by R. Twine
I read the letter in one breath. Controversial feelings were tearing me apart. Strange as it might seem, the little angel was one of the most pleasant creatures I’d ever met. I saw nothing ominous in the fact that the angel carried information about the future – it was neither good nor bad, so why should anyone be wary of him anyway? I wanted to find out about the circumstances of my grandmother’s death. And, finally – did my late mother know about this message? It was only on one occasion that I heard my parents talking about her weird death. I remembered that conversation almost verbatim:
‘Alex, do you remember my telling you how my mother died? I still can’t figure out this mystery. She died such a weird death, though she was rather young,’ my mom had said quietly to my dad.
‘Yes, I do remember. She was famous for her excellent health, and the cause of her death was never determined…’
‘Exactly so,’ my mother confirmed. ‘She was found lying on her bed, mad horror frozen in her wide-open eyes. There was a knife lying by her side…Several weeks before her death her behavior seemed very strange to me. She wanted to send me to our friends, and when asked why she was so obsessed with this idea of sending me away, my mother replied: “I’d like to stay alone for a while: every human being sometimes needs to be alone.” I still remember her contented look when I finally agreed. I was hurt, badly; she was glad I was leaving, though we’d never been apart since my father died. By the way, before her death she began talking to herself, or maybe to somebody I couldn’t see.’
‘She may have been suffering from a mental disorder…Your mother wouldn’t consult a doctor, even though she should have. My dear Laura, it’s been many years ago, but we are still left with conjectures…’
The subject was dropped, and I hadn’t heard anything about my grandmother’s death since.
I carefully put the letter back to where it had been, and left the bedroom.
‘I’d like to see the studio. Would you mind joining me?’ I called to my grandparents.
We went down the stairs leading to the basement studio. The stale air coming from the open door filled our nostrils. My grandpa switched on the light. We stopped and looked around.
‘My mother never had time to finish this painting,’ I said with a sigh after seeing the unfinished picture in a canvas-stretcher.
My grandma approached another of mom’s paintings, unveiled it – and gave a cry of astonishment.
Granddad and I came over to have a look. It was for the first time that I saw that picture.
‘What an extravagant young man…’ my granddad exclaimed. ‘It’s so unlike Laura…’
‘She had her style, peculiar and unique. Her paintings always stood out against the works of other painters…’ my grandma added.
‘He looks rather defiant, and his penetrating eyes instill fear in me, they really do,’ my grandpa continued anxiously.
‘Almost all artists are rather weird characters,’ my granny summed up, and put out her hand to veil the painting again.
‘Please, don’t. I’d like to have a closer look at it. My mother must have painted this picture for some reason. It’s funny she never showed it to us because she always asking our opinion about her work. I wonder whether someone commissioned her to do it or if it is something she thought of on her own.’
My granddad finally expressed his approval, ‘It’s a beautiful piece of art,’ he said. ‘The young man’s very lifelike. I’ve got a feeling that he’s watching us.’
‘A glance like this can really make people shiver!’ my granny said, pointing her emphatic finger at the stranger in the picture.
The picture showed a very attractive young man: dark expressive eyes and an elusive smile gave his face a peculiar mysteriousness. His raven-black hair cascaded down to his powerful shoulders, his bare, well-shaped torso and slightly wavy black hair was covered with a black coat; on his long muscular legs he wore tight black trousers. He was sitting on the cracked earth, leaning against the trunk of an oak tree whose once powerful, but now lifeless crown stuck out into thundery skies. One of his hands was immersed in a pool of gore, while the other one held tight the tail of an ascending asp. Standing opposite him was a naked, fair-haired young girl with an extremely well-shaped figure. Her face was hidden behind a dark veil. In her hand she held a black rose; its green thorn bit into her finger that bled with tiny droplets of blood… There was some strange vague shadow hovering in the distance. In the lower corner of the painting there was an inscription made with ink that blurred. “Genius” it said.
I froze marveling at this unusual picture, unable to move or look away.... The look of this charismatic young man engulfed me entirely…My mother’s final work really was magnificent.
It was without any difficulty that I found the bouquet-holding angel. The thoroughly-wrapped picture was kept in a locked old case made of dark wood.
‘I’d rather take it upstairs,’ I said, hinting that I didn’t want to stay in the basement studio any longer.
We hung the angel where it had been hanging before. I had a particular liking for him, and didn’t see anything weird about this angel. He used to talk to me just like he had to Catrine, and I refused to believe he was to blame for her death. Now he smiled his charming smile at me again.
The doorbell rang; a joyful Natalie appeared in the doorway and dashed to hug me.
‘Natalie, you’ve grown so big and changed so much, I can barely recognized you!’ I exclaimed admiringly.
‘So have you, Miriam, you really look like a full-blown eighteen-year old,’ she laughed in response.
‘I’m told the same thing at collège,’ I said with a frown. ‘Do I really look so old? I can’t even say whether it is for the better or for the worse…’
‘Take it easy, Miriam, just look at yourself – you look terrific!’
Nat ransacked her backpack, fished out a small photo album and handed it to me. ‘This one’s for you!’
I thanked her and kissed her slightly on the cheek.
We sat down at the table, and I, greatly engrossed, started to look through the album containing some of our old photos.
I was back at home – at last.
At night my guest came to visit me again. He spoke my name, and chased away my sleep. When my eyes got used to the darkness, I was able to make out a familiar silhouette.
‘I know, you’re not used to such visits,’ he said.
‘You always come unexpectedly without invitation. Why do you come to me? Why is it only recently that you have appeared in my life? What do you want from me?’ I blurted out my pre-thought-out questions.
He gave a piercing glance and said, ‘I come to visit you because we are tightly linked together, Miriam…You need to solve the problems you evaded in your previous lives. You’ll have to make an important choice…And your choice is pivotal for many things. A lot depends on your choice.’
‘Whatever choice are you talking about? And what would become of me as a result? What would my destiny be?’
‘I cannot answer these questions – so far. But in time you will know the answers.’
‘But why…?’ I demanded.
‘Because some answers haven’t been entered in the Books yet,’ Satanail replied.
‘Books…? Which books?’
‘The Almighty Father created “The Book of Lives” where He had been keeping the information about everything He created. Later on He gave this book to me for keeping, but after my expulsion it was passed on to Michael the Archangel who remains its keeper to this day. This “Book of Lives” describes the past, the present and the future, but there are instances when, instead of the future, the book contains only a blank page meaning that a man has to be the master of his own future; that no force in the world holds sway over him. The second book was created by me; this is almost a mirror reflection of “The Book of Lives”. The only difference between them is that “The Book of Shadows” opens its secrets only to those initiated and to those who belong in some way
to the Kingdom of Darkness, while access to The Book of Lives is granted only to those chosen by Michael the Archangel himself. A man who saw both books is the chosen one for both kingdoms, and he is constantly – and invisibly – fought for. But each of us pursues his own goals.’
‘How interesting…!’ I exclaimed. This story looked incredibly captivating to me.
‘The angel with a bouquet in his hand is a guide between the two worlds,’ Satanail went on. ‘He’ll be your devoted helper throughout your life. He guards the invisible door that leads to the world of shadows.’
For a moment I thought he was making a joke, but the serious look in his eyes told me otherwise, and I suddenly remembered the letter I read on the eve of his visit.
‘This cannot be!’ I exclaimed.
‘Trust me, Miriam. You only have to try, and you will see it for yourself. The physical world you live in coexists in parallel with other dimensions, and you are capable of moving from the physical world to the world of shadows.’
Satanail mused for a moment, then he got up, and the heat he was giving off filled the entire room. He took me by the hand, and led me through the walls into the hall – straight to my guiding angel. Satanail made a step forward – the painting trembled and became blurred. The angel took off and left it, and we found ourselves on the other side of Existence.
‘Where are we?’ I asked, looking around.
‘In one of the parallel worlds,’ said Satanail, pulling me by the hand. ‘Now you’re going to see how some souls exist after their death. Those are the abandoned souls that exist all alone on their own.’
We went further ahead and found ourselves in a cemetery.
‘This place spooks quite a lot of people – and for a reason,’ Satanail explained. ‘Souls often hover in the places where their bodies were buried. Many cannot abandon their physical bodies, and remain close-by, thus complicating the distribution process. Stray souls are easily accessible for people, and so are the people for them; these invisible creatures wander among the living, feeding on their vital energy.’
We saw several dead persons dressed in rags. They were from some other age, clearly not from ours.
‘Let’s return to our old place. I want to eat and I’m feeling unwell,’ one of them said.
‘You can go there while I look for something new,’ the other one said in response, and started rubbing his hands, trying to warm up.
‘You are cold, aren’t you?’ the elderly woman with long greasy hair asked him.
‘Yes, I am,’ he replied and plodded towards the exit.
‘These souls are centuries old,’ Satanail explained. ‘They can neither hear us nor see us… Every one of them will go to the place where there’s something to eat.’ We followed one of them. He stopped by the night pub, then entered, elbowed his way through the crowd of customers that gathered by the counter, and, after taking a seat at the table opposite two drunken men, began to absorb greedily the uncontrolled energy radiated by the people through their mouths.
‘Why is he doing it?’ I asked Satanail, ‘He’s not entitled to what doesn’t belong to him!’
‘The more vital energy he sucks in, the stronger his shell will become. True, he’s not entitled to it, but nevertheless he constantly feeds on these two particular men. A human being gradually becomes weaker, acquires a lot of illnesses and dies.’
We left the bar and found ourselves in a place where an unsavory woman with greasy hair was sitting on the edge of the bed where two lovers had just ended their love making. She was gulping down an invisible red vapor that the couple was giving off.
‘The parallel world exists due to the energy radiated by humans. It has its own life and its own rules…’ Satanail said. ‘The souls looked for by the light angels are out of reach – they seldom appear in the vicinity of their bodies. Their postmortem mission is to help their loved ones, and due to the purity of their souls they become almost like angels. But there are the ones that come straight to me – these are the souls of strong human beings where my influence prevails. In their lifetime they were powerful, no matter how their power manifested itself. These people were conspicuous for their greed and savagery; they loved blood and power in all of its manifestations…’
Satanail went silent, gave me a piercing look, made a small pause, and then said quietly, ‘It’s time for you to go home…’
In a moment he was gone; I was left alone.
I returned by the way I had come. The painting took its place on the wall. The angel was again on the canvas. I went upstairs to my bedroom. I could already see in the darkness almost as clearly as in the daylight. Night carried a lot of mysteries, and I looked forward to learning all of its secrets so that I could belong to that world.
Chapter 11
We were sitting on the sand. Everybody was chatting cheerfully about something while I was silently peering into the distance, watching the blue sea merge into the blue sky. Snow white yachts rocked lazily on lazy waves. My thoughts were as calm and undisturbed as the sea in front of me. I tried to get all thoughts out of my head, and enjoy the moment. I oiled my body with an anti-tan cream, stretched myself out under the tender sunrays and started to listen to the murmur of waves and squeaking of seagulls.
Natalie knew that after the death of my parents I sometimes withdrew into myself completely; even while being in other people’s company I could tune myself out and ignore the outside world. Nat was my only close friend: she loved me, and we understood each other without words. I often had a painful thought that we were doomed to a long separation, until an excellent idea came into my head: what about my moving back to my parents’ house? But one thing was still unclear: how would my grandparents respond to this? Would they agree?
Three weeks went by unnoticed, and we began packing our things, getting ready for the vacation to the South-West of France, namely to Biarritz. It was from there that we planned to return to Paris. I took two of my mom’s pictures with me – “The Angel” and “The Genius”. I did it because I wouldn’t and couldn’t part with them.
We returned to Paris. I felt very lonely; the city looked alien and cold to me. I hadn’t the slightest desire to go out. I moved my computer away from the library to my bedroom where I would sit all day long, almost without leaving it.
After noticing my apathy, my granny tried to start a serious talk with me.
‘Miriam, I’ve noticed that you’ve changed a lot since our vacation: you sit for days on end in your bedroom, and won’t talk to anyone. Please, tell us what’s going on,’ she began. ‘I asked Veronica to come and see you. Perhaps, there are things you don’t want to tell me about, but she’s the one you can share your worries with.’
‘I’d like to go back home. I feel good here, I really do. But I belong there – I can feel it. Previously, it seemed to me that I’d never be able to live in the house where we had been so happy together – mom, dad and I. But now I feel I can. I’m longing to return to Cannes.’
My granddad joined our discussion in the evening.
‘My dear grandchild, Polette told me you’d like to go back home. I see no problem here.’
‘Thank you! I’m so glad you’ve agreed!’
My apathy and sadness vanished into thin air.
A week later we started to pack our things to move.
‘I’ve been to the notary’s office today, and had all the documents and securities registered in your name,’ my granny told me. ‘In several years you’ll be able to manage them.’
‘I need nothing, granny, I will be able to earn my own living,’ I said.
‘Surely you will; there isn’t the slightest doubt about it, because you’re a prodigy. But living is much easier when you have some extra money. Many years ago your granddad invested the capital he’d inherited from his late parents into real estate, and now it brings him in a steady income. You want to get a job in the law system, and this requires years of studying. The money we are offering you will give you the opportunity to s
tudy. Many people cannot even dream about it.’
‘I know it, granny. But many people’s parents are alive and well, and this is much more important than money…’