Death scoured his record for the name Salvatore Constanza. There was none listed in Urbino at the time. Time—that torturer of humanity—is the only one who would know what really happened.
In an instant, he was standing by Time's side as she lounged on the shores of the Great Oceans. “Greetings,” she said in her most pleasant guise—that of a fair young maiden. “Charles told me you’d soon be here. He wants me to plead against the nomination of Raphael as a Guardian of the Arts. Where do you stand?”
“Fate may change his mind once cooler heads resolve these ancient issues.”
“He plans to present the damning document at the committee hearing. Raphael’s humiliation will be as meteoric as his rise, he says. What say you?”
Death saw her transform before his eyes into a middle-aged matron. Her hair was streaked with silver where blonde curls had been.
“First tell me of Salvatore Constanza and how he came to possess the manuscript.”
“You mean Salvatore deEstes, the bastard son of Giuseppe Constanza and Bianca’s half brother.”
“So that’s why I didn’t find his name!”
“Nor Father Pietro’s either, I imagine. He was also a Constanza bastard.”
“Their hatred of Bianca is understandable, then,” Death said. “As Giuseppe's only legal heir, the Constanza fortune would go to Bianca's husband, and none of it to them.”
“It was the times. Their only hope was to rid themselves of her before she could marry. What better way than to frustrate her love for Raphael?”
“Then the wager was a ruse. They only wanted a document they could use against him.”
Time held up a small hourglass, her hands now those of a crone. “I saw the sand running out, as did they, having calculated that if they could feed her sorrow for just a few weeks, her health would be unrecoverable. They needed a way to make her suffer long after Raphael had gone, so before Bianca saw the illuminated parchment, Pietro put down the words for her to read. Every hour, she unrolled the concocted document and relived the pain of her rejection. Her young heart finally broke. Father Pietro put her in the convent—where many daughters were exiled when in the way—and there she died, robbed of tender dreams of wifery and motherhood.”
“Cursed diabolical intrigue. Did they repent Bianca's murder?”
Time threw back her head and laughed heartily. “There wasn’t time. Kha'zar himself delivered them to Satan.”
Charles was right about justice—and justice delayed is justice denied. “Where do I find Kha'zar?” Death demanded, as his rage began to fester.
“He has only been rendered once,” Time said. “Kha'zar dances at the top of the haystack in Bosch’s Hay Wain. Visit Bosch and see for yourself.”
”Oh, no. Artists are too temperamental for me. Give me emperors and soldiers any day over these mercurial geniuses. None struggle with me the way these artists do! See how they continue to create after death. No putting down burdens for them.”
Time transformed into a comely maiden of sixteen. “And what of artists in uniform? Caesar, Napoleon, Patton? Account for the Art of War, Dreaded One.”
Death was silent. Comforted by the fact that he was not the only Eternal swayed by the plight of fair Bianca, he contemplated the problem before him to avoid having to answer. As they were to give testimony before the Committee, no Eternal could communicate with Raphael. Yet, if there was a demon loose in the Spirit world, he had to do something. This was a wound Time couldn’t heal. Death turned to go, but Time tugged at his sleeve. She was now a child of seven, with a baby’s complexion and freckles budding on her nose.
“Think on this, Vile Thief,” she said, handing him a marble-sized orb from her pocket. “T’is the only gift worth having.”
Death studied it as he sat again before his giant hearth. Of what value was a small round ball that neither glowed nor sparkled? It was neither pearl nor jewel, yet, it was unmistakably larger than before and grew clearer as he gazed at it in the firelight. Soon it filled his hand and within it he saw the image of a child.
He placed the orb on the side table, and leafed through the pages of an art book till he came to a color plate of the Hay Wain. With a magnifying glass, he studied the figures in Bosch’s paintings, noting that the artist must have been acquainted with many of the strange plants in the Garden of Earthly Delights to have produced such intricate and fanciful creatures. “I’m not good at this,” he told himself as moved the magnifying glass around, finally resting it on the picture of an imp with a horn for a nose. So this was Kha'zar.
And Truth
The Guild Masters convened in the Great Hall of the Eternals to consider the nomination of Raphael as a Guardian of the Arts. High atop Mt. Olympus, the verandas of the Hall stretched half way round the peak, providing almost a hundred miles of panorama to those who walked its white marble floors. An artist could have either morning or dusk light in which to paint, depending on where he set his easel, and the only noise came from the many fountains that dotted the tree shaded alcoves, and the doves that nested in the umber-colored tiled eaves.
“It’s an apt place for contemplation of our thorny task, Gentlemen,” Michelangelo said making eye contact with each of the five men sitting at the ebony table: DaVinci, Rodin, Boticelli, Picasso and Warhol. “Raphael Sanzio served the Arts well for over four centuries both as Messenger and now a Muse, of sorts.”
“I make no pretense,” Leonardo stated, “I am his friend and champion. My vote is already cast in favor of his election to the post. But I think we would do well to consider the particulars of his nomination.”
“I agree” Boticelli said. “First Charles nominates Raphael and then testifies against him. What madness it that? I say, malodorous motives.”
“A not-so-hidden agenda,” Warhol agreed, “I say we get an explanation from Raphael about Constanza. Let him defend himself against slander.”
“The rules say we can’t allow Rafael to speak on his own behalf.” Michelangelo reminded them.
“Then let’s change the rules” Picasso said. “If Fate has turned this Hall into a courtroom by making accusations against Raphael, then we must act as a court before we act as a guild. We’re artists, not fools—despite what History would have people believe. What say you, Rodin?”
“An upstart. That’s what Charles called him. It’s envy talking, yet, Charles did show us proof. We have the manuscript. I admit, I don't understand exactly what Raphael is. He is more like a comic book character than either a Messenger or Muse—a caped crusader who almost mocks us. Why didn't he ever formally join the Guild?"
"Would we have accepted him?" DaVinci said, looking directly at Michelangelo who in life had created a rift between himself and the young painter from Urbino.
"Fra Angelico has asked to testify about the matter. I say we hear him.” Rodin’s voice was as hard as the bronze he molded.
“It’s a bending of the rules, not breaking them, DaVinci said. "Angelico is a man of the Church, but he is also an artist. I vote to let him speak.”
“I won’t have Charles flexing his fascist muscles at the Guild’s expense,” Picasso said. “I too vote to hear Angelico.”
“And I also. Fate’s capriciousness verges on treachery,” Boticelli said.
Warhol walked to the door, and motioned the priest to enter. Angelico put away his prayer beads, and entered the dimly lit room, covering his eyes to let them adjust.
“Welcome, Blessed Priest,” Michelangelo said bidding him sit in a chair Rodin had carved as an eagle with enfolding wings, “Tell us what you know of this situation?”
“I can only tell you that Raphael has been given a great gift. As were we all. But his gift is not just talent for color and perspective and nuance of expression. His gift is that of faith. T’was not artistic talent that led him to the cell of Judas Iscariot, but the belief that one human soul is so precious to our Lord, he would do whatever he had to do to help in its deliverance. The title “Guardian” is merely a recogn
ition of his worthiness for the position, not its source. You cannot confer the qualities of loyalty and bravery on a person anymore than you can decree the existence of talent.”
“What of this Bianca woman?” Warhol asked. “Charles says this scroll proves that Raphael is not the pure-hearted knight of truth he claims to be.”
Angelico couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Who has heard Raphael claim to be pure-hearted? He isn’t a knight. He isn’t a saint. By what right does Fate assume that only the perfect can accomplish heroic deeds? It’s Raphael’s faith that gives him power. It’s his desire to do good by those in his charge, to inspire them, that leads him to take that power and bring out its beauty even as he brings beauty out of a canvass. He is fashioning something new in the Spirit World, a hybrid, perhaps of a Muse, not content to inspire beauty, but one who inspires truth. What is truth?”
The Masters were silent. Angelico spoke the truth. Each one of them knew the pressure all artists feel from those who want to control the talent of others, to repress the true artist’s inclination for innovation.
Angelico continued. “Hurting someone requires time and attention, and Raphael had neither when he left home. He was a young man with the ambitions of a young man. He simply forgot about Bianca in his pursuit of fortune. He had youthful indiscretions. Some here have adult indiscretions.” The men averted their eyes to their notes as Angelico paused. “You, Rodin. You had a son with Rose Beuret but never married her or claimed paternity despite having been in a monastery in your youth. Did you not shock your critics when you sculpted St. John as a nude? Did you intend to hurt Rose when you took Camille Claudel as your mistress?” Angelico got up and stood behind Picasso. “An you, Pablo. What of Fermande Olivier, Marcell Humbert, and the ballerina, Olga Khokhlova? Shall we now blame you for Marie Terese Walter’s suicide?”
“You needn’t go on, Warhol said when Angelico stood behind him, "my biography...alright, my sins are well known.”
“You must understand, Angelico. A Guardian acquires many extraordinary powers, including the ability to take corporeal form. We Masters must be careful not to unleash another monster upon the world. So tell us, Father, if you can, did Raphael intentionally hurt this young girl?” All eyes of the Committee were on Michelangelo as he verbalized their misgivings.
"Mens rea was not present in Raphael," Angelico said, "no more than it is ever present in an inexperienced youth."
"Take the manuscript back to Charles, Angelico," Leonardo said, "we have seen and heard enough."
****
Michelangelo was right. It was safer to shadow Maddie than visit her dreams because when he saw her, the flame of love ignited again. If he discovered similar desires in her, he would be tempted to thrust himself into her thoughts. If he discovered she loved only Albion, he would be tempted to abandon his protégé.
So, he contented himself to observe her from a distance, reminded of the courtly love between knights and their ladies. Chivalry was self-restraint; little wonder the knights diverted their attention to quests and dragon slaying. Many times he’d painted unattainable dreams for sleepers, but this was the first time he felt their sting. He hadn’t lived long enough or hard enough to know deep disappointment. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t see Bianca’s pain. Now, he not only saw it, he shared it.
He drew closer to Maddie, dodging her glances and avoiding her stares, awed by the knowledge this is what Bianca would have looked like had she lived to maturity. He watched her shoulder shrug, and heard a deep sigh as she pushed buttons on her cell phone. “It’s me, Gretchen,” she said. “I’ll be in for my afternoon classes after all.”
She picked up her briefcase, grabbed her car keys, and headed for the door. He didn’t follow. She wasn’t going to a garden or a nursery. She wasn’t about the business of the household, plucking chickens or picking tomatoes. She hadn’t time or inclination to pine for anything for fifteen minutes, let alone six hundred years. He, on the other hand, had forever to regret, to pine for a moment in time that would never come again. To Bianca, who had loved him her entire brief life, he was the center of the universe. Maddie had no center of the universe. Not even Alby.
The gulf between earth and the Spirit World had widened over eons. Was it possible to undo time? Only the Eternals know. He must content himself with the present.
Raphael drew close to Alby’s painting, and lifted the cloth. Leonardo’s words swirling about him when he saw what lay beneath. Love was dangerous. It had blinded him to what Alby had put on the canvass. What manner of inspiration had guided Rector's hand to make such an accurate rendering of Fate? The message was clear—Alby had rendered a meeting between an Italian nobleman handing Charles a manuscript bearing a familiar illumination, and inside that nobleman’s figure, a demon he recognized from Francesa Grasinki’s dreamscape.
****
“Do you have it?” Raphael demanded of Charles.
“You shouldn’t be here, Artist, the Committee is still sequestered,” Charles replied calmly.
“I care not for honors that hide deceit. Where is the manuscript?”
A cold descended upon the room as Death appeared beside Raphael. “He has the cursed document. I have seen it.” He pointed a bony finger at Charles. ‘J’accuse! What right have you to admit a demon into our midst?”
Raphael stared at Death, flames of anger in the skull-face’s eyes. “Then it’s true.”
Charles opened his desk drawer, pulled out the manuscript, and handed it to Raphael who immediately unscrolled it, read the words he never wrote, and now understood the plot. “It was you who nominated me so you could indict me before the Committee with a forgery.”
“I did not nominate you. As for the presentation of the ducument, it was not to thwart what was fated,” Charles said cooly, “only to curb your ambition and prevent your temptation, dear Raphael. It’s the least I could do for a faithful Messenger.”
“Summon Salvatore Constanza,” Raphael commanded.
“I can’t. He rides to the whirlwind to escape hell.”
“Liar!” Death said, his robes barely able to constrain the fire in his bones.
Trembling, Charles backed away from the black specter. “No, I swear it. He…we know the Committee’s adjourned. Raphael is a Guardian of the Arts now, and Kha'zar flees from Satan’s wrath.”
“He returns to earth,” Raphael said. “The Rector’s aren’t safe with him loose.” Raphael raced from Charles’ office, mounted the restless Credo, and spurred him onward, determined to subdue Kha'zar and send him back to hell where Satan would deal with him most foully. Credo’s great withers strained beneath the saddle, his hooves pounding like cannon fire in a gallop so fierce the clouds bowed away from them. And beside him, on his pale horse, sat Death astride, matching thunder hoof for thunder hoof Credo’s relentless hammering. Into the maelstrom they rode, Death’s dark cloak trailing only by inches Raphael’s fiery robe, covering the mountains and valleys with fearsome shadows.
“What is that ominous beating,” Leonardo said as the Masters ran to the patio and looked to the sky.
“Neither thunder nor lightning,” Rodin said as the shadow fell across their white robes. “It's the roar of vengeance and the fury of justice.”
The Masters watched their newly appointed Guardian, riding with the Great Equalizer, their swords gleaming battle-ready, silver and gold in the sun shafts, towards the horizon. “We have chosen well,” Michelangelo pronounced as Angelico crossed himself with the sign of God.
“Mercy!” Kha'zar cried as the two spirits rode down on him. With one blow, Raphael split open the human shell and revealed the contorted demon cowering in terror.
“Net him!” Death shouted as Raphael was about to deliver the coup d’gras. Death wrenched a net tied to his saddle and threw it over Kha'zar, and pulled the rope that entangled him tight. The demon was rolling into the net as Death threw the line to Raphael. “Pull!” he cried.
Raphael caught the line mid-air and wrapped it around the
pommel of his saddle, as he reined Credo to a halt and spurred him backwards. Kha'zar was writhing, his ears and tail hopelessly enmeshed. “Let me go to oblivion,” he begged, “Don’t give me back to Satan—my torment will be on your souls!”
“Your Master must learn that he cannot unloose evil into the Spirit world without consequences,” Death said. “And there is only one way to teach him—drag him back to the Fortress, Raphael.”
****
Raphael finished the illumination of Kha'zar inside the first letter of Death’s letter to Satan.
Accursed One:
Kha'zar, resides with me. I have plenty of space. Any demon caught in the Spirit World, will join him there. The Corridor of the Suicides henceforth is called the Swallows, because I swallow all.
DEATH
“Who will deliver this?” Raphael folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and Death stamped his seal in wax.
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