Kellan and Maddie shared a lunch of Caesar salads and red wine, and talked of other things. Philosophy and unanswerable questions were not proper fare for young people sharing a glorious California day. Maddie said she was glad her tomato plants weathered her absence, and Father Kellan blessed the children before he left for Monsignor Rice’s office, noticing that they seemed happy to be home with their doggie.
“She swears she saw him,” Kellan explained to Rice.
“An overactive imagination brought on by jet lag,” Rice countered. He'd been dealing with the carpet layers all morning, alarmed at the price they wanted to replace the well-worn main aisles of St. Joseph’s Cathedral church.
“How do you explain his pointing out the fake pictures in the Baron’s collection and his knowing about the Beethoven symphony? Sir, we have to admit that something odd happened to Mrs. Rector. How many coincidences does it take to make a miracle?”
“The same as the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin. I don’t know, Father Kellan. You ask me questions I can’t answer, and by the way, you did the same thing in the seminary. Sometimes I think you’re the reincarnation of Socrates. There are occurrences that have no rational explanation. Maybe the Italian hid the symphonic score behind the painting himself. Maybe he’s a traveling art critic or maybe he just has a good eye for detail, a well trained student, or a nosy Parker who pretended to be Italian.” Rice went back to the stack of invoices that cluttered his desk. “You want to see a miracle? Pray we get one in the way of Christmas donations this year or we’ll be laying linoleum instead of new carpet. As it is, we can’t even afford to shampoo the rug let alone replace it.”
Kellan sighed. He wanted Rice to tell him Maddie had seen a vision, that she was blessed, or cursed, or whatever he could authoritatively divine by way of explanation, and all he got was mundane complaints about thread-bare floors and dirty walls. Rice must have heard the long-suffering resignation in that sigh because he looked up from his check register and gave Kellan a fatherly smile.
“I’ll pray on it, Father. I promise. But only if you pray we get enough money to put God’s house in order. This used to be His mansion, you know. Now, it’s His tenement.”
“It’s not that bad, Sir.”
“We need altar boys. It used to be we could count on the altar boys and the Knights of Columbus to wash the walls. Now we have to pay people to keep house for God. Just be thankful Mrs. Rector doesn’t have a demon to deal with after all, Father. Show God a little gratitude.”
Other Plans
Fate was piqued. He’d heard rumors that Raphael had left with Verne on an expedition to Olympus, to visit the Greek gods of antiquity, and that they wouldn’t return till the day of the symphony’s premiere.
If it was true, it meant Charles would have no opportunity to maneuver Raphael into incorporating before the performance when Albion was most busy and Maddie most vulnerable. On top of everything, he’d heard rumors of Beethoven’s impending apotheosis. He didn’t have anything against Beethoven personally; his symphony was the means to get Raphael to incorporate. But, having the Spirit World know that Raphael contributed to yet another soul being taken to God’s Kingdom was torture. And where was Death?
Charles hadn’t seen him in months. He looked into his ledger for reports of war or plague, and found only that nothing had changed in the Mid-east and new vaccines had stopped another Swine Flu from becoming epidemic. He gingerly looked at the abortion tables. Since the twentieth century the abortion rate had been rising steadily and it had always alarmed him. It depressed Death to harvest so many spirits, so much so he’d taken to holding their spirits for reincarnation in the Valley of the Innocents along with the children who preferred to stay with their Guardian Angels.
Well, no matter, Charles would put his rancor on hold and return to work. But a frustrated hand is unsteady, a catastrophe in restoring manuscripts that depended on precision for perfection. It was impossible, he decided, and strolled into his orchard, all that was left of the Garden of Eden.
He sat on the circular bench that surrounded the delicious tree, its red fruit crisp and tangy and waiting for him. So this was the tree of knowledge, according to earthly lore. More like the tree of bellyaches, for so sweet was the fruit that it made him eat too much.
“Hell-o!” he heard a voice say, and saw a man by the wooden gate waving his hat. Unaccustomed to strangers, and judiciously wary since the demon debacle, Charles walked over to him. “What are you yelling to me? And what are you doing here, Sir?” he demanded.
“I’m lost.”
“I won’t help you unless you tell me who you are.”
“I’m looking for Death.”
“That doesn’t tell me why you’re at my back gate yelling like a maniac and interrupting my peace of mind.”
The man shot him a cunning smile. “You have no peace of mind today, Sir. I can tell by your stooped shoulders and snail’s gait that you’re distressed. I watched you enter the orchard. I thought maybe you’d come closer so I wouldn’t have to yell, but…”
“Mind your own business. My distress is my own affair.”
“You're testy too. Another indication of pain.”
Charles saw a familiar gleam in the man’s eyes. It refreshed his spirits. “What do you want with Death?”
“It is a business matter.” Now fatally curious, Charles, opened the gate and invited the stranger in. Iago bowed politely. “Thank-you, Sir.” He followed Charles back to the bench. Charles offered him the fruit off his trees, and cool water from the well.
“Your hospitality is unexpected, but welcome. It isn’t often I am so well treated.”
“Why is this?”
“I reside with the Villains.”
Charles drew back in revulsion at first. He’d been told that those from the underworld were freakish, misshapen ogres. Yet, the man who rested under the shade of his arboretum was none of these. He softened. “You don’t seem villainous to me,” he said, wondering why the common people believed such fairy tales.
“We are misunderstood, consigned to live among the damned when we have done nothing but play parts in stories and plays for the entertainment of idle minds. Why do we stay in the underworld? No other place will have us. As I was telling my friend, Uriah Heep, how is it that literary heroes are no more real than we, yet they are given the rewards of existence while we are relegated to living in the shadows. Are we not as crucial to any story? Where are our kudos?”
“Your argument has merit. What would Tolstoy’s Karenina have been without Vronsky? Just another pretty housewife going about her household chores. Who would have bought a thousand page novel about beating rugs and sweeping floors?”
“You do understand,” Iago said.
“What has this to do with Death?”
“He seems to be on a holiday.”
“Like others in the Spirit World, perhaps he is distracted by the prospect of Beethoven’s ascension.”
“Perhaps. But he keeps Satan’s dear servant, Kha’zar, a prisoner without trial, neglects to harvest the dead, and waits upon the rascal, Raphael Redcloak.”
Charles grabbed Iago by the collar, “What do you know of Raphael?” Could it Raphael was already guilty of more than desire? “Does your vile Master wait for Death to harvest the Guardian in the flesh? Speak, Villain, or return to your Master empty-handed, if you dare.”
Iago threw off Charles’ grip. “It is said Raphael is absent because Death's reincarnated him.”
“You’ve confirmed what I have heard also,” Charles lied, trying to hide his rage. “How did you hear Raphael has been reincarnated?”
“Kha’zar—dear, terrified child—wore himself out protesting his incarceration. A moment’s silence allowed him to hear a conversation between Death and an un-named visitor. Demons have remarkable hearing. They can hear the heart’s desire that prayer tries to drown out. The voice was familiar to him.”
Iago’s words fueled his anger. “That
doesn’t tell me how you found out what Kha’zar heard.”
“There is one villain who owes his existence to Death. One who claims to be scion of the Dark One, and has the power to change into mist. Dracula entered the Fortress as a fog, and slipped under the door that separates the Swallows from Death’s quarters, and tried to cut the Gordian Knot that holds the net, but had neither the strength nor the virtue.”
“Dracula entered the Swallows without Death’s knowledge? Is it possible?”
Iago nodded. “Oh, yes. Unfortunately, Dracula can transform into a fog, but not a sword. We Villains are harmless in your world. We’re not real. Yet, we are bound by the laws of the Spirit World, and too weak to transport. You wouldn’t have a problem—once inside, the door to the Swallows is terrifying, but no obstacle to you.”
“You would have me help Dracula unleash a demon back into the world.”
Iago feigned a laugh. “No. No. I was using the generic you, not you personally. Kha’zar is no danger to the people on earth. He is an imp, albeit with a long memory. He would seek out just one person, Raphael, and teach him what it means to suffer.” Iago walked back to Charles, avoiding the fresh-water well by walking six feet from it.
Charles laughed to himself at the thought of the most aggressive and powerful demons being subdued by something as simple as pure water. The day was turning happy. “He would teach Death and Raphael an important lesson in respect. Not that a demon cares about such things. But the Valkyries who guard the Swallows when Death is away—how might Kha'zar who cannot become a fog or transport evade their eagle eyes?”
“A ruse, perhaps. A diversion. It would take two to succeed. That’s why I come begging like a leper. And what do I ask? Only the release of one who has been deprived of his freedom unjustly, a pitiful, no account imp who works not mischief, but only observes man’s folly.” Iago stood up and strolled among the trees, picking and tasting the low-hanging fruit. “I hesitate to suggest that anyone deal a mortal blow, you’ll pardon the pun, to Death’s pride, but he does take his power for granted.”
Charles’ mind was racing. It was possible that Death still held Raphael’s spirit in his hands. It would account for his avoidance of other Spirits like himself. The reality twisted inside Charles like a drill, boring its way through his gut. Raphael’s plan was becoming clear. If reincarnation had occurred, Raphael had outsmarted him again. It was intolerable. But it might not be too late. Perhaps an assault on the Swallows would bring Death back before he had time to find a suitable host for Raphael’s spirit.
“It would be easy for you,” Iago whispered. Charles leaned his ear nearer to the slim-lipped Villain. “While the Valkyries are trying to capture me, you can transport to Kha’zar’s cell unnoticed, and dissolve the knot with this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small plastic vial. “Piss—from Satan’s own bladder.”
Charles listened intently. Death was his friend and Raphael had stolen that friendship. Even if the reincarnation had already happened, Kha’zar would find Raphael; he could go to earth and hunt for the body that received the spirit. He would have the proof he needed to have Raphael’s Guardian status revoked.
****
Beethoven’s symphony was entitled Die Dankbarkeit der Engels:The Gratitude of Angels, and premiered before two thousand people on New Year’s Eve at the Manstein estate. A prefabricated amphitheatre erected on the front lawn, the stage warmed by floor heaters, protected the Berlin Philharmonic from the cold while the well-bundled glitterati drank champagne and swapped gossip under circus-sized canvass tarps. No one could deny the soul-glorifying grandeur of the event. As Von Manstein told the crowd before the conductor stepped to the podium, “We all revere Beethoven. He is our secular saint—the voice of Germany that now bestows on us a new song to love. We know him, we love him, and now, we can worship God with the music he has sent us from the grave.”
But there was also no denying the magnitude of the commercial opportunity the event guaranteed. The symphony was not only performed, it was recorded on CD and DVD. And on display was the magnificent productions of von Manstein’s hired architects and artisans, in particular the American artist Albion Rector whose works now hung beside those of the Renaissance Masters.
“It’s too bad you’re too sick to travel,” Alby said. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The people look like bears in their thick furs, and their diamonds are as big as bowling balls—only shinier.”
Maddie, now four months pregnant and nursing a bout of bronchitis, was bursting with pride and self-pity. It was unfair, she told her solicitous husband, that she was unable to hear an orchestra play the symphony or hear the crowd ohh and ahh over his paintings. “I helped create them,” she asserted, “by staying out of your hair and keeping your children occupied.”
“I promise I’ll send you a CD as soon as one’s burned, Maddie. And I know you deserve the accolades as much I do. I love you, Little Mama.”
“If I wasn’t so nauseous, I’d appreciate that. I want you to know, I’m naming this baby in the Romantic style. Raphaelius Germanius.”
“It’s a boy?”
“Yes. I saw the ultrasound today. Thank God, it’s not twins again, or I’d be out for your hide, Mr. Rector. Now have a great time and come home soon.”
She hung up and choked down a teaspoonful of expectorant. That and steam was all she was allowed to fight her congestion. She wanted to imagine waltzing in von Manstein’s grand ballroom, but the thought of whirling round and round made her dizzy. Funny how dreaming of being a princess now was different from the dreams she had when she was a little girl.
Years ago, she wore a white chemise covered by a long blue cape and a silk veil that never got dirty though she spent hours in the rose garden. At thirty-three, the thought of running after three children in a long dress and veil seemed daunting. Those Renaissance pictures Alby loved so much, the ones showing the ladies languishing on marble benches or walking together towards bubbling fountains, never seemed to include the maids and nannies who chased after wild toddlers or endured two-year old temper tantrums. What’s happened to me, she thought, as she dozed off listening to the news instead of a rock CD.
Only once did she stir. She felt a tickle in her ear, as though a drop of rainwater had fallen off the terra cotta tile roof and slid down the side of her face into the labyrinth. And when she awoke, she never again thought of a walled rose garden or of the handsome young Italian workman who wrote her poems.
Other Rescues
As the Berlin Philharmonic struck up the overture to Beethoven's symphony, Iago had approached the craggy promontory where Death’s home was silhouetted against a moon-lit purple sky. He could see the Valkyries, their talon tipped fingers hidden beneath white wings so large they fell in folds around their bodies like togas, stationed at the parapets. In their fierce faces were those terrifying pale blue eyes, like searchlight beams, scanning the sea to the west and the meadows and marshes arcing The Swallows on three sides. With the strength of Titans they flew with the speed of lightning flash, swooping down and carrying off even large men as though they were strands of straw.
Iago did not listen to the heavenly strains of music enveloping earth, heaven, Nirvana, Asgard, and Olympus. Music was nothing but a cacophony to his spiteful ears, only a means to the saintly seduction of real souls. But Charles might be persuaded to renege by it, Iago cautioned himself. In that event, he would be twice punished—once by the talons of the Valkyrie and once by Death. He might find himself netted and hog-tied to a beam with Kha'zar. His only hope of eluding both was to hide himself so well in the bull rushes, the Valkyries wouldn’t find him.
According to the plan, he and Charles walked along the edges of the marshes at dusk, ambling innocently along as friends taking the air on a comfortable summer’s eve. When Charles disappeared, Iago walked into the marsh, deeper and deeper into the thick vegetation, feeling the miasma filling his nostrils with stench. A real spirit would have choked, he thought
to himself, grinning at the knowledge that only one such as he could accomplish this plan. He sat down on a dead tree stump, and waited till the sun disappeared, and then rustled the rushes. He heard the beating of wings above him and sat perfectly still. The beating grew fainter then louder as the Valkyires made a second pass over the marsh. He felt the temptation to run, but fought it. If Charles did not change his mind, Kha'zar would be free before Ludwig’s second movement.
Charles did not change his mind. Once transported, odious vial in his pocket, he went directly to the door leading to the Swallows. Grand foyers and cathedral ceilings of great rooms didn’t impress him. The Fortress of Forever had always been nothing more than paltry compensation for one with an unenviable job—Death’s meager consolation prize for universal disparagement.
But when he got to the door, he hesitated. Beyond it was the most hideous of jails. It challenged his courage, but Raphael had overcome his dread to save Francesca Grasinski. Was he a lesser Spirit than a simple-minded Messenger? He pressed a fearful hand on the door, and was instantly on the other side, looking down what seemed an endless, empty hall.
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