“They do now,” Kha'zar said. “I told the Sirens.” He covered his ears before Satan could bellow another laugh.
It echoed across the lake. “Poetic justice, I tell you. Demeter has a searing sense of humor.” He threw the demon aside.
“There’s more,” Kha'zar said. Satan stopped laughing and silenced the others with a wave of his hand. “Raphael’s great sacrifice is for naught. Maddie Rector has taken a lover and filed for divorce.”
Medusa climbed out of the burning water. This was news. “Did Charles know, I wonder,” Satan mused. “Most certainly he should have known there was no need of a demon to confound the Guardian. Fate worked his own revenge and it is a cruel one indeed.” He stroked the demon’s scaly head. “Well done, Kha'zar. Take charge of the blind boy. He’s yours.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Iago said, “and Fate is not yet done. The inquest begins in a fortnight.”
“Then I’ll need eyes and ears inside the Guild Master’s Hall despite Death’s warning. Someone who is brave enough to face the Dark One.” Hell went silent again. Fate played a jest on the Guardian, but no one knew if Death would find it amusing. “But who?” Kha'zar crept out of reach, pee rolling down his leg in terror at the memory of the Swallows. “Someone who has an axe to grind against the Arts, I think.”
Medusa put her head on Satan’s hairy chest and let her serpents tickle his chin. “A censor, Great One. Why not someone who can travel unchallenged, who knows the workings of a court, and cannot be swayed by faith, truth and logic?”
“Puritan?”
“A Dominican. Torquemada himself.”
Kha'zar crawled close to Satan’s leg. “Albion Rector thought of the name as he spoke with that do-gooder Kellan,” he said. “He’s a perfect choice.”
****
Charles fastened another fine point nib to his pen, and dipped it in ink. His hand felt steady enough, but one look at the black blob on the test parchment before him warned him the feeling was deceiving. He'd draw another line to validate his hope that the first run was an aberration—as soon as he pressed pen to paper, his fingers began to tremble once more and the line zigzagged.
Exasperated, he discarded the parchment. Two nibs could not be defective. It must be him. Why? He had nothing to fear. Darrow would arrive soon to question him, but Portia would attend too and ‘make appropriate objections’.
"Better he ask his questions here than before the Guild Master Tribunal and the gallery," she'd told him.
"Gallery?"
"There’ll be no jury save the Tribunal, but the inquest will be open anyone wishing to attend. Your petition to revoke the Guardian's status is setting precedent and the entire art world has an interest in the proceedings. Inquest doesn't mean in-house."
It seemed Portia was as devious as Time. Had yet another woman duped him? "What kinds of questions will Darrow pose?" he'd asked. Portia had given him a list to consider, and every question was disconcerting because the basis of every answer was the same.
If you truly are Fate, how did you not know that the Guardian would reincarnate? Why didn't you warn the Appointment Committee of the certainty at the confirmation hearing? Why did you not warn the Guardian that Maddie Rector would divorce Albion?
The fact was, he didn't know the Guardian's future, so he couldn't warn the Guardian or the Committee. Raphael had not only usurped his authority, he’d outwitted him. Was he to be allowed to publically shame him as well? He heard a knock at his door, and checked the clock. It should be Portia. "Come in," he said, and she entered, unrecognizable in a gray linen business suit and high heels.
"Are you ready for your deposition?” She opened her briefcase and brought out a notebook; her Shakespearean eloquence shed in favor of bureaucratese.
Still, fear of public humiliation conquered the shame of this private one with a Spirit Robot. "No. Can you get me out of this?" Charles said. "I despise public displays. They’re as tacky as Dollar Store merchandise."
"You can withdraw your petition, of course."
"Good!"
"And henceforth branded a fool."
He suspected that was already the general consensus now that the Spirit World knew of Maddie Rector's affair. Still, to make his foolishness official was intolerable. "Can you finesse a good case for the withdrawal? Something reasonable. "
"Something face saving?"
"Something...diplomatic."
Portia thought for a few seconds. "The Tribunal hasn’t convened yet. We could meet with Darrow and Death. If all parties ask for the withdrawal of the petition, and sign a nondisclosure agreement, nobody would have to know why it was withdrawn, or who requested it.
Charles seized the life preserver she'd thrown. "That's diplomatic."
"It would mean negotiating all issues."
As usual, there were strings attached. "Such as?"
"The Kha'zar escape, and don't pretend it's tangential to the Petition. Death will demand a full accounting, even if there is no reconciliation."
"Verdi said that the issue was ancient history," Charles protested.
"Perhaps to him it is. Death may say otherwise. Look at it this way. You get your dignity. He gets the truth. I'll postpone the deposition to let you think about what you want to do."
Before the door closed behind her, Charles knew what he was going to do. Two seconds later he was at Angelico's studio waiting for the pious priest to finish his beads.
"Fate comes to faith for advice?" Angelico said after Charles had poured out his confession.
"Advice, pardon, and penance, Father." It was a grim prospect, but Angelico would be kind.
Angelico's face clouded with sadness. "We’re more alike than you know," he said wistfully. "Like you, faith is becoming irrelevant, and I feel the sting. I couldn't reach Grasinski or Raphael. If I had a talent for inspiration, it's a talent that’s regarded as quaintly as Vaudeville is by Hollywood. The last inevitable in the world is Death."
Charles transformed his silk and satin into sackcloth as he knelt beside his chair. “And your advice? How are we to go on?”
“I’m fresh out of silver bullets, but modernity can’t be killed anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Yet, I’ve been praying on this conundrum that befalls the Spirit World’s Immortals. Raphael may have found an answer that was before us all the time.”
“Don’t tell me Angelo Ballesteros needs ruby slippers and a good witch to tell him to click his heels.” The loose-fitting sackcloth transformed into a suit, cut well and tailored. On his lapel, Charles added a black ribbon brooch and a diamond stickpin to his sackcloth tie.
Angelico shook his head and sighed. “Art, my prideful penitent. Its purpose has never changed even if its expression and mediums have.” He rose from his chair and went to the pictures stacked against the wall. “If one of these is worth a thousand words, two ought to make my point.” He brought two canvasses, and leaned them against his chair across from Charles. Guiseppe Cesari’s The Expulsion of Adam and Eve, and Jackson Pollack’s Male and Female. “Both of these pictures are of a man and a woman.”
Charles cringed. “I didn’t know Pollack painted nudes.”
“Are you sure they’re unclothed?” Angelico stepped back and stared at them. “A lot can happen in three hundred years. Perhaps, Pollack has them wearing taffeta and ermine.” He took them back to the wall. When he returned, he seemed persuaded by his own argument. He plucked a peach from the tree and handed it to Charles. “Feel the warm, soft flesh of this fruit.”
“I can’t.”
“Exactly. Yet, often Raphael would come this room and contemplate the sensuousness of my orchard. Edward Ladell often captures the likenesses of the bounty here—peaches, plums, grapes, raspberries, grapes. But Raphael consumes them. What a man consumes tells us much about him.”
“You speak philosophic babble. How does an ordinary man with little talent make himself relevant in our world or on earth? Raphael had miraculous hands, but what of those whose hands are wo
rthless?”
“Perhaps, they applaud. What is it you want of me?”
Charles lowered his gaze, staring at the cracks in the floor. He counted twenty before answering. “Entreat my dear friend, Death, to consider rapprochement. Let bygones be bygones. There’s no need to commit my transgressions to the printed word. You did not require it because forgiveness keeps no record, tallies no score.”
“Forgiveness and a favor? You appear more a scion of the Medici than a contrite mendicant. But, who am I to judge? I will tell Death you desire to heal the rift between you.”
“Urge him to, Father. Remind him that the Bible says to forgive seven times seventy. Please.”
“I will do all circumspection allows.”
****
Darrow summoned Death, Stoker, and Beethoven to his office. Dispensing with historic niceties, the disheveled barrister motioned them into chairs and said, “They want a pow-wow.”
“A what?” Beethoven said.
“A pow-wow. A meeting. A sit-down-let’s-negotiate meeting. A discussion of the Petition in the light of new developments. That’s lawyer-speak for, my client wants to drop his suit because he’s going to look like a smacked ass at the inquest.”
Death grimaced a horrific smile. Who’d have thought Maddie Rector would be the straw on the camel’s back. He and the musicians had studied a copy of Darrow’s interrogatories and the astute Mr. Stoker had offered a succinct conclusion: Fate’s finished. “So, let him withdraw the petition...or just not show up,” Beethoven boomed.
“He deserves whatever he gets,” Stoker said.
Darrow let them savor victory for a few minutes while he added the finishing touches to an acceptance of negotiations. “You forget, there are other people involved in this, Gentlemen. The Guild Masters may want to rule on the petition that has merit purely for publicity reasons. Not to mention the witnesses who may want to testify to show off their expertise. Not Mahariva, of course. He is without ego. But Plato and Goethe consider themselves experts on the spiritual nature of mankind. And then there’s Raphael. You may want to roast Fate’s chestnuts in open court, but there’s always a chance the Tribunal will grant the Petition and strip the Guardian of his appointment. We are talking about men with monumental estimations of their self-importance.”
As if reality tapped them on the shoulder, the men looked at each other soberly. “Is Charles willing to be humiliated for a few minutes if it means long-lasting pain for Raphael?” Darrow said. “Negotiation is the better course—especially if you can get something for your trouble. I believe the security of the Fortress was breached, was it not?” He directed his remarks to Death whose face had disappeared in the blackness of his hood, blinding himself to everything but the truth of Darrow’s words.
“Since he is responsible for his escape, I must have Charles’ irrevocable promise to assist me in re-capturing Kha'zar. Now that the demon knows Angelo Ballesteros is Raphael, he will make the child’s life a tortuous path.”
Darrow was writing furiously. “Anything else?”
“That is all I demand.”
“Make him go to Demeter and beg her to restore the boy’s sight,” Beethoven insisted.
“She will never do that,” Death said his voice arising from a deep empty cavern of resignation inside his bones. “Charles has no power of persuasion that can move her.” Beethoven slammed the tip of his cane on the floor.
“Then make me the child’s protector,” Stoker said. “I owe him much and I know how to fight evil spirits.”
“Demeter is not evil. She is blind to suffering save her own and ignorant of consequences. A million years of existence has taught her nothing except her own preservation. She’s nothing you can fight.”
“Life has become filled with weaklings since dueling was outlawed,” Beethoven observed, “and the Spirit World is diminished too else I’d take Fate to the field of honor.”
Darrow signed his name to the negotiation acceptance note and stuffed it into a leather pouch that he placed around the neck of carrier pigeon. He opened the window and the bird rose on the draft. His clients left too. As usual in civil cases, no litigant would get total satisfaction, but none would be vanquished. He and Portia had done a good job of managing the situation in a modern, civilized manner. They’d meet tomorrow and agree on the wording of the settlement they’d agreed upon a week ago.
Mahariva Speaks
Clothed only in ether, Mahariva entered the Hall of the Masters, unnerving those for whom modesty was still a virtue. He himself had moved beyond good and evil, ego and shame, and was as God made him, innocent as the first fashioned humans. But, for the sake of the women, when Darrow handed him his London Fog, he covered himself. "Shall I wear a hat also," he said, "if you think it might rain in this marble palace?"
Darrow grinned.
“I’ve come to instruct the ignorant, as I was informed there is to be a public humiliation known as a trial,” Mahariva said to the Tribunal.
“Your presence is all the instruction we need, Holy Man—we in the Spirit World forget spirits too are temporary, albeit what temporary means escapes us given the eons we’re here,” Darrow intoned.
“Indeed,” Portia said. “My long winded colleague speaks the truth, and that’s why we’ve come with a settlement agreement for the Tribunal to affirm.”
The Tribunal, clothed in the black robes of judges, seemed as unmoved as they were proud of their newly acquired wardrobes. Robes, and a bench set high above the litigants and the courtroom observers, spatially confirmed their unfamiliar status. Being artists, they were both curious and vain.
“Speak, Mahariva,” Picasso said. “Do you know the Guardian?”
“They’ll have us here for hours,” Portia muttered.
Mahariva, who could hear a grain of sand hidden in an oyster, cast them an inscrutable glance. “Only by reputation that travels on the wind made by wagging tongues. But I know the truth about his condition and this settlement.”
Charles and Death, who had neck sprain from their effort not to look at one another, shifted uneasily in their chairs, unprepared lest they also be called to speak.
“I object!” Portia said. “May we approach the bench?
“You object to the truth?” Picasso said.
“It is oftentimes unpleasant,” Mahariva said. “Perhaps the lady believes I will be indelicate.”
Darrow hastily rose from his seat. “What my colleague means is that, if we allow one witness, we would be remiss if we did not let the other witnesses speak as well, and that would be unfair to them as well as to the litigants who made a non-disclosure agreement, not to hide the truth, but to keep it private for the sake of justice and order. We believe in restoring friends and neighbors to each other’s good opinion, and not bother parties that have no stake in the outcome from interfering with that goody aim.”
“We will retire for a short recess to consider your argument,” Picasso said, and the Tribunal cantered to their chamber.
“What did Darrow say?” Botticelli whispered when the door was closed.
“I think he said they’ve all agreed to resolve their differences,” DaVinci said. They both looked to Picasso, who had now learned why no one fought for the role of Chief Justice.
“They speak like I paint,” Picasso said, “and if that’s the case, this lofty proceeding will wilt into chaos. For the sake of sanity, let Mahariva speak, but only to the issue of Raphael’s current embodiment.”
“And if the courtroom demands the basis of your decision?” DaVinci said.
“It would be irrelevant, immaterial, and incompetent to do otherwise,” Picasso said.
“What does that mean?” Botticelli said.
“It means I visited many earthly households while the lawyers were preparing their cases—time spent on frustrating the law rather than furthering it, I surmise—and watching Law and Order. It seems the entertainment is quite like Catholic mass. Somewhere on the globe it is airing at any given hour.”
>
Their entrance being more decorous than their exit, the judges returned to the courtroom and it ceased its hum. Picasso delivered his ‘one issue only’ instruction. Mahariva accepted the ruling without emotion, but sighs of relief rippled from the litigants’ tables.
“One has only to look around this room to know the answer to the question of whether Raphael is still a Guardian of the Arts though he be clothed in the flesh," Mahariva said. "We were all in the same condition except for those, like Portia, who only existed because a fleshly person formed them by words. Did Shakespeare cease to be himself simply because he created the character and personality of our comely lady counsel? The suggestion tempts us to mirth. He did not become her because in his imagination he wore her clothes and spoke the words he gave her.”
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