A Rosary of Stones and Thorns

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “Mom?” Marie slid out of the shrubs, her voice hushed against the backdrop of the choir. Brad was behind her, blinking owlishly in the radiance of the new day.

  “Hello, Cat.”

  Marie joined her in staring at the last footstep. The girl touched her mother’s arm.

  Said Chris, “I’m too late.”

  Marie shrugged. “Are you sure? After all, it is God we’re talking about.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Chris said, clearing her throat.

  Brad stepped out of the surrounding foliage. “He won’t be forsaken.”

  “How can you be so sure? His crimes were far worse than Lucifer’s ever were.”

  “Maybe,” Brad said. “But somehow I don’t think it matters. God is like that, it seems."

  "What I wish I knew," Marie said, soft, "is why. Why did he do it?"

  “Love," Chris said, rousing herself to answer. "A blind and jealous love, but still.”

  “Seems crazy to hate someone you love so much," Brad said.

  Chris shook her head, let her hands drop and fought a shiver. "Love and hate... they're not so far apart, sometimes."

  "If that's true," Marie said, "then maybe one day Michael will flip back to love, and leave hate behind."

  "I hope so," Chris whispered.

  They all looked at the last footprint.

  “Come back with us?” Marie asked at last.

  Chris nodded.

  Stephen could not pull himself away from the music until the sun had risen far enough into the sky for true morning. Reluctantly he retreated, facing the choir until he could gather the discipline to actually turn from it. It was easier then to stride further away.

  The torn field had an unhealthy look. Stephen paused to stare at it, wondering what nagged him about it. He crouched down to rub his fingers through it.

  Thus Mephistopheles found him laughing on the edge of Armageddon. He stopped, perplexed, snow-pure wings unfurling a few inches.

  “Stephen?”

  The priest looked up at the sound of the gravelly voice, mouth split in a broad grin. “Mephistopheles. Would you look at this?”

  The angel joined him, standing over him. “It looks like a white line.”

  “It is. This, my friend, is the Jesuit football field. This is probably the first time our side has ever won a game of any kind on it.”

  Mephistopheles chuckled hoarsely.

  Stephen fingered the soil. “But besides that... the earth. In places it’s softer than a baby’s skin, in others, it’s hardened and bitter.”

  “In one place, the effect of our fighting, and in the other, the effect of our dead. You remember the bags Gabriel upended?”

  Stephen nodded, looking up at the other man.

  “When we are extinguished, what passes for our flesh fades to dust. That was the dust of the passing of the newborns.”

  Stephen’s shoulders tightened. He let the soil spill unevenly through his fingers. “I wish there had been some other way to bring the blush back to the earth.”

  Mephistopheles opened his belt pouch. “It will mend itself. What they say is true... time heals all wounds.”

  “Only clean ones,” Stephen said, smiling wryly.

  “True. By the way... you might be interested in this.” He tossed something to the priest.

  Stephen glanced up, snatched it from the air and studied it: part of a broken clay medallion, depending from a damp and ragged satin cord. “What’s this? Another token back to Hell?”

  “Back to Heaven, depending on how you look at it,” Mephistopheles said. “That’s what kept the battle Bound.”

  Stephen turned it over in his fingers, frowning. “Bound?”

  “You know Lucifer can make planes. He can isolate parts of them, as well. Not tidily and not for long, but....”

  “The mist,” Stephen said suddenly. “Why no one saw us.”

  “And why the Earth abides.” Mephistopheles’s pinions mantled. “Michael himself broke it open with his blows, an irony I'm sure you'll appreciate. It was a near thing: had the battle gone on too much longer, it would have faded. He is not omnipotent, my lord. But he thinks ever of you all, Stephen. In that, he reflects his Maker.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that,” the priest replied. He rose, dusting his hands off on his pants. Stephen took a deep breath and looked at the once-demon. His hair was still black, his blouse torn and breeches bloody... but his glittering eyes matched the light of his halo, and the bleached white of the broad wings embraced the sunlight. “Well, my friend... whither now? Back to Heaven?”

  “Heaven!” Mephistopheles laughed. “How much do you think has changed, Stephen? Halos and wings make our jobs easier, our lives more meaningful. But who will catch all the human souls before the Wind comes?”

  “But... you won!”

  “Did we?” Mephistopheles asked. His heavy baritone sounded utterly at odds with the glory tapestry woven by the thousand-fold voices beyond them. “The battle did not play to its natural end. There was a...,” he paused, then laughed, “A deus ex machina. Michael did not allow us back into Heaven. And he did not die. While he still lives, his is the word that rules.”

  Stephen stared. “Would he stop you? In God’s Name, Mephistopheles! After such proof of God’s approval? Surely not even Michael would try to stop you!”

  Mephistopheles smiled sadly. “Oh, he would not stop us. But my liege-lord will not press either. You forget that there is love between them. Lucifer will not push on Michael something that Michael does not desire. So until Michael opens his arms to us, we will remain in Hell, and shepherd the souls that cannot withstand Heaven’s scrutiny to our breast.”

  “Love between them,” Stephen said. He shook his head. “I could believe it of Lucifer. But of Michael... it’s harder.”

  Mephistopheles’s wings ruffled. “Harder to believe it of someone with such passion? I would believe true hatred of someone who remained cold to the sight of suffering. The Archangel had to work himself into a frenzy to beat my liege-lord, Stephen. He wouldn’t have been able to otherwise.”

  “Mmm. Well, I can’t resist being a little skeptical.”

  Mephistopheles chuckled and reached out a hand to grip Stephen’s shoulder. “Always skeptical, eh? Somehow I see some of that skepticism has flown from you, my friend.”

  Stephen’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Hard to be skeptical when smothered with feathers and halos, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “But lack of belief has never been the root of my skepticism, Mephistopheles. Only bitterness.”

  The angel canted his head.

  Stephen broke away and began walking back toward the campus.

  “Stephen,” Mephistopheles called, voice as soft as the gravel in it allowed.

  He stopped.

  “I’d like to know. And I think you want to share it.”

  Stephen turned, folded his arms and looked down. “Maybe so. But it’s going to sound... well, after all this, it’s going to sound ridiculous.”

  “Atoms, Stephen,” Mephistopheles said. “It’s all atoms.”

  The priest looked away, closed his eyes, drew in a long breath through his nose. “There were things I’d seen all my life. When I was young, especially. My mother loved me so very much, but we didn’t live very well after my father left her. It made me sensitive to other people. The things they hid. And God—she’d always talk of Him, everyone did—did nothing.

  “I looked at her, and everyone else... it made no sense. I perceived what I thought to be God’s cruelty, and I hated Him. I wanted to punish Him. To make Him hurt. The priesthood was perfect. Not only could I reach out to the people who suffered, but I could deprive myself of all the things in life that were supposed to make us happy. A family. A wife. Wealth and prosperity. Freedom to do whatever we wanted, no matter what. I thought I could hurt Him the way I saw Him hurting everyone else. People crushed by disease, by poverty, by other people. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “And now?�
�� Mephistopheles murmured.

  “And now... I don’t know.” Stephen laughed. “What do you do when angels use your football field to fight a battle over the fate of human souls? It might be a long time before I work it all out.”

  “I suspect you won’t be the only one,” the angel said. He stopped. “I should go back. It won’t be long before the choir can no longer be veiled from human hearing.”

  “Back to Hell... and me to my classroom,” Stephen said. He stopped, rested his hands on Mephistopheles’s upper arms. “I’ll miss you, you know. For a demon, you’re good company.”

  Mephistopheles grinned. The sunlight rendered his halo nigh invisible, save when he tilted his head. “And you for a human. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.”

  “In this life?” Stephen asked, a spark of hope rising.

  The angel shook his head. “Probably not. But I’ll be there, when you die.”

  Stephen’s breath stopped in his throat. He swallowed and stepped back. “Until that day, then. God with you, Mephistopheles.” He grinned against the ache. “You do Him pretty proud.”

  The angel’s wings fanned open and he inclined his head, fisted hand crossed over his chest. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

  Stephen watched Mephistopheles turn and walk away. He rubbed at one eye with the back of a hand.

  The wind ruffled the grass at his ankles as he trudged home beneath the sun’s bright regard. Stephen breathed deeply of the cool air, but the cold did not quite banish the ache. He ducked beneath the old oak and across the ditch to his building. He pressed a hand to it and leaned against the wall, rasping his stubble-lined jaw against the coarse surface of the brick.

  Stephen sighed, then opened the door and dragged himself up the stairs.

  The door to the residence was ajar. He pushed it open and started.

  “Asrial!”

  Still clad in her magnificent robe, Asrial smiled. She did not rise from the couch, her hands clasped lightly in her lap and an afghan untidily arranged around her waist and over her arms. Her halo shed light like water, droplets of gold.

  “Stephen.”

  “What are you doing here?” The priest stood in the door, unable to move.

  “I thought I’d spend one more night on Earth,” Asrial said. “I wondered... if I could spend it here?”

  “But... the others, the singing... are you sure?”

  Asrial smiled. “I have a token to return to Heaven when I wish. But I have learned so much here, so much in the past few days... I have to savor it. I don’t think I could do that in Heaven, or in Hell. There is too much light, too much darkness, too much singing and silence. Earth has just the right combination for me to consider both.”

  Stephen laughed, and the laughter loosed tears. He allowed her to escort him to the couch, and he kneeled on the ground with his head against her knees. He wept, harsh, reluctant sobs, until spent he could cry no more.

  Asrial’s fingers rested on the crown of his head.

  “I’m sorry, lady.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Do you grieve for the loss of your innocence? Of the way of thinking you left behind?”

  Stephen managed one sole exhalation in lieu of the chuckle he felt but could not sound. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He thought of the cross in Hell and his heart contracted.

  She stroked his hair, as if she could sense his grief returning. "Sssh."

  "I'm trying," he said. "I gained so much. But what I lost... what we lost!"

  "Sometimes," Asrial murmured, "what we thought lost was simply... misplaced. For a time."

  He looked up at her, hope rising in his eyes.

  "I don't know," she said softly. "But with God, all things are possible."

  He sighed out.

  "So much pain," she murmured. "But there can be no regretting growth, Stephen.”

  “No, I guess not. But it’s human nature, Asrial. We regret. We long for things we have left behind. Simpler things, simpler times. Don’t you?”

  Asrial’s fingers paused in their slow, rhythmic caress. “I... I don’t know, Stephen. I do not think so. What I have learned is so sublime, so magnificent, that I do not think I can imagine ever not knowing it.”

  “And what is this thing you have learned?” Stephen asked.

  Her wings fluttered, dripping their rich, thin citrus fragrance. “I have learned that His mercy is so vast it encompasses the Fallen and every living thing He has ever made. Even coarse humanity.”

  Stephen let out a long sigh, staring at the empty hearth. He had no desire to move. “Even coarse humanity. It’s so hard to see.”

  “Yes. You do not live in a place that makes it easy. But no matter what, you must make your own fate, Stephen... as must all your kind and mine. We are what we have made ourselves, and He can only watch and hope.”

  Stephen chuckled. It was a weak sound, but genuine. “I said the same thing to Mephistopheles. I don't think I'll ever forget the feel of all those pebbles.”

  Asrial’s fingers fluttered against his head. “When?”

  “In Heaven, when I was sure everything was lost. He told me,” here Stephen paused and laughed, “Well, let’s just say his response sounded a lot like mine would have a few years ago. He seems happier now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Though...”

  “Yes,” Asrial said. Neither of them said it; spoke of the seeming permanence of the rusty gravel of the once full baritone. Instead, the angel said, “None of us will go unchanged from this.”

  Stephen smiled, though the set of his face was solemn. “As it should be.”

  They remained that way as the morning advanced. Hunger drove him from her finally, and he kindled the fire and engaged himself in the kitchen. The angel remained on the couch, silent, staring at the flames.

  Stephen turned down the bed at gloaming. Though they did not speak, she went to the room and settled on it. He left her a cup of hot chocolate and sat on the sofa, wrapping himself in the high, heady scent of her feathers. The perfume drew him prone, and finally into sleep.

  Asrial finished the cup of hot chocolate and sat on the edge of the priest’s bed, staring at the clear night. She drifted to the edge of the room and peeked out of it. The priest rested with his back to the door, the afghan curled tightly around his body and his back rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm.

  Asrial smiled and slipped away.

  It was the work of moments outside to crack the token and duck into the resulting ripple; this time when it dropped her into the thickness of Hell’s air she was ready, her wings tightly cupped around her body and her knees drawn to her chest. She reached for the ground, and it replied.

  After a few breaths spent recovering, Asrial unfolded and made her way to the Gate, past the line of humans advancing, step by step, to their new home.

  “Hail the Gate,” she called.

  “Hail the walker,” the guard called out.

  “I am just visiting,” Asrial said, stopping. Fatigue lined the guard’s face, but he held his head up and his back straight. The creamy wings with their green-bronze bands suited him far better than black ever would have. She smiled at him.

  “Visitors are always welcome,” the guard said with a chuckle and a wondering look. “Especially you, my lady.”

  Asrial paused.

  “Your name is not unknown here,” he said, then indicated the Gate. “Pass on.”

  Asrial dipped her head to him and stepped through the Gate. She took her time; it had been late evening when she’d left Earth, and there was no place she really needed to be. The silence no longer distressed her so much. She would not want to live here—could not—but for a short time the silence was pleasing.

  Her feet carried her unerringly to the manor. Her reception at its gates was as warm as the one at Hell’s entrance. When the guard escorted her to the appropriate door, she paused with one hand on its knob. Then she gathered herself and turned it, letting herself in.

  They were both insi
de: Lucifer at his desk, writing, the silver wings holding all the darkness of the room’s corners and all the crimson light of the flames in the hearth, and Mephistopheles in one of the chairs with a glass of wine. They both looked up at the sound of the door, and seconds later were on their feet.

  “Lady,” Lucifer said. “I did not expect you here.”

  Asrial cast her eyes down, leaning on the door. “You gave me the token, my lord.” She smiled and lifted her head. “You did not tell me how to use it.”

  Mephistopheles chuckled, sitting again in the chair. “Ah, lady! You are certainly not the same angel I met in a clearing on Earth.”

  Asrial ducked her head, blushing. “No. Nor you the same demon. And you have as much to do with my change... both of you... as anything else that has happened these past days.” She looked back up at them. “I came to thank you. And to tell you that I will see you, I think, soon.”

  “Lady?” Lucifer said, brows lifting.

  Asrial rested her head against the door, eyes lowered. “I want to go home, my lord. I want to fly again, to sing again. But I... you cannot ignore something... someone, when it has been shown to you that they feel as you feel. Weep, and laugh. Understand. I do not think I could bear anymore the thought of the Wind’s fingers on any single soul.”

  Lucifer’s silent smile was as eloquent as the silver eyes.

  “You cannot live here, though,” Mephistopheles said. “Not and be healthy.”

  “No,” Asrial said. “But I thought I would benefit from knowing better the ways of His universe. Well enough, perhaps, to learn to travel between His worlds. For that, I would need a teacher.” She looked at Lucifer.

  Lucifer laughed. “Ah... do you think I would say no? Could say it, even? You will always be welcome here.”

  “Perhaps we can even take lessons on Earth,” Mephistopheles said.

  Lucifer glanced at him, and the other angel shrugged with a grin.

  “If she can learn, I wouldn’t mind knowing either. It would make things easier, to be able to get back from Earth without using one of the tokens. Easier on you as well, to have someone to help you make them for our scouts when they go against the Wind.”