Rebel Angels

by Michele Lang

  A dozen enormous jars of pickles sat along a long, low ledge, the glass reflecting the dim moonlight. Behind, all in a row, stood a dozen or more doors, all closed tightly against the night. They looked like human-size stable doors.

  “This is a rest home for soldiers,” Ziyad said. “We had a civil war in Azerbaijan from 1919 to 1922. These men fought on both sides, and live together now. First we are Azeri.”

  Ah, that explained the ghosts. Casualties of the war, still at war as far as they knew. But unlike the forest choked with spirits, this place, somnolent and silent, seemed abandoned. I reached out with my inner sight to the souls here, and recoiled with a barely suppressed gasp. The men here, some dozens of them, all maimed, waited behind those closed doors to finally die.

  These rooms were not prison cells. The rooms of the rest home provided the solitude of monks, or of tombs. Many of these souls suffered pain, but all bore their lot without complaint.

  Raziel and I followed Ziyad and the bodyguards through the courtyard to the kitchen, a separate building across from the men’s rooms.

  “We will have lamb,” Ziyad said, his voice faint and far away. When I looked at him, his eyes had hardened and looked like obsidian stones.

  What had I done to so infuriate him? And how did his fury manage to overwhelm his despair?

  * * *

  We ate in the enormous kitchen, and the meal was exquisite. Discomfited as I was by our eerie surroundings and Ziyad’s rage, I could not help but appreciate the good food.

  Raziel hardly ate. Instead he kept a watchful eye on me, as if I was the one most likely to explode in a homicidal rampage, not Ziyad.

  After the splendor of the main course, dessert was a subdued affair, with walnut jellies, apples, and strong tea. The assassins sat together outside the kitchen window and watched the stars rise, and drank cup after cup of steaming hot tea out of the samovar set up in the courtyard.

  “Okay, the gem,” I said at last, breaking the silence that had stretched over the entire meal.

  Raziel could not speak German, but he sensed the hidden menace in my voice, sat up straighter, and cracked his knuckles.

  Ziyad looked at me for the first time since supper had been served. “Yes, the gem,” he said, his voice laced with grief. “The superweapon. We must hurry. Our enemies are at our heels.”

  “For fugitives, we have eaten like princes. I am grateful for your hospitality.”

  Ziyad caught the edge in my voice. “I am in my own country now,” he said by way of explanation. “My enemies will discover me eventually. So will yours, I am sure. But these mountains are high, stony, and remote. And they are mine.”

  Lord, I loathed speaking in German. The words cut my mouth like shards of glass. “Your sister Leyla is at peace. She wishes you peace as well.”

  There. I had kept my promise.

  Ziyad’s eyes flashed with tears, and with anger, too. “I forbid you to speak of her.”

  I bristled at his words, but held my peace and pressed ahead. “But her spirit speaks of you, with love. With reverence and the deepest gratitude.”

  His lips trembled and Ziyad pushed away from us. “Leyla is dead because of me. And you.”

  “She says no. She fought the Institute to protect her temple as well as us, we who had sought her protection. And she tells me that she is close, and she is here to say a proper good-bye.”

  “My people no longer make witches,” Ziyad said, his voice clotted deep in his throat.

  “No?”

  “No. Because they call the fire down, and the fire devours them. Whether they are buried in the ground or not. My sister was too much a witch.”

  Ziyad was speaking in riddles. “If your own sister was such a witch, what need did you have for me?”

  Ziyad paced back and forth.

  “Besides,” I continued, keeping my voice deliberately unconcerned, “any medium could speak to your sister’s spirit. You don’t need a witch at all.”

  Ziyad broke. Instead of attacking me with his fists, tears began streaming down his face.

  “She was only eighteen. Never married. A dove.”

  “I know. She was brave as a general, and so beautiful. I am sorry.”

  “She should have had ten children, a house.”

  “But she is going to a better place.”

  “She should have lived first!”

  I pressed my lips together and waited for the storm to subside—being with Raziel had taught me patience by proxy. After a time, Ziyad composed himself, slammed back a cup of tea like it was steaming-hot vodka.

  “Forgive me, witch.” The fire in him had guttered out, and once again I could sense the depth of Ziyad’s despair.

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  He shrugged and half laughed, half sobbed, the sound even more unbearable than his barely mastered fury. “The Institute will get us in the end, even here. You will not be so proud and gracious by the end of our journey.”

  “When you say things like that, you frighten me, Ziyad, no matter how earnestly your sister’s spirit speaks for you. You fear me as a witch and blame me for Leyla’s death. And I cannot fault you for any of it.”

  “Leyla did not know war. You do.”

  “Yes. And if you betray me, Ziyad…” My voice trailed off, and I was unwilling to speak my secret fear aloud, that the only reason we had managed to elude the Institute was because they wanted us to find the gem before they closed in and grabbed us all. And that to save his people Ziyad would in desperation surrender Raziel and me to his enemies.

  Ziyad understood. “This is my land,” he said. “You are under my protection. I will not betray you—I would choose first to die.”

  I believed him, but still I could not let down my guard. I shrugged and looked away, carefully balanced a teaspoon on the ends of my fingers. “I never ate walnut jelly before, sir. However do you make it so that the shells are so soft? Do you boil them?”

  He heard the danger in my voice. “They are young, tender walnuts. And we eat them whole.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Remember, nothing will protect you should Stalin’s people get you in the end. No matter how old or tough you think you are. It is not my doing that you came to my land, you chose it, you sought me out in Istanbul. You insisted.”

  “Yes. And you helped me every step of the way. I will never forget that, Ziyad.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, and Raziel rose to his feet. “Magda, his sister is breaking his heart. Stop baiting him.”

  I tasted another spoon of the walnut jelly. “He does it to himself, my love. He fears I will meet his sister’s fate.”

  * * *

  After this digestion-wrecking meal, we left the entombed veterans to their still-living slumber and drove for the heart of Quba.

  We slipped through the Muslim side of the town, where the buildings were low and simple, with crescents and stars cut as stenciled decorations into the tall blue window shutters. Even at this late hour, children and skinny dogs roamed the streets.

  It looked ordinary, sleepy. But I sat at the edge of the last rug in the back of the hearse, my senses pricked keen, on the highest alert. For Quba at night, like the birch forest we had left behind, was thick with spirits.

  13

  To my surprise, Ziyad did not take us to one of these silent dark buildings to meet his people in Quba. Instead, he kept driving through the town until he had passed right through it, to the edge of the river.

  A white tent pitched in an open field loomed in front of us, glowing like a fallen moon. The tent had no walls, only a sagging roof.

  Inside, men sat on rugs, smoking hookahs and drinking tea from samovars. Horses waited patiently, tethered in a row at the edge of the woods.

  The only light came from the glowing coals of the samovars, the bowls of hookahs, and the occasional cigarette, flickering like fireflies. “Are these Arabs?” I asked Ziyad, terribly confused. “They look nomadic. Nobody could survive living in an
open tent here in the mountains, could they?”

  Ziyad laughed bitterly at my question. “No, not Arabs. These are my relatives, my brothers from the mountains. This is a funeral tent, erected to mourn my sister. They are waiting for me … and for you as well. Women are not allowed to enter, but these are special circumstances. Let me talk to them.…”

  He parked the hearse a careful distance from the horses, so that the engine would not startle them—I got the distinct impression that these horses were not used to automobiles. Ziyad silently motioned for us to wait, and he walked alone to the tent where his countrymen huddled.

  A great wailing broke out when the men sighted him. Even though I had only a passing acquaintance with Leyla’s spirit, the sound brought tears into my eyes. But Raziel’s face remained serene.

  “You are stronger than I am, my darling,” I managed to say through the tears that choked me. “When I hear the men in the tent crying, it breaks my heart. And I don’t know why.”

  “You wish to believe you’ve mastered death, but nobody does, my love,” Raziel replied. “Their tears remind you of the truth.”

  Ziyad hurried back to the car, flicking the tears out of his eyes with his fingers. “Quickly, now,” he said. “Come, meet the elders.”

  Then he hesitated, and I realized with a sudden weariness that this was no simple condolence call. “I cannot make them accept you,” Ziyad said, his voice trembling. “They have only agreed to try. If the answer is no, you can try to fight your way out. That is the most I can give you. They are in a grim way, because of my sister’s death. They think that you are responsible.”

  I sighed. “Maybe they are right. It was the scientists who attacked the walls of the temple and tried to kill us and the magic inside. But I suspect the Institute is acting on orders from Moscow. I’m afraid that my enemies have joined forces with yours.”

  He shrugged. “I believe it. But these men fear your magic, as much as they fear the Institute.”

  He looked away, and with a great effort composed his features. “Speak with a silver tongue, Lazarus witch. And realize that some of these men worship the fire. I pray that you do not find out what that means, this night.”

  I emerged from the car, feeling sick and knowing I was out of my depth, formidable as my magic had proven in the West. Raziel followed, silent and watchful, his hat in his hands.

  “I have the advantage of being willing to die,” Raziel said. “Poor Magduska, you refuse. So it must be.”

  This was true. I was hell-bent on finding the gem before my enemies did. I did not know how Asmodel, or Stalin for that matter, planned to find it. I worried they planned to use me as a sort of magical bloodhound. But I had to hunt my treasure regardless.

  The three of us walked together across the uneven, rocky field to the funeral tent. Heat emanated from the tent like a banked coal—there was no way that the samovars and cigarettes could be the sole source of all that heat.

  Magic was afoot. Magic I could not comprehend, much less control.

  The men inside remained seated as we approached, huddled in small circles of about a dozen men each, ten such groups scattered underneath the enormous tent. The floor was made of prayer rugs, spread thickly beneath their feet.

  Ziyad took off his shoes, and without any prompting Raziel and I did the same. I exchanged a glance with my husband, took a deep breath for courage, and entered the funeral tent behind the others.

  Ziyad led us to the back of the tent and squatted next to a group of men swathed in blankets against the chill of the mountain air. The air around them vibrated with the heat.

  I looked at their faces and could not suppress a gasp. These men were not men. Their faces glowed with light. They were men made of fire; fire spirits, come to earth. And they looked like youths, too young to be the elders Ziyad wanted me to meet. Only a few of them had the mustaches you saw everywhere on men in the Caucasus.

  “Hello, Raziel,” the youngest-looking of them said.

  Raziel crouched next to the young man and held out a hand to shake. He spoke, to my amazement, in Hebrew. By now I could follow a bit of it. “Uzziel, a long time. It is a great pleasure, my brother, to see you here.”

  When I looked to Ziyad his eyes were all but popping out of his head.

  “This is my wife,” Raziel continued. My God. Raziel, the keeper of secrets, had revealed the cosmic secret of our marriage as casually as he had greeted Uzziel. I knew better than to say a single word. I sat down on the rug and tucked my ankles under me in what I hoped was a ladylike way.

  “She is beautiful, my brother,” the man next to Uzziel said. “But you bring her into danger.”

  “Thus is war. Hiding her would only condemn her. Like the girl who has passed.”

  The men spoke among themselves in quiet voices, shooting appraising glances my way every so often. They spoke in Azeri, and then—with a leap of recognition, I heard it.

  The angelic speech.

  The young-looking one, the one Raziel had called Uzziel, leaned forward and looked into my eyes. I held absolutely still, afraid to whisper even a single word.

  “She is a witch,” he said in the angelic speech. “And dangerous to our kind. Why did you bring her, Raziel? And why do you lie with her?”

  I blinked then—Uzziel saw right through me, and there was nothing I could say to change his opinion. If I was going to keep out of a fight, Raziel was going to have to do the talking.

  “I love her,” Raziel replied. “And is she not beautiful? She is true. Fierce. And she uses her magic only for the good.”

  Uzziel snorted at Raziel’s little speech. “Her intentions may be good. But great evil is committed in the name of goodness.”

  Raziel’s laugh was easy, unafraid. “So your enemies have accused you. Take her on her own merit, as I take you. And we will fight in this war, for you.”

  “Give it a rest, Uz,” the oldest-looking of the men said, his voice weary. “You always are too quick to judge.” He leaned forward and searched Raziel’s face with his gray, tired-looking eyes. “Do you remember me, brother? It has been so long.”

  Raziel looked intently at the man, and tears sparkled, unshed, in his eyes. “I remember you. Of course I remember you. Do you still have your sword, Ivriel?”

  “No.” Ivriel closed his eyes and sighed. “I never thought I’d see you without your wings, Raziel. Somehow it hurts more to see you that way.”

  Raziel shrugged, cracked his knuckles. “I found my wings did me no good down here.”

  “You finally saw the truth. But is it not bitter?”

  The men, and Raziel, were silent after that. This was my husband’s family, one I had not realized still existed. I hoped they would accept me, but in the way of in-laws I also realized I could never measure up to their expectations.

  “The girl, who died,” Raziel finally said. “I am sorry she is gone.”

  Uzziel said something under his breath in Azeri, a curse or a prayer I could not tell. Then: “She was a pure soul. And she was promised to me.”

  I was glad I was already sitting down, because the news jolted me hard. This fire creature, who I guessed had fallen from Heaven many centuries ago, still loved mortal women as in ancient times, before the great Flood. I thought such beings had gone from the Earth since the time of Noah.

  I was wrong. And again I was reminded how little I really knew about this world, and about its mysteries. The sapphire of Raziel was the least of it. Sometimes the world seemed like a strange dream, one with its own internal logic that I could never discover.

  I did not dare to interrupt. I was raised in a household of women, where my congenial father enjoyed our voices and our thoughts. Here in the Caucasus, men preferred their women hidden away, subservient and silent. And the fallen …

  “She is brazen,” the second one, Ivriel, said. I realized he spoke of me.

  “She is mine,” Raziel said. He spoke easily, without anger, but the other former angels looked at one another and
said nothing.

  I held my breath and willed myself not to move a muscle. We stood at a standoff, a moment away from violence. And I could not understand why.

  14

  After a long moment, the threat of violence slowly receded. Uzziel nodded, then stood. “Come with me, my brother,” he said to Raziel. “And we will speak of many things.”

  His voice banished the tension coursing through the group still sitting on the ground. Raziel stood up, too, and the two fallen angels loomed high over the rest of our heads. “I am here,” Raziel replied. “But I will bring my bride with me. This is no place for her to stay alone.”

  Uzziel hesitated, then nodded. “She may come.”

  At the entrance to the tent, I turned back to look for Ziyad. He sat with Raziel’s brothers, far away in the corner, and he nodded silently and waved good-bye.

  And that is the last I ever saw of Ziyad Juhuri. It breaks my heart, to think of him.

  I followed behind the two former angels, one of them my husband, and I reminded myself that my temper was a flaw, not my strength. I drew my power to me with my rage, but often I forgot that the rage was not my power, it merely summoned it forth.

  I managed not to ask where Uzziel was taking us. Heedless of the darkness, he walked into the woods, and I trailed behind the two men like an unruly shadow. I made a terrible racket, stumbling around in the darkness, as the men moved easily, talking in a low murmur. I barked my shin on a dead silver birch glowing dully in the moonlight and bit back a low curse. I am not known for my patience, my even temper, or my humility. This walk poked me in all these vulnerable places.

  Finally we came upon a clearing, and a prim little house rose out of the darkness. In a flash I remembered my teacher’s hut in the woods outside of Kraków, and my eyes flooded with rebellious tears. I dashed them away with more intemperate language growled under my breath, then hurried to follow Raziel and Uzziel as they passed over the threshold.

  Once Uzziel closed the door firmly behind us, his manner completely changed. Gone was the fierce, condescending Caucasian, and in his place stood a man with features as gentle and worn as Raziel’s.