True, upon learning he was dead, and could now have any invention he desired, Beethoven desired to replace his lumpy earthly bed with the fluffy but supportive sleep technology the clouds provided, clouds known as great American mattresses. But, a man’s surroundings should reflect his endeavor. His studio was decorated with mementos of his profession: music boxes, portraits of Mozart and Bach, a harpsichord, a calliope, and a glockenspiel. Where was Death’s skulls and crossbones? Where were the instruments of torture or the rotting remains of great villains? Perhaps hidden in a room bathed in darkness save for the fire.
Beethoven held his hand in the air and produced a lit twelve-point candelabra. He returned to the doorway, faced the fireplace, and turned right, to begin his stroll around the room. Literally around the room, for it had no sharp corners. Illuminated was an endless row of twelve-foot bookshelves beneath the vaulted ceiling.
“The names of the dead since the beginning of earth-time,” Death said, and Beethoven turned to his host. “And a notation of their last awareness. If you are curious, find yourself in this book and remember your last thoughts.“
Death held out a leather volume with a green spine. Unabashed by his sudden reappearance, Beethoven took it and thumbed through its pages.
”I thank God for music. May I hear it forever in heaven,” he read, and bowed his head. “That was my prayer, yet I do not recall having said it.”
“Your prayer was of the heart, not your head. Your mouth cursed me, cruelly, but your heart was devout.” Death returned the book to the shelf. “Can you ride a horse, Master Beethoven?”
“Can this Spirit Earnhardt drive a car?”
“Then grab the bridle on the mantle and come with me.”
The two of them stood by a fenced pasture where Credo grazed on bluegrass next to Death’s pale horse. Death whistled and the beasts trotted over to them. He bridled the steeds and led them through the gate. “You believe Raphael’s horse will know him?” Beethoven said.
“Do you have a better plan?”
“I thought I did. I sent Verdi to Charles to inquire after Albion Rector. A ruse to spark an investigation into the future. He must have some record of a meeting between Rector and his former Muse, if it is to occur. A plan B, I believe it’s called. ”
“For a reason. As with most desperate acts, plan Bs reflect bad first planning.” Death swung into his saddle. Beethoven looked into the eyes of Credo and saw courage and defiance as the horse pawed the ground. “Animals are many times better than feckless friends, I’ve learned, and smarter too.”
“Take me to your master,” Beethoven whispered to Credo, and mounted the beast.
****
Beethoven gave him a gentle spurring, and Credo broke into a lope. A weaker man might have fallen in fear, but Beethoven’s will was an even match for the heavenly horses and his terrifying host that now seemed more a brother than a foe. “Call his name,” Death said.
Beethoven cried out, “Raphael!” and Credo leapt to a gallop, full speed. Once again, the sky rolled with thunder as they sped through the clouds, and Beethoven felt the glorious wind on his face and the desire of loyalty in the strides of the animal under him. Already he was hearing a new symphony in his head—an eleventh he would call Equine Angelicus.
Consequences
"What strange place is this?" Beethoven said, as the air became thick with clouds. Credo had stopped short and Death’s pale horse faded from view, making it look like he was straddling the moving steam.
“If this be his dreams, we are seeing what Raphael sees. This is his world.”
“Then he lives a cursed existence. Where are the faces of his loved ones?”
“Listen!”
Someone was talking. They heard a deep voice say, “There’s nothing we can do, Mrs. Rector. Even if we cut open his head, we can’t go inside his mind. We’d only see his brain and that tells us nothing about why he can’t see.”
“Why can’t we see his body?” Beethoven whispered.
“Credo must recognize his spirit, but not his face.” Death dismounted and Beethoven followed suit. They were in an office with a man in a white coat, and Maddie who held the hand of a young boy.
“Then you can tell us nothing more than what the Italian doctors said in their report?” she said. “Idiopathic origin? What does it mean, really?”
“It’s a fancy term for science doesn’t know. Doctors hate to admit failure. Take the boy home and get him good teachers, if your budget permits.”
Death nudged Beethoven with his elbow, dropped the reins of his horse, and moved to the man’s side to peer over his shoulder at a file folder laying in front of him. Name: Angelo Ballesteros. “Bring Credo to the boy,” Death said. Beethoven led the beast to the boy, and as soon as the animal touched him, the miasma disappeared.
“Thank-you Dr. Moody. I appreciate your time.”
“Poor, poor child,” Beethoven said, caressing Raphael’s cheek with his fingers. “How dearly he’s paid for a coat of flesh.” He looked at Death, in his benevolent form now, kneeling at Maddie’s side.
“How miraculous that spirits find each other despite all obstacles. I hear her heart sobbing as she speaks words. Pretending to be strong. Wanting so much to erase the body’s deficit.” Maddie’s shoulder shuddered and he rose quickly. She’d sensed his presence as fearfully as the women on the church steps. “We know who he is now.”
****
The ride home was no gallant gallop, but a reverent reflection of the weight of knowledge they carried. Credo needed spurring, though, unwilling as he was to leave Angelo’s side, his affection even stronger in adversity. Death halted just across the border of Reality and dismounted. “Let Credo return to Raphael. There ‘s no wall can hold him in the pasture now that he knows the Guardian lives.”
Beethoven dismounted and removed the bridle. “Hey-ya!” he cried, and Credo broke into a run. “How came you to know Credo was the key to finding the Guardian?”
“You're wondering about my ledgers. The key to the future is always in the past. I remembered the last words of Raphael’s heart: If wishes were horses, I would ride into heaven.”
“Will the boy know he has a companion?”
“He will have flights of fancy and Credo will bear him up.”
In an instant, they were back at the Fortress where Verdi and Stoker waited for them, their downcast faces telling them the news was not good. Beethoven poured himself a glass of wine and Death brought forth his net and began to knit the broken ropes. “The Guardian has been born blind, Gentlemen,” he said.
“Who worked this mischief?” Stoker said, looking from one to another in desperation.
“Not Fate,” Verdi said. “He knows nothing of the Guardian or of Rector, though he tried to hide his ignorance with feigned outrage at my inquiry.” He bowed to Beethoven. “He has only contempt for you, but he rues the rift between himself and you, Dark Sir.”
“Then ‘tis Kha’zar,” Stoker said.
“Fate still must bear the guilt for having loosed the demon,” Beethoven concluded. “We’ve only to recapture the demon and the boy will see...”
“You’re both wrong—it’s Demeter’s doing, and my cursed mother delights in this cruel irony. There’s nothing we can do. Mother Nature formed his body, and is as capricious with forms as Charles is with functions.” His soft sad visage transformed into a fierce scowl. “I am responsible though my transgression happened when the Hellenic gods ruled earth. She’s waited long to take her revenge. Raphael is just her instrument.”
“Bah! Even if you’re correct, she’s an inferior enemy and we can foil her.”
“I agree with Beethoven,” Verdi said. “He was deaf and heard music. Let him go to Raphael and instruct him in composition. Let him paint with melody.”
Stoker came out of his thoughts and nodded in agreement. “Or a muse to instruct him in letters. Helen Keller was blind and deaf, yet she learned to write. Let Raphael paint with words.”
&nbs
p; “There, you see, my Dark Friend, there is hope of happiness for Raphael. And let’s not forget, we saw him in the arms of the woman he loves. Perhaps it is for the best he cannot see her face in life, else his sacrifice be of no good consequence.” Beethoven hoisted his glass in a self-salute.
But Death gave no indication he favored any plan. He continued lacing his net, braiding into the hemp fine gauge wire tempered with tears. "I must make ready for a visit to Africa again. Another famine. Another warlord hungry for power. Instruct the child in whatever art you please, but don’t expect a miracle."
The musicians left with their disappointment in Death’s unwillingness to help the Guardian. And Stoker, once again in his thoughts, set two ledgers in the bookcases. “I can’t help but share their disgruntledness. You helped Raphael help me. Can you not spare him some compassion if only to vex Charles the Charming for his betrayal?”
“My hands are occupied, and my mind works best when I am engaged in fruitful labor. Another paradox to follow that one which says, if you want to remember, forget. To solve a problem? Walk away from it for a while. The painters know both art and life are a matter of perspective; I need a new one.”
****
Charles handed Rector’s Dolorosa photograph to Michelangelo, and he to another and then another of the Guild Masters sitting at table in the Great Hall of the Eternals. “You’re sure these are the hands of the Guardian?” Michelangelo said.
“There are none others like his. I have studied them many times.” Charles taped his fingertips on the table as the photo went round again. “Well?”
“It is persuasive evidence he’s reincorporated, if true.” Leonardo said. “But perhaps he is on a mission to save some great work of art.”
“How will he know a great work of art if he can’t see it?” Charles interrupted.
“He only had to hear Beethoven’s Tenth and he set about making sure it was heard on earth. Perhaps he is protecting a composer,” Leonardo continued. “This Angelo Ballesteros is very young—there is no way for us to know what he may accomplish. And you have a dog in the race, Charles. You argued against his appointment.”
Charles smiled benignly as the photo came to him. “I only bring this to your attention in hopes there is something you can do for the boy. Yes, he may be on a mission, but he may have abandoned his post as he abandoned Albion Rector whom he pledged to mentor as a muse. The job may be too much for one who has been dead such a short time and lacking in experience and sound judgment—I argued against his appointment for those very reasons. As you remember.” Nods of agreement around the table encouraged him. “And Rector has abandoned his painting and adopted the technology of the masses. Perhaps, because of Raphael, the world has lost a painter of truth.”
Charles put the photograph in his portfolio case and bowed to the Masters. “I leave Raphael’s fate in your hands, good sirs, knowing you will act honorably.”
“Outrageous,” Michelangelo muttered. “Never has a peacock acted the peahen with such false humility. Are we to put a Guardian on trial and admit we might have erred? The news will be heard in hell.”
“If the Guardian’s blindness is Kha’zar’s work, hell already knows,” Picasso said. “As for a trial, no crime’s been committed. Why not have—an artist’s inquest. ”
Dali laughed and twirled his moustache. “Diabolically discombobulating, Pablo. A new term to confuse the charming Charles.”
****
Stoker ran to the door to see who it was that was pounding away on it like one fighting a battle. Once cracked, Fra Angelico pushed the door so hard, Stoker almost lost his balance. “Where is the Great Equalizer?” he demanded and Stoker, never imagining the man known as the Saintly Dominican would bark a command, pointed to Death’s great room.
“You're spent." Death said to the pale-faced man, and put down his netting. "You have ridden the wind and heard what?"
Angelico sighed. "Beethoven and Verdi came to see me about Raphael—Charles has petitioned the Artist's Guild to strip Raphael of his title and has give evidence that the child known as Angelo Ballesteros is his reincarnation. There’s to be something called and artist’s inquest..."
“Verdi gave Charles a copy of Rector’s photograph,“ Stoker volunteered. “Foolish, I know but they meant no harm, I’m sure of that."
“They haven’t been here long enough to know Charles the Charming is also Charles the Cunning. He has perfect eyes and the tools of his trade allow for detailed examination.” Death signaled Angelico to sit. The panting friar sank into the chair opposite him and expected rage, but instead Death threw back his hood and laughed. "We'll see how Charles fares with someone with a tongue as gifted as his own!"
"Sir?" Stoker had brought Angelico a tall glass of iced tea, and a handkerchief to wipe his brow. The priest stared at Death’s kindly face. This man was too good natured to be feared.
"Do you know what an inquest is?” Death produced a dictionary and read aloud: an investigation, sometimes before jury, into the cause of a matter, usually the cause of a violent and/or unexpected death. “Charles thinks the Guild Masters will convict Raphael in absentia. Let's hope he’s wrong, but if there's to be an inquest, then let's get Raphael an advocate who can best this popinjay.” From his cloak, Death drew a bottle of wine, emptied Angelico’s glass with a snap of his fingers and filled it to the brim, then two glasses for Stoker and himself. “Here’s to opportunity!”
“But where shall we find a lawyer? Are they not all in hell?” Angelico said.
Death laughed again. “Not all of them, Father. The Hall of Heroes is full of fictional advocates—Atticus Finch, Perry Mason—but we need a man of substance. Rest yourself a while, Father. Mr. Stoker, come with me. We need to see Clarence Darrow."
Death snapped his fingers and Stoker found himself in a bookcase-paneled office. At the window was a man hunched over a desk, writing furiously. He dotted an "i" with a flourish and looked up at his visitors. His hair and face was as gray and wrinkled as his suit.
"Those musicians said you’d be showing up about Raphael. If not, leave. I'm in the middle of outlining a defense. Had to explain to Herr Beethoven that writing a legal brief is just as taxing as writing a symphony. Takes just as much talent too. He wasn't convinced, the damn fool."
"I wish I'd been here to see the fireworks," Death said through a ghoulish grin. The two men were designed from the same DNA. Feverish. Fanatical. But Darrow got the neatness gene. Not a speck of dust floated in the sun rays that cast patches of light on the carpet.
"Hope these Guild Masters are more reasonable than that hothead," Darrow said. "You're Stoker, right?"
"I am," Stoker said.
Darrow shook his hand like he was priming a pump. "Then you're welcome. Any friend of the Grim Reaper and all that nonsense. You know when this kangaroo court‘s going to convene?"
"I haven't heard exactly," Death said.
"Seven days from today. I’ll be ready for them. Here's a list of witnesses I want you to contact. Just in case. Check back with me tomorrow." He waved them off and returned to his paperwork. Death snapped his fingers and returned them to the Fortress.
"Not long on social graces, these modern men," Stoker said as he perused the witness list Death handed him.
"He's an American. Exceptionally rational. Exceptionally brusque. Start notifying Darrow's witnesses. Plato will be on Olympus. Luther and Goethe will be in Valhalla with the rest of the Germans, but Mahavira resides in Nirvana—in the far valleys of Antiquity. Father, you’d better handle that. One saint to another."
"How will I recognize him?" Angelico said.
"Find the Tree of Life. Underneath will be a naked soul sitting cross legged. That’ll be the easy part. The difficult part will be convincing Mahavira to come to the aid of a soul in trouble. You'll likely hear that there is no trouble, only karma that the soul must endure and from which it will gain knowledge."
Angelico opened his mouth to speak, but Death held a finger to his li
ps. "You mustn't ask. You mustn't argue or persuade. Simply tell Mahavira that there are men who need instruction and tell him the time and place."
"Will he come, do you think?"
Death shrugged. "I don't know, but if he does, Darrow will have no need of any other witnesses."
****
The inquest tribunal, the Guild Masters decided, would be composed of three of the six Guild Masters, chosen by lot, who conferred Guardian status on him. Darrow immediately objected to the composition because of possible bias—a result of their feeling slighted by Raphael's decision to rejoin the living. Much ado about nothing, Shakespeare wrote in his response, as only those who possessed the power to confer the status had the power to revoke it, and only geniuses of the visual arts were competent to decide what a Guardian's duties were, and if they were being carried out properly when it came to other visual artists. Raphael could only be judged by his peers.
Raphael Redcloak Page 18