He shifted his weight so he leaned with his back against the door. His stance was so casual. She had always thought angels would be proper and mannered.
“Why do you have no wings?” she found herself asking.
He spread his arms and considered his black sleeves. “If I appeared to you in my true form, it would be too much for you.”
“Would I go blind?” She thought of Father.
“No, not blind. Mad, perhaps.” He dropped his arms. “There are some things mortals are not meant to see.”
“I’m frightened by you,” she said, once again without knowing she was going to say it. Was this what it meant to be able to speak easily? Was one always expressing one’s feelings without due consideration? She had to learn to be more reserved in her use of language.
“You are my commander. You are in control.”
She appraised him. Strange feelings brewed inside her; feelings she did not recognise.
“What is it you wanted to ask me?” he prompted.
“Did I kill Johnny?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
Irritation briefly crossed his countenance but was soon gone. “No. No, angels do not kill.”
“Then how …?”
“You wished him dead, and I said to you, ‘your wish will be granted’ because I knew he was already ailing. I tried to explain this to you, but you were far too small to understand.”
A tide of relief swelled up through her body. She found her knees suddenly weak. “Oh,” she said, beginning to crumble, “oh.”
He caught her and led her to the bed. She found herself sobbing, shaking. He kneeled in front of her, her hand caught in his and she noticed he was smiling.
“Mortals cry when they are happy,” he said. “I love that about them. We all love it.”
“All the angels in Heaven?” she managed to say through her tears.
“All the angels everywhere,” he replied.
She tried to compose herself. “For my entire life,” she said, “I have thought it my fault that Johnny died.”
“No. You were so little, Anne. I remember it so clearly. You were a beautiful child, so innocent and serious. I was enchanted by you.”
Anne felt pleased with herself, though she knew her vanity was foolish. “Really?”
“Yes. You were not capable of anything so base as killing your brother. It is not in your nature. You know it is not.”
She nodded. “You’re right. You’re right.”
He stroked her fingers. His other hand brushed a limp strand of hair from her cheek. “You suffered for so many years, when all you had to do was call me. I hope you will never be so hesitant to call me again.”
Her eyes met his, and she found herself unable to look away. “No,” she whispered. “I shall not hesitate.”
Footsteps approaching.
“That’s Deborah,” Anne said, pulling her hand from his. Why did she feel guilty?
“You don’t want her to see me here?”
“We promised Mary —”
“I’ll go.” He stood, then reached down and his fingers grazed her shoulder. “But do not be afraid to call me again.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, and she meant it.
He disappeared and a few moments later Deborah entered the room. Anne was certain her guilt would be acutely apparent, but Deborah was absorbed in her own distress.
“What’s the matter, D-Deborah?” Anne said. The frustration of jammed words returned.
“Father is so disappointed in me,” Deborah said, and she sat down on the floor cross-legged and started to cry, her long honey hair falling forward to cover her face.
At moments like these, Anne was reminded that Deborah was barely more than a child.
“Father is always d-disappointed with me,” Anne said. “He said my Italian was monstrous. Monstrous! And I’ve been practising so hard,” she said through sobs.
“Was he angry with you? Did he shout?”
“No, his voice was very cool and quiet, and I feel … I feel…” More tears.
Anne lowered herself to the floor next to Deborah. “There, hush now. Father can be cruel.”
“No, he is not cruel. He is right! Italian is my worst language, and it is one of his favourites. I should have worked harder. Oh, I wish that I could please him better.”
“Father is p-perfect p-pleased with you.”
“It is not enough, I cannot do enough.” She began to compose herself, to wipe away her tears. “I must practise harder, that is all. I shan’t come down for supper. I’ll stay up here and read and read until I get it right.”
“Are you not hungry?”
She shook her head, and her hair glimmered in the firelight. “No. You go down. Liza has spit a chicken. They are expecting you. Tell them I feel ill, tell Father I feel ill. Haply then he will think my illness was at fault.” Deborah stood and helped Anne to her feet. “I must go and practise.”
Deborah disappeared into her closet and as Anne prepared herself for supper and left the room, she heard her sister’s voice, repeating over and over, “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura ché la diritta via era smarrita.” Anne mused upon how Deborah dared be disappointed over her inability to pronounce a foreign language correctly, when Anne could barely manage her own.
But then, perhaps, Lazodeus could eventually fix that problem. She would do almost anything to make that dream come true.
Father had been silent for a long time, and Deborah was almost nodding off in her chair. It was still dark; the only light in the room came from the fire and a weakly burning candle at her left hand. Outside, a delicate scattering of snow had fallen, settling in feathery drifts across the street. Father’s great poem was spread out around her — sheets of paper in neat piles. She suppressed a yawn.
“I can hear you,” he said. “Do you find this tedious?”
“No, Father.”
“Women are too easily distracted from a task,” he said irritably. “That is why they cannot be great scholars.”
“But, Father, I —”
“Read me back what I wrote yesterday.”
She shuffled the papers, looking for the page. This week had been a trial of patience, as they rearranged Father’s poem into distinct books. She had read the same pieces over and over as he decided where to fit them, made sketchy notes about what would fill gaps. He planned another two books yet, but had not begun to compose them. When she found the right page she started reading. Raphael was telling Adam about the war in Heaven. She finished and Father remained silent. His ability to be completely quiet and still was unnerving.
“Father,” she ventured after a while. “What do you know of angels?”
“Is that a criticism of my work?”
“No, no. I mean, how have you learned so much, and do you know all there is to know about them?”
“I have been reading of angels for many years, from arcane texts and modern theology: Plutarch, Zanchy, Pse
llus, Fludd, Pictorius, old Hebrew stories, many, many sources … Why? Do you doubt my ability to write of such things?”
“Father, no. You have misunderstood my curiosity. I have an interest in angels, and wish to know more of them. Perhaps I could ask you a question about them.”
“Certainly.”
“Are there guardian angels?”
“Some scholars believe there is a guardian class of angels.”
“Do they come to our world?”
“They watch over us from their own world.”
“But can they come to our world?”
“I am unsure.” He frowned, and she knew that he hated not being able to answer her question. She also knew that he would never fabricate an answer.
“Are all angels good?”
“Angels are the Lord’s emissaries.”
“So, all angels are good?”
He considered a moment. “We could quibble here over the meaning of a word.”
“How so?”
“Angels who are fallen are not good.”
“Devils?” Her heart stopped.
“That is a misnomer. In truth, they are still angels and consider themselves so. Even Lucifer is an angel. He was God’s favourite archangel. His name means ‘bearer of light’.”
“Are they bad?” she managed to say. “These fallen angels?”
“They are God’s adversaries. They are vain and weak and stupid, and they are interested in the sin of men.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“I’m sure you may deduce that for yourself, Deborah,” Father said. “Now, return to the task at hand. Read me the last ten lines again.”
It took her a moment to compose herself, and then she started reading. Her mind was not on the lines in front of her, however. Instead she thought about fallen angels. Could Lazodeus be one of them? He certainly didn’t fit Deborah’s fantasy of an angel: he seemed too impatient, too worldly. Father had said that fallen angels were interested in the sin of men. With growing unease, Deborah wondered if they were also interested in the sin of young women.
5
So Spake the False Dissembler
Finally, Mary had to admit she was angry with Grandmamma. The old woman was ill, yes, but she was not dying. Mary should have known that it would be just Grandmamma’s fashion to turn a minor ailment into a terminal illness, to get her family to rush about her as though she sat at the axis of the firmament. She missed Max madly, but he was safe with Deborah; Uncle William could not be trusted around the little dog. Ordinarily she wouldn’t mind. She would be grateful that Grandmamma was feeling better each day, and grateful for a break from her father and Betty and even from her sisters. Deborah with her disapproving looks, and Anne with her patience-trying stammer. She would ordinarily enjoy the time sitting in Grandmamma’s chamber, reading the old woman stories, and being smugly aloof to Uncle William who hung hopefully about the door a few times a day like a weevil hangs to a flour sack.
But these were not ordinary times.
Lazodeus, her angel, waited for her. And the longer Grandmamma’s convalescence took, the longer she would be without him.
Grandmamma stirred in her sleep and Mary glanced over from where she sat by the window. Would she wake and demand more fish pie? More reading? But no, Grandmamma’s enormous bosom shuddered with a long breath then settled back. Moments later, her gentle snoring continued. Mary faced the window and watched afternoon shadows creep across the fields.
“Are you trying to kill her?”
Mary turned to see Uncle William standing in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon?”
“With the window open like that.”
“’Tis only open a crack.”
He bustled in and closed the window, his armpit directly above Mary’s face. She held her breath until he moved away.
“How is she today?”
“Feeling better, still tired.” Mary glanced at Grandmamma. “She was never desperately ill. She certainly wasn’t dying. I know not why she sent for me.”
Uncle William smiled a crinkled smile. “Perhaps I sent for you.”
“What?”
“Perhaps I writ up the letter you got.”
Mary sniffed. “You can’t write, Uncle William.”
“Perhaps I paid someone to write it for me.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “I would be very angry if that were the case.”
He shrugged. “You made a bargain with me, I kept my end of it. Perhaps I thought it was about time you kept your end.”
Grandmamma stirred and snuffled. “Mary?” she called weakly.
Mary ducked past William and went to her. “Grandmamma, are you feeling better?”
The old woman had opened her gooey eyes. “A little. Has Ruthie made another fish pie?”
“I can go and ask her.”
“Please.”
“Grandmamma. Do you think I might be able to return to London soon?”
Grandmamma’s face took on a mournful aspect. “Not yet. I am still so unwell.”
Mary nodded, then turned to check on William. He was gone.
All afternoon and evening she tended to Grandmamma, then after supper she returned to the room and bed she was sharing with Ruthie, the servant. It was a tiny, musty room under the stairs. The room she had once had with her sisters was now boarding two of Hugh’s friends. As always, the house was too full.
She unpinned her hair and struggled with her dress. Ruthie was nowhere in sight. She poked the fire then hung the iron, stripped down to her shift and moved to the glass above the dresser to brush her hair by firelight. Movement in the glass caught her eye and she whirled around.
William.
“Hello, Mary.” He slunk out of the shadows, wearing a long housecoat.
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?”
“Ruthie will return any moment.”
“No, she won’t, for I have paid her enough to stay away for the whole night.”
“Well, you should expect nothing from me, for I am tired from tending to your mother all day.”
“I expect everything from you, Mary.” He advanced towards her and dropped his robe. Underneath, he was completely naked. “Come on. Let’s start with a little suckle.”
Mary shuddered. “I’d rather suckle a snake.”
“You made a promise,” he said petulantly.
He had her backed up against the wall. She eyed the door, but he was watching her. “There’s no escape, Mary.”
She was beginning to believe he was right. She closed her eyes and cringed as he pressed into her, felt his erect penis stabbing her in the stomach. If only Lazodeus wasn’t back in London.
Or was he? He had spoken about living in a different sphere. Did that mean he could be in two places at once? William was slobbering on her neck. She knew for certain she didn’t want to pay this debt to her lecherous uncle.
“Lazodeus,” she whispered.
“What did you say?” William asked.
Nothing had happened. No valiant angel to her rescue. “Hellfire,” she said.
William stood back. “Cursing at me is not going to help. Come, remove your shift.”
She considered running away, though she doubted she would make the door before William caught her. She was judging the distances when William suddenly yelped.
He rubbed his buttock.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think something bit me. Come on, waste no more time.” Then he yelped again, and spun round. Mary noticed two red welts on his buttocks.
“Ow.” His head jerked violently to the left as though his hair were being pulled by an invisible assailant.
“William?”
He turned to her. “What’s happening?”
Suddenly, he doubled over in pain, clutching his privates. “Oh, oh God.”
Mary put a hand over her mouth to cover her smile. “Whatever is wrong, Uncle William?”
“Don’t
laugh, you witch. What have you done? Put a spell upon me?”
“No. How ridiculous.”
“Then what is happening to —” His invisible antagonist kicked his legs out from underneath him and he landed in a heap on the floor. His voice became shaky with fear. “’Tis an evil spirit! Make it stop, Mary!”
“I cannot. I do not know what’s happening to you either.” Laughter was barely contained under her words.
“Ouch.” Another pull of the hair, and Mary noticed that William had pissed himself with fear. A great pool was spreading beneath him and he sat mournfully in the middle of it, looking as though he might cry. She could no longer hold back, and let herself double over with laughter.
“Stop it!” he cried. “Whatever you are, stop it!”
“No, don’t stop it,” Mary said through her laughter. “I’d like to see more!” Lazodeus did not heed her. He allowed Uncle William to return to shaky feet, pull on his housecoat and run away, muttering about evil spirits and witches. Mary screamed with laughter as the door slammed shut behind him. A moment later, the angel materialised.
“Death! That was the funniest thing I have ever seen.”
Lazodeus considered her with a smile.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to injure anyone,” she said, her laughter easing.
“I didn’t injure him. I scared him. I was very gentle.”
“I wish you had injured him. I wish you’d pulled off his prick and thrown it out the window. That would have been a million times as funny.”
“Mary Milton, you are cruel,” he said, but it was not a judgement, just a statement.
“’Twas Mad Mary, angel. And she’s only cruel to those who deserve it.”
They stood considering each other for a few minutes. He had the most beautiful face she had ever seen, and she had to remind herself that he was an angel, so of course he was beautiful.
“Is everyone as beautiful as you in Heaven?” she asked.
“There are angels far more beautiful than me,” he said, smiling.
“And do you call it Heaven?”
“We have many different names. Heaven, Elysium, Pantheus.”
“They are all our names. What does God call it? He made it.”
He tilted his head slightly. There was something mesmerising about watching him move, like watching flames flicker, or waves tumble. “God calls it Home.”