Of Kings and Demons

by Han, George

The third floor housed a sensitive belt, an area designated for special patients. The mentally ill boarded there were unique cases of prolonged symptoms that had defied medical treatment. In layman terms, they were extraordinarily mad and beyond cure.

  At the end of the long corridor of peeling walls, a room labeled 03-118 had been reserved for a special patient. The occupant has for the last decade been afflicted with condition that left doctors confounded. Despite the best efforts, his condition remained stagnant, with his tenure in the mental institute remained indefinite.

  The patient’s dossier read: John C Springs, New York City. Admitted when he was only thirty-four, his life has been a soap-opera tragedy. John began his career as engineer with an established construction firm and was happily married to his sweetheart, Susan Hartson. Their first child, a boy, had been almost ten and they eagerly anticipated the birth of their second—a girl, prior to John being institutionalized. They had been a picture of bliss, the envy of many.

  Then tragedy struck.

  John met a fatal accident that altered his destiny and that of his family: a head-on collision with an MUV truck. He survived but fell into a coma for three long months. Everyone, relatives and friends, had given up but Susan Hartson held on. Prayers were her only solace, and she prayed hard and long.

  Miraculously, John regained consciousness, but he was a changed man. The verve of a go-getter became a thing of the past. He began to exhibit traits of a deranged man, as if he were possessed. Insomnia plagued him, and his mental state degenerated. He often talked to himself, and his behavior oscillated between unbridled joys to unexplained sorrows. Once he was seen vandalizing the walls of the Church of Nativity that he had frequented, offending the pastor, who happened to be his mentor during his youth.

  What follows was a taxing period for Susan -managing a new baby, a growing-up child and a problematic husband. The last straw that broke her came with an unexpected diagnosis of cancer. She had only six months to live. The burden of tragedies mutilated her rationality and drove her to the edge of a breakdown. Only thoughts of her children kept her buoyant. As her life seeped away, she steeled herself and sent John away to the institute. On that heart-wrenching day when John was taken away, there was a downpour and the children wept with it.

  Susan died on a rainy day, too, and again there was much weeping. The children were entrusted to John’s aunt, the only relatives within reasonable proximity.

  John was quite immune to the unfolding tragedies. He could barely manage himself as his mental malaise continues to defy medication. He continued to a dream, the same dream, every night for ten years. On the walls of his room at the asylum, he had scribbled a strange description of a sighting, a lady in long robes and flowing hair. When questioned, he hemmed up and whispered only these words: “I don’t know. Ask her. Ask her.”

  Initially they tried to bind him to prevent the acts of vandalism on the walls of the compound, canteen, and his room. However, after the enlightened management moved him to a new room and had the bindings were removed, the drawing on the walls stopped.

  John turned docile with books as his new venue of solace. His children rarely visited him, and when they did he barely reacted or remembered them. Occasionally he wept when he remembered the death of Susan. Most of the time, John was in a daze, lost in suspended reality. Day after day, year after year, his existence consisted of an existence in the tossing waves of self-delusion.

  He had a dream this night, the tone and background of which was vastly different from the rest of t night. Instead of the usual world of white, John found himself in the midst of a dark forest. He was on his way down a meandering track. The path ended by the bank of a purplish river, where a figure stood. The vision was blurred but the purplish hair and the voluptuous figure was unforgettable. The figure turned around gradually and John was about to glimpse the face when he slipped and fell into the river.

  John’s hands were chill and rigid. Panic gripped him and he found his lungs bursting. Then a hand grabbed him and hauled him out of the water.

  John woke from his dream with a yell, wet with perspiration.

  “Good gracious. Just a dream, a dream . . .” He crossed his heart and prayed.

  “How do you know it was only a dream?” someone whispered, but it was distinctive. John missed a heartbeat.

  I am not alone? I am not alone.

  In the corner of the room lay the same lady he had just seen in his dream. The face was not immediately visible as her back was to him. She was full-bodied, dressed in a resplendent robe of purple, and her thick and purplish hair flowed luxuriously to her waist.

  The presence of a stranger sent John huddling into the corner of room like a frightened puppy. He coughed nervously as the lady gradually turned to face him. Under the pallid illumination of the lamp, her high cheekbones were accentuated and the huge eyes crafted in lascivious allure. The purplish cloak emphasized the voluptuous curves of that supine body. The sheer force of the beauty left John breathless. A ring of dark light, of oppressive vibes dropped over his neck like a noose.

  He struggled to talk but the words melted on his lips before they were uttered.

  “Your fear, John, is so strong.” She smiled. “We had just met. By the river. You clumsy fool . . .” she chuckled.

  “You are not real.” John shut his eyes. However, his feeble gesture did nothing to ward off the lady. She sashayed over and in an intimidating pose held John by the chin like hapless prey.

  “Mad for so long, and still wasting away.”

  “What do you want?”

  The seductress smiled, her cheeks glowed with sinister pride.

  “Is this some kind of experiment?” John eyes rolled over to the door.

  No reply came and John snapped, “What is this?”

  “I am Seraphina. Seductress is my title,” she said. “It is always a joy as I quenched the lust of your race.”

  “You are a Demon?”

  “You remember? You haven’t lost all your sanity, John.”

  He struggled to sit upright. “I am not mad. It is simply that I have a gift of sight of your world and just the inability to explain that gift to my fellow man.”

  “Gift? A curse, you mean. A curse that has torn your life apart.” She winked “Humans can be so hopelessly optimistic.”

  John felt blood draining away as Seraphina chuckles filled the room.

  “Do you still remember your beautiful children?”

  A look of despondency fell across John’s face as he tried to recall as his eyeballs scanned his surroundings. Tears flowed as memories of his loved ones surged through the corridors of his mind.

  The seductress winced. “Spare me the emotions, mortal!”

  However, John showed no sign of abating as his sobbing triggered asthmatic coughs. Seraphina shot her long, willowy hands and their razor-sharp nails towards John and locked them on his neck. Like an unwitting animal he was hauled from the bed.

  “Do not upset me, mortal. I would have destroyed you if not for—”

  “What do you want?” John grimaced, the veins bursting at his temples.

  “A favour.” She bent over with an intimidating glare.

  “What?” Johns attempted to ask but received a slap on the cheeks. The slight touch belied her demonic strength and John rolled over in a hellish cry.

  “I need you as bait for the kinglings.”

  “Kinglings?”

  Seraphina leaned closer and whispered “Your children.”

  John was speechless before howling pleas but nobody came to his rescue. The on-duty medics and guards had grown numb to the regular display of outlandish behaviours from the inmates, especially the hardcore patients.

  John Springs happened to be one of them.

  Chapter 7

  Politicians

  “Whadahell is this?” The deep, booming voice resonated through the limousine. For a moment, there was dead silence. Nobody in the motorcade spoke.

  “Guys, speak.” Wal
ter Johnson, governor of New Hampshire said, mellowed a tad.

  There were some coughs before Mary Walkins, one of his key aides responded. “It is from the White House.”

  They were in the midst of the daily briefing session before the governor was about to address the graduates of the state university. Walkins was responsible for the daily information briefs and had placed a security-warning memo issued by the White House as the first item.

  Walter Johnson scanned the memo. “In the last twenty-four hours, one senator, three top scientists, and fourteen university graduates have been murdered?” He swore and then remarked. “Is this some kind of terrorist attack?”

  “We are not sure,” said Adam Conner, the other aide briefing the governor. “The FBI is investigating and the National Security Advisor has advised the president to put the national on Deacon 2.”

  Walter pronounced, with his face reddened with anger. “Unacceptable. Outrageous loss of lives, and White House is waiting? I am having none of this bullshit. It is obviously coming right at the United States. A good president, a good commander-in-chief, would immediately meet up with his FBI, CIA, and NSA directors and issue a coordinated statement and integrate security measures.”

  “May … maybe they are doing it now,” Adam said, his voice quivering.

  “Oh come on, do we—?”

  Walter’s was interrupted by a strong cough. It came from the man seated next to him; a man who had been silent for the past fifteen minutes. The governor looked up and asked. “Robin?”

  Walter Johnson addressed his senior advisor, a friend of more than thirty years.

  “Look, Walter, what are you getting upset with them for? They hadn’t started the attack, and they are not from the White House. We are all victims of circumstances.”

  Walter bit his lips. “Sorry, guys. I have flown off the handle again. It is just this White House…” The governor shook his head.

  “You know Cooper is one of the most failed bastards to sit in the Oval office.”

  Walter said. “Easy on the languge.”

  Robin quickly retorted. “Look who’s talking.”

  “I am equally guilty.” Walter relented and turned to Walkins. “Continue with whatever you have got.”

  “The White House obviously thought this was some kind of coordinated attacks. They are beefing up the security of all key office holders across the country and that included you, sir.”

  “As if the couple of agents I have now are not already a hassle,” Walter grumbled.

  “Can we have some privacy please?” Robin said, and the aides immediately exited the limousine.

  When they were finally alone, Walter asked, “What is it?”

  “You know,” Robin said.

  “What?” Walter demanded.

  Robin held his stony expression a moment before he relented and dropped his pretence. Walter knew Robin’s intention—he was waiting for an answer. It was a difficult act, and Walter wished feigning ignorance could afford him a way out of the awkwardness.

  “You are crazy,” Walter muttered.

  “Insanity is a key ingredient for great endeavours,” Robin replied.

  “Which great man of history are you quoting?” Walter said.

  “Me.” Robin gesticulated with his hands.

  “Arrogant asshole,” Walter cried.

  The rebuke left Robin chuckling.

  “What are you laughing?” Walter asked.

  “They say that birds of a feather flock together,” Robin said.

  Walter shook his head. “I have none of your crazy scheme.”

  “I am crazy. Don’t tell me you never thought of running for—”

  “The White House?”

  Robin nodded. “Come on, Walter!”

  The governor stared out of the window. “You know …” he said, then paused.

  “Know what?” Robin said.

  “There are many candidates better than I am.”

  “Better than you? Who are you talking about? Senator James Wallace? Patricia Wiley of California or Congressman Paul Buchanan of Michigan?”

  “They are,” Walter said. “Some leaders.”

  “They are not even half of you on their best days, and they ain’t got that many best days.”

  “Don’t be derogative of others,” Walter said.

  “They are not good enough for the White House.”

  “What makes one good enough for the White House? Listing a set of qualities degenerates the office. It is about something special, so special you can’t just name it. It is about what is here.” Walter patted left side of his chest. “You are not in a position to decide or judge who is the right person, Robin. ”

  “So tell me what matters in choosing the right guy?” Robin asked. “I am dying to be inspired by someone to step out on polling day to cast that sacred vote! After eight years of rot, and rudderless leadership, I need some inspiration, Governor.”

  “History runs on the fuel of human passion. The right man, the right candidate, with that burning desire and instinct of doing the right thing, will step forward and make that decision, Robin. If any of those men and women you mentioned has those qualities; it will happen. You just need to trust Providence.”

  “You had just given me the reason to vote for you in 2020 to be our next president.” Robin said.

  Walter threw up his hands in exasperation. “I am not talking to you Robin. I am tired. I just want to be with Penelope and the grandchildren. The last thirty years I have barely been at home for more than a week. Now I want to make up for it.”

  “You are going to abandon all of us then? Exit politics and whole nation suffers a loss.”

  “I am going to ignore you. Get out of the car.” Walter said in jest.

  Robin turned serious. “Just yourself, Walter. Who is going to be on the centre stage if you leave? The seven dwarves? You going to allow a motley crew to get into the White House and run this country? Can we, or the world, afford another four years of disaster and embarrassment?”

  Walter was about to rebut when he paused. He heard something in the background – helicopters!

  He knocked on the windows and immediately the door swung open. Tim Jakes, his trusted head of security detail bent over.

  “What is going on? Helicopters?”

  “They had just beefed up your security, Sir.” Jakes explained

  “My security? What the hell is going on?”

  “Sir it is Deacon 3. 2 professors at Yale had just been assassinated.”

  Walter turned to Robin, his face bursting with alarm, his mouth gaping for words to express his incredulity. He needed answers.

  *

  Chapter 8

  The White Angel

  The unusual phenomenon of an early winter had brought on a mood of melancholy that accompanied the usual sense of fear induced by all things uncertain. In the midst of an unexpected rash of assassinations and murders, the weather only added to the atmosphere of despair and intrigue.

  There was much speculation in the realm of humans about the weather, but hardly anybody had accurately named the cause of it all.

  Maganus was alerted by his soldiers, animal friends of the assassination of Leo Kenyon. He knew the prominent scientist is the charge of Gwyneth the Fair, the White Angel. The unexplained spate of killings has brought him to the edge of fear, the looming darkness that resided in his psyche, the psyche of all Angels. Touching that darkness will impair the powers of Angels and Maganus had relied on his mastery to steer clear of giving in to fear.

  He checked the venue of the assassination, the debris and the blood stains. Although the maimed corpse has been removed, Maganus could sense the stench of death, fear, blood and the sulphuric odour of a demon.

  They had returned.

  Maganus left the building, a hurried man. He strolled down the environment. He had to find Gwyneth and he sensed she has been here, and was still around. It had begun to snow, again.

  He walked into the woods, fordin
g through inches of snow. He shut his eyes and prayed and then there was a break of breeze and he sensed it.

  He opened his eyes and saw a silhouette of light.

  She, the reason for the snow, was seated on the sturdy branch of an aged tree. She seemed barely touched by snow, epitome of grace and beauty. Her fair hair was plaited and rested on her shoulders. Her eyes were illuminating with kindness, and she was smiling.

  He smiled.

  “Think you want to stop this snow?”

  She smiled again. Such coyness that would melt any hearts. She eyed the spot next to her and Maganus got the cue. Within seconds he had transported himself next to the Gwyneth.

  He sat nicely and lit his smoking pipe.

  “Your bad habit.”

  “Finally you broke the silence. Gwyneth, your chill can kill.” Maganus remarked as he took a deep inhale and spewed rings of smoke in a long drawn-out exhale.

  “Smoking will kill you not my chill.”

  “This is something that made immortality of an angel bearable.”

  Gwyneth raised her eyebrows “ Don’t let Archangel Michael hear you.”

  Maganus chuckled. Then there was a silence before he spoke.

  “So what is this chill?”

  “I lost control of my powers.” Gwyneth sighed

  “You had an insight?”

  The White Angel nodded

  “A war is imminent and there is a terrible loss of lives. Many Kings will fall…” She whispered.

  “Kings of Men?” Maganus referred to the anointed leaders of mankind.

  Gywneth brooded and then dropped herself onto the ground. The moment her feet touched the ground, the snow rescinded and flowers bloomed in the spaces and soon greenery spread to a two-hundred feet radius. The phenomena are manifestations of the essence of the Angels’ power whenever they are on Earth.

  Gwyneth the Fair, the White Angel, folded her wings and studied her environment. Her white robes, of pearly pristine, was a fount of light that sent darkness away and gave life to nature. From behind the bushes, a handsome creature of white fur, her trusted companion, Marz, the white wolf emerged.