A Hideous Beauty

by Jack Cavanaugh

  From the tone in her voice, she was hoping my excuse was simple and explainable.

  “No.” I swallowed hard. “I’m in San Diego.”

  The silence was so silent I thought we’d lost our connection. Then I heard her sniff. “I see,” she said frostily.

  “When I heard on the radio that the president was coming to San Diego, I had to come.”

  “Despite his warning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Grant, the president was trying to warn you. Protect you.”

  “Christina, I had to come. Somehow I have to—”

  “I can’t deal with this right now, Grant. I just can’t deal with it.”

  This time her silence was a severed connection.

  As much as I wanted to make the most of my stay at the historic U.S. Grant Hotel, I didn’t feel like going out again and chose a pizza from room service over dinner in the newly refurbished Grant’s Grill. I turned on the TV and watched the Padres blow a four-run lead in the top of the ninth to the Dodgers at Petco Park just a few blocks away and went to bed early.

  At 10:30 p.m. I was awakened by the sound of pounding. I opened the door to double trouble.

  “Hi, Grant.”

  “Hi, Grant.”

  Jana and Sue stood shoulder to shoulder with conspiratorial grins. I greeted them in my bathrobe.

  “You weren’t in bed already, were you?” Sue asked.

  The evidence was too overwhelming to deny it.

  Jana pushed past me into the room. Sue followed.

  “All right, here’s the deal,” Jana said.

  My phone rang. “Hail to the Chief.”

  Jana and Sue looked at each other. “Christina,” they said in unison.

  Crossing the room to the phone, I answered it.

  “I’m furious with you for going to San Diego, you know that, don’t you?” Christina began.

  “Hello, Christina!” Jana and Sue sang in unison.

  “Grant?” Christina said. “Do you have girls in your room?”

  “No,” I said. “Just Jana and Sue.”

  Christina didn’t share Jana’s and Sue’s playful spirit. “Well . . . that’s just . . . you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? I called you because I may have news . . . I was going to tell you at dinner . . . but I got so angry . . . it’s important . . . but I don’t want to interrupt your party . . .”

  “It’s not a party,” I protested.

  “It’s late, Grant . . . and I’m tired . . . good night.”

  “Christina?”

  She’d hung up.

  I signaled to Jana and Sue to give me a minute while I speed dialed Christina’s number. No surprise that she’d turned off her phone.

  “Here’s the deal,” Jana said, as soon as I flipped my phone closed. “Sue . . .”

  Sue Ling reached into her bag and pulled out the professor’s manuscript. She set it on the table in the corner.

  “You read the professor’s manuscript,” Jana said. “Then, you meet with the professor tomorrow morning. Once you do that, Sue will call me and I will do what I can to help you contact the president. Within reason.”

  I looked at the manuscript on the table, then at the girls who were once again shoulder to shoulder in a united front against me. “You’ll get me a press pass?”

  “I said within reason.”

  What could I say? I was better off than I was five minutes earlier. “I still don’t know what you want from me with the manuscript.”

  “Just read it,” Sue said.

  “All right. I agree to your terms.”

  The girls nodded their agreement. Business concluded, they turned toward the door.

  “You’re right. He does have nice legs,” Sue said on the way out.

  “Would I lie about something like that?” Jana said, pulling the door closed behind her.

  With little chance of sleeping anytime soon, I pulled out a chair at the table. With the night skyline outside my window I read the professor’s manuscript, beginning with a note in the professor’s hand, paper-clipped to the front page.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Spectacle

  A HISTORY OF ANGEL WAR

  As told to J. P. Forsythe

  This is the faithful narrative passed down to me by the Seraph Abdiel, an eyewitness to the events contained herein. Having served under the Archangel Lucifer before the rebellion, Abdiel proved himself “faithful among the faithless—unmoved, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified.” His loyalty, love, and zeal for the Almighty God are well documented in the annals of the angels.

  I would add a note about style. During the dictation I have observed that angels—beings who were created to exist outside of time—struggle with chronology. At times the phrasing in the narrative reflects this. I also got the impression that the narrative itself is not solely of Abdiel’s creation, but rather a telling that has been handed down, not unlike an oral history.

  J. P. Forsythe

  u(pernikw=men

  (We are more than conquerors)

  You were the model of perfection, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty . . . you were on the holy mount of God . . . till wickedness was found in you . . . and you sinned. So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God . . . I threw you to the earth; I made a spectacle of you . . .

  Ezekiel 28:12-17

  And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.

  Colossians 2:15

  How do I, Abdiel, Seraph of the heavens, describe to humans clothed in flesh the horrors of celestial war? How do I explain countless dimensions to beings entombed in time? How do I narrate the tales of eternity, of heaven’s enduring villains, to a people who cannot conceive of life without a past, present, or future?

  And what of war itself and angel death?

  Of battle’s din and hills alive with celestial tribes,

  Of angels clad in armor clear as crystal, their swords flashing with sacred light,

  Of bugled advances and tattooed retreats,

  Of chariots converging on heavenly plains?

  These are the fantasies of a fallen race. War is never glorious. And spiritual warfare, which has none of these attractions, is most hideous of all.

  Lucifer’s weapons are largely unseen;

  discounted by fools, they strike straight and true,

  skewering the heart and piercing the soul.

  Depression is his dagger, deceit his poison.

  An efficient assassin, he slips in unnoticed,

  Destroys a career with a well-timed lie.

  With visions of grandeur he lays waste to nations,

  With guilt and suspicion he undermines lives.

  He understands the nature of mankind—

  Spill a man’s blood and he fights to live,

  Wound a man’s spirit and he prays to die.

  Do angels die? As surely as light can be extinguished. Anything created can be uncreated. Where injury or loss or death are absent, there can be no war.

  This is the account of how a great Archangel seduced himself, then others, creating eternal enemies of eternal friends and turning paradise into a battlefield. For clarity, I will speak of time and space where there is no time or space, using terms you understand.

  I speak from pain. For the time was when angel and honorable were one and the same, when the courts of heaven were free from sin and strife; when the bringer of light, the son of the morning, the chief of all angelic host, second only to the Father himself, was my mentor, my brother, my friend. Lucifer is his name.

  He walked among the fiery stones in highest regard, his magnificence unequaled, his beauty flawless, and his wisdom unsurpassed. He had no equal. Not Michael. Not Gabriel. Not Uriel. He was our advocate to the Father, our captain, our counselor. Nothing he asked of us we wouldn’t do . . . or so we thought.

  How regally he ruled the angelic council, dispensing justice and mediating feuds between agents of free will. Unri
valed at peacemaking, Lucifer settled disputes with equity for all. His judgments went unchallenged. He charted the course of the will of the Father with boldness, imagination, and verve. With voice and example he led us in worship, our hearts lifted up in praise to God.

  And thus, my narrative begins—

  Summoned to the throne room,

  A wonder we beheld,

  A marvel mixed with mystery,

  Such as angel eyes had never seen.

  Two thrones where one alone had stood;

  The second, a seat of favor.

  Excitement crackled through the room

  As Lucifer arrived.

  We fixed our eyes on him.

  He fixed his eyes upon the throne.

  A single thought we shared.

  With intent clear, the Father would,

  Before the day was done,

  Elevate the best of us

  To this high honored throne.

  As God the Father graced the room,

  Divine decree He made;

  A proclamation thunderclap,

  But not our expectation.

  He told us of a cosmos dancing,

  stars and worlds in pinwheel galaxies;

  Immense and intricate it was

  A companion universe.

  Sculpted chaos, matter and time

  becoming an ever-changing art.

  Moment on moment in unbroken chain,

  With colors and textures never the same.

  A plan unimagined of force and space,

  The crown of creation, humans would be.

  Composed of matter with spark divine,

  Endowing them with eternity.

  The shepherd of man Lucifer would be,

  According to the Father’s plan.

  A singular honor, a guardian grand,

  Their teacher and mentor he.

  Reward turned to snare as pride swelled his head,

  When Lucifer accepted the post.

  He fantasized how they would love him,

  Revere him, praise and adore.

  He’d take for himself the worship due God,

  And dwell on the earth evermore.

  Transparent as glass we are to be

  Wherever mankind is concerned.

  Looking at us, they should see God,

  This from our lessons we learned.

  Lucifer coveted what was not his,

  First step of his downfall he made.

  With plan under way,

  Assignments doled out,

  We waited creation’s first light.

  We nearly forgot the throne to God’s right

  As we labored with anticipation.

  But soon came the day for a great convocation,

  The birth of the earth was at hand.

  Assembled we there, we opened with song

  In the hall of the Almighty King.

  High and lifted up was He,

  Entering with power, moving with grace.

  Foundations shook, incense rose,

  As Seraphs, their voices raised.

  All glory to the Father God,

  Forever is his reign.

  The King of Kings, the Lord of Lords,

  And worthy of all praise.

  Conspicuous in vacancy,

  the throne beside Him stood.

  Anticipation filled the room,

  As we awaited word

  Of announcement as to who would sit

  Upon that holy chair.

  Lucifer, the Morning Star,

  stood serenely by.

  A perfect pairing it would be,

  to see him sitting there.

  How could we that day foresee

  That it was not to be?

  Jehovah Father, God alone,

  Is all that we had ever known.

  The floor became fiery stones,

  A rainbow encircled the room.

  Bursts of light shot from the throne,

  As thunder rumbled our heavenly home.

  The Father stood, tall and proud, as He said,

  “Behold, my Son.”

  A Being so pure it pained us to look

  Appeared at the Father’s right hand.

  Surprised by joy,

  Laughter welled up.

  Praises spilled from our lips.

  Worthy is the Son of God,

  Our love endures forever.

  You fill our hearts with wondrous joy,

  Our love endures forever.

  With every breath we shout your name,

  Our love endures forever.

  We dance and weep in joyous song,

  Our love endures forever.

  It was a new day.

  Everything changed with the coming of the Son.

  Take all the pride, all the admiration, all the love we held for Lucifer,

  And it would be but a fleeting glimpse of the love we held for the Son.

  God the Father presented His heir

  And gave Him a name above all.

  That at the name of Jesus

  Every knee shall bow

  In heaven, and soon, on earth.

  Every tongue shall confess

  Exalted Lord is He,

  No other Lord above Him stands,

  His reign endures forever.

  We shouted to our God and King

  Until we could shout no more.

  Every tongue confessed Him Lord,

  Every knee before Him bowed.

  Every knee except Lucifer’s.

  In one swift moment, snatched from him

  was everything Lucifer dreamed.

  That’s how he saw it,

  That’s how he felt.

  Jesus, not he, would sit on the throne.

  Jesus, not he, was Lord of creation.

  Jesus, not he, would be worshipped and praised.

  The Father spoke,

  “Lucifer? Why are you downcast?

  Would you be God?”

  No answer he offered,

  The throne room he fled.

  Conceived at that moment,

  Spawned by disappointment,

  An Antichrist was born.

  CHAPTER 19

  As I drove to Heritage College the next morning I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with a writer friend who was trying to break into Hollywood.

  As in any industry, he told me, Hollywood has its own language. Apparently, producers are unable to grasp a concept unless it’s couched in reference to a film that’s already been produced. He said a pitch usually goes something like this: “It’s a World War II story about a soldier and a German shepherd who is combat trained. Think Band of Brothers meets Lassie.”

  The key was that something always met something else.

  We had fun with it.

  “It’s a blockbuster, I tell ya! Think Godzilla meets Scarlett O’Hara!”

  The conversation came to mind as I tried to think of what I’d say to the professor about his manuscript. It’s Screwtape Letters meets Lord of the Rings, I thought, referring to two popular books on college campuses. Think Screwtape and his nephew Wormwood in an adventure with a band of Hobbits. The emphasis, of course, was that both of these works were entertaining, but fictional.

  The trick would be to tell him this without sounding derogatory.

  On the other hand, some religious writers were finding success publishing their particular brand of theology as fiction. Some of the books were even bestsellers. If the professor was interested in having his manuscript published, I was prepared to offer to write a letter of introduction to my publisher’s fiction editor.

  It was still early when I arrived at Heritage College. Classes hadn’t yet started. A few students milled about half asleep and carrying coffee cups as I made my way to the library. The sign in the library window indicated it wouldn’t be open for another thirty minutes. I found the door ajar.

  The scene that awaited me was reminiscent of my first meeting with Professor Forsythe. He was seated in the back at a tab
le next to the wall of windows overlooking a desert garden. He sat at the end of the table in his wheelchair. He wasn’t alone. A figure with broad shoulders sat with his back to me, just as he had that first day. The two men were hunched over the table, their heads together, speaking in whispers.

  As I approached them another figure off to the side caught my attention. Sue Ling stood alone between the bookshelves, her arms folded as though she was cold, or afraid. The room was warm.

  Since neither of the men had paid any attention to me, I altered my course to greet her first. She shook her head, directing me toward the professor. The look in her eyes disturbed me. It was all business with a touch of fear, the same look you’d see on the face of a person called to a meeting with IRS auditors.

  The professor noticed me. He looked up. Didn’t smile.

  Without turning to look at me, the man with the broad shoulders stiffened noticeably.

  “You’re expecting me?” I said.

  The professor spoke to the other man. “Abdiel, I apologize for the deception, but I feel it’s important that Grant meets you.”

  It was clear this wasn’t the meeting I thought it would be. Was the manuscript just a ruse to get me to the library? I shot a glance at Sue Ling. It was she who insisted I read the manuscript. It was she who had set up this meeting.

  Her eyes were wide with fear.

  “I told you no!” the man thundered.

  “Abdiel—”

  “NO!”

  His chair tumbled backward as he stood. His voice made the ground shiver, books fall from shelves, tables tremble.

  “NO!”

  A surge of energy rippled through me, like the force of an earthquake through solid rock, and he was gone. Not walking-out-the-door gone, but gone gone. One second he was there. The next, he wasn’t.

  The professor shrugged apologetically. “We need to talk,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was look at the empty space that moments before had been filled with a man the size of a professional football lineman.

  A hand touched my shoulder. Sue. She put her arms around me and laid her head against my chest and held me. I don’t know which of us needed the hug more.

  This wasn’t the Sue Ling I knew yesterday. This was a different Sue. Something had happened to change her. She was trembling.

  She stepped away and looked up at me, and that’s when I really became frightened. She had the same look in her eyes that she had had earlier—the look of fear.

  She was afraid of me. Or for me. But her fear was unmistakable.