He felt Death’s eyes upon him, the Frightful Thief too polite to interrupt a delicate operation. He dabbed the excess glue with a cotton swab, and held the skull before his eyes as though examining it. “Alas poor Yadim, we did not know you well,” he said and turned to his guest. “Do you remember Ezekial Yadim?”
“Not as well as some others, but I know he was no coward.” Death removed his cape and draped it over one of Charles’ Queen Anne’s.
“Quite the story teller, he. You’re welcome, of course. Here to tell me the story of the Divine Intervention on behalf of the Guardian?”
Death produced two of Seurat’s finest apples, and offered one to Charles, who placed the skull on a book shelf between his Physical Anthropology text and the Collected Works of Shakespeare.
“You say it as though it were not a great occurrence. The woman he saved from the Corridor of the Suicides returned a favor.”
“And you say that like the publicity will not affect Francesca’s status. She gives back, and is made a saint. I wonder how long before she tires of humans begging for her intercession.” He took the red fruit, admired its deep redness, and bit into it. “You’ve brought a thoughtful peace offering. Let’s go to the arboretum.”
They walked to the shaded patio, and reclined on yellow silk chaises. “She could have said no to Maria Ballesteros’ request,” Death said.
“Then she saw the Raphael’s Resurrection. How mysterious are the ways of Heaven. And how fares fair Bianca? Have you told her of the Guardian’s loving sacrifice?”
“Her mother and sisters told her.”
“Beware the eternal feminine whose gossip informs the world. I see you’ve given her Raphael’s cloak.”
“She is embroidering vines and swords along its edges with golden thread.”
“How romantic. I wonder how long before they tire of their togetherness.” Charles tossed the apple core into the air and it fell back to him whole again.
“Face it, Charles, we must deal with these new kind of human spirits. As Hegel told me, they are all artists now, crafting their lives into bits and pieces, building a mosaic of God we could never have imagined.”
“You praise them too much, too soon. What will become of a world where each man thinks himself a genius? Full of pride, I say.”
“This coming from one who has had hard lessons in humility for eons.”
“Raphael once accused me of believing I was artist. I’ve never made such a claim. That is proof enough of my humility. The other artists rejoice, I’m sure, at Raphael’s receipt of Francesca’s largess.”
“Rodin is hoping he completes the statuary figures he’s been carving. Angelico has fulfilled Francesca’s request for a chapel.”
“A gallery, really, for the Resurrection though few will admit it,” Charles muttered. “What of Albion Rector?”
Death eyed him suspiciously. “You know why I have come?”
“There are universals that do not change. Yes, his future is recorded. Do you take him tonight?”
Death nodded, silently, a yes. “When he visits the Spirit World tonight, he will not return to the world of the living. But Maddie will be there. He’ll not know fear. He is tired and now that Angelo can see, he can join the Guild.”
“So Albion gets no stay of execution. No miracle. Pity.” Charles reached for his favorite wine to wash capriciousness from his throat, but Death seemed not to hear the sarcasm in his voice. He was looking closely at his hand.
“This,” he said, wiggling his thumb, “is the greatest miracle of all. Without this, Raphael could not hold his brushes. Beethoven cannot play his notes. Darrow cannot write his arguments. Man can invent a trillion gadgets, calculate and build and produce beauty sublime, but art began with this—a thumb so miraculously engineered that nothing compares with it. Except friendship.”
****
Stoker entered Angelo’s dreamscape and, for the first time, saw it filled with color and symmetry, and memories of Albion, and Gonzaga, and Kellan, and Lupe, and his childhood friends, Elise and David. Sweet and tender memories, crowded in together like treats in a candy shop. Credo was grazing in a field of brilliant flowers, beside a stream of sapphire blue. His mother, giving thanks to God for an answered prayer, fed her family chicken cacciatore and sang childhood lullabies to him. At least for tonight, Angelo was happy. Alby’s death was still hours away. When he slept again, Angelo would see what Stoker had brought him—a picture painted by Michelangelo: Raphael, Guardian of the Arts, holding a flaming sword, and standing beside him, his lovely Bianca, sheltered by a great and flowing red and gold cape.
“Leave the image in his mind’s eye so that he may reflect upon its revelation because it is the heavenly ordained purpose of art,” Angelico had told Stoker, “to show a man who he is.”
END BOOK 1
Raphael Redcloak Page 26