by S S Bazinet
Was Michael right about what will happen to me?
He didn’t care. For the first time that he could remember, he was able to stretch out his taut muscles and relax. He’d had insomnia for so long. He hardly remembered his mind not buzzing with chaotic, ceaseless thoughts that kept him tossing and turning. Now, as he closed his eyes, he knew he’d sleep soundly again.
Finally, some peace.
Later, he’d recall that moment in time and wonder about it. Was it the quiet pause that belied what was coming? Had he been cursed a second time?
Two
WITH CHICAGO'S HARD winter officially over, Michael sat in the living room listening to a spring rain. It was coming down in driving sheets. As wave after wave pelted the windows, it reminded him of the night, many years before, when he’d taken on human form. Becoming physical had been an extreme measure for an extreme circumstance. Arel had hit a new low that bordered on complete despair.
Having to act quickly, Michael didn’t orchestrate the conditions that accompanied his entrance into the world. It was a stormy, wet and windy, kind of night, with pouring down, near freezing rain. He didn’t mind the weather. It was a novel and wondrous sensation to stand on Arel’s porch, shaking with chills as he rang the doorbell repeatedly and pounded his fists on the heavy, wooden door.
Meanwhile, Arel was tucked away in the downstairs apartment of the sprawling ranch house, infuriated that someone would have the audacity to disturb him, frightened that someone would try to lure him out of his confines. His world was small but carefully arranged to meet his needs. Originally from England, Arel brought what he knew with him. Imported mahogany paneled his walls. Period furniture and artwork filled his rooms. To leave his beautiful, secure space, to go upstairs, was asking too much.
As the temperature dropped and the wind gusted harder, Michael kept pounding, kept ringing. He knew Arel’s weakness. Arel hated noise, especially the kind made by someone battering down the door to his safe haven. Eventually, he’d have to respond and drag his near invalid status body from its bed. He’d been on one of his “I’ll starve myself to death” campaigns, and he could barely walk. Still, Michael could feel the shift in Arel’s attitude when it came, when he couldn’t take another moment of Michael’s insistent assault on his nerves and his house. A seething and resentful wrath bolstered the man’s failing body with enough energy to leave his bed. Throwing back his comforter, he stood up and almost fell over, but his fiery anger kept him moving. He managed to drag his body slowly forward, holding on to his antique paneling, making his way to his handcrafted, inner door and the ornate stairs beyond. Gasping for breath and rallying enough strength to climb them, he clung to the railing. Slowly, he clawed his way upwards, cursing as he went, livid with outrage when he finally reached the foyer.
The first words that Michael heard with his corporeal ears were simple ones.
“Go away!” Arel’s order was a hoarse, weak bark. For all his fury, he was still cautious in his helpless state, careful with his expressions.
Michael’s answer was simple too. “Please, grant me a few minutes of your time.” After his long wait out in the elements with only a thin jacket to shield him, his body was almost frozen. “I need to talk to you.”
Arel was easily pushed to his limits. “Dammit, how dare you harass me!”
“Just a few minutes, that’s all that I ask.” Michael had to be convincing, calming, and diplomatic, as if he were dealing with a wild and frightened animal. “Please, sir, it’s very cold out here.”
It wasn’t that Arel was heartless. Underneath, he was truly frightened of the world and every person in it. But Michael’s tone was working, soothing Arel’s fears just a little, just enough.
“One minute to state your business!” Arel’s tone was more confident. With shaky hands he drew back the dead bolt and disengaged a second lock on the door. It creaked with disuse when he opened it a few inches. A blast of wind did the rest. A thirty mile an hour gust wrenched the door from his grasp. Skeleton thin and unprepared for the brutal weather, Arel was literally blown over by the unseasonably late, arctic blast. Michael rushed forward to help.
He’d been helping ever since. He became Arel’s caretaker, when necessary, his confidante and teacher.
Have I helped him too much?
Michael paused to glance across the room. It opened into the foyer. The stairs that Arel climbed that first night hugged the far wall.
Can he handle what I’ve given him?
It had been two weeks since Michael granted Arel’s wish. He had tried to explain the hazards of his gift, but his cautions had been ignored. Now, all that had changed. Arel was quickly beginning to understand what he’d taken on. Michael’s blood was dangerous, not because it was the wrong blood type. It was more basic than that. His blood was too pure, too potent, too demanding. Most importantly, it was endowed with purpose, to search out the horror that had taken over, to drive out the blight that held Arel captive for so long. But that was only part of the campaign. All that was unholy, all that was dark was also being targeted. And the process was moving more quickly than Michael had anticipated.
I warned you, dear friend, a battle is being waged, and you have to be strong, so very strong.
His thought was interrupted by a muffled shriek. A louder scream followed. The cries came from the lower level. Michael reacted at once and ran for the stairs.
* * * * *
Arel cowered in a corner as the cane came down repeatedly on his back. Each blow sent spasms of excruciating pain throughout his body.
It’s a dream! Wake up!
He tried repeatedly, but he couldn’t stop the nightmare. His tormenter’s relentless blows kept coming. They were only interrupted when strong hands pulled him from the corner and shook him.
“Open your eyes!”
The command had to be obeyed, but he recoiled in terror when he saw the face of the drunken man who had hold of him. “Please, father, let me go!” he begged as his legs buckled under him.
“No, it’s not your father. Try again, Arel. Shut your eyes and when you open them, it’ll be Michael.”
Arel held on to the voice, the kind voice that he knew. Battling the pain and the sickening stench of alcohol on his father’s breath, he fought his way back to reality even though it had slipped through the floorboards of his childhood nursery. Cautiously, he looked up a second time. He sucked in a breath of relief when he saw Michael’s bright countenance. “Thank god, it is you.”
“Yes, you’re safe now.”
Arel’s eyes flitted about the room, blinking, trying to focus. Was he really back in his own world again? He used familiar details to steady his gaze, zeroing in on some of his favorite objects. He stared for long moments at a painting of a sailing ship, at a gilt edged, leather bound book sitting on a table. But a child’s pitiful pleas for mercy still rang in his ears. His father’s raging, bloodshot eyes flashed in and out. Reality was a mixture of past and present.
Michael put his hand on Arel’s forehead. “You’re burning up again. Let’s get you back to bed.”
“No!” Arel cringed at the thought. “Just help me over to the sofa,” he ordered as he reached out for Michael’s steadying hand.
“You need to rest. I can sit with you. I can help—”
“How? Are you going to give me more of your blood?”
Michael didn't reply. He held on to Arel’s arm and guided him over to the couch. “Sit down and get your bearings.”
Arel groaned. “What bearings? I’m going crazy.” He knew it was true. It wasn’t hard to diagnose his condition. He couldn’t keep things straight anymore. Time shifted. Space shifted. Sometimes, it all blurred together.
Michael stepped back. “Your mind is a little confused.”
“What?” Even though Arel was still trembling, he let out a wild snort of laughter. “A little confused? That’s like saying the Titanic hit a tiny piece of ice!” He laughed again, this time with more rancour and indignation.
“Look at me. I’m turning into a delusional maniac. I’m seeing things. I thought that you were my father.”
“The subconscious is a funny thing. It—”
“Funny? How dare you use that word!”
Michael put up a hand and paused. “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
Arel leaned back, clenching and unclenching his fists. Michael was only there to help him. He had to get a grip. “Sorry, I’m just a little sensitive.”
Michael smiled. “That’s like saying the Titanic hit a tiny piece of ice.”
Arel saw the mirth in Michael’s eyes and smiled too. “But I am going crazy, believe me.”
Michael sat down across from him. “You’re facing a lot all at once. Are you still having the nightmare about your mother?”
“The one where she’s pregnant with me, and she already hates my guts? Not as often as before. Now it’s more about my father, beating the hell out of me.”
“You stuffed away so much. That’s why you felt so stuck before. But that changed a couple of weeks ago.”
Arel glanced at his watch. “Actually, it’s been fifteen days, thirteen hours, twelve minutes and twenty seconds since the big event.”
Michael stared back in surprise. “You’re keeping track of every second?”
“No, I checked the time just now.”
“Arel, you were never able to calculate time like that before.”
“I think my IQ is going up. In another couple of weeks, I’ll be the smartest and no doubt, the craziest lunatic in the psychiatric ward.”
“Please don’t project such a negative scenario.”
“I don’t think I’m projecting. Aside from being able to tell time a little faster, everything else is getting worse. My body is a wreck, and my mind is assaulted by one nightmare memory after another. Every recall is so vivid. Hell, I can tell you the eye color of the nanny who gave me my first bath.” He let out a gasp and began to shake. “In fact, I remember my first bath. The room was so cold. That woman’s hands were chap and rough—”
Michael snapped his fingers. “Arel! You can’t let yourself go there like that.”
“Am I doing it again?” Arel blinked back several times. “I slip into the past so easily! Make it stop, Michael!”
“Listen to me carefully. Your cellular structure holds all of your unresolved issues. The process is releasing them in detail. Your job is to witness the events and let them go. Otherwise, they’ll keep repeating.”
“But it’s all coming up at once. I’m looking at more than a hundred years of crap! And you’re telling me that your blood is the reason, that it’s some angelic drain cleaner flushing out everything at the same time.”
Michael looked down, letting out a sigh. “Sorry, but it’s more than a hundred years’ worth. There’s also the carryover from other lifetimes.”
“Other lifetimes? I’m supposed to deal with what happened in other lifetimes too? Well, that’s it. I’m done. Put me in a straitjacket.”
Michael stood up and walked over to Arel. “I wouldn’t have given you my blood if I thought that it was hopeless. I believe in you. I know you can get through this.”
“That makes one of us,” Arel hissed back. Getting heavily to his feet, he pushed Michael out of his way and started to pace. He made his way from one piece of furniture to another, using them to lean on, to help with the constant weakness in his legs. “So how many others have tried this thing and survived? How many others made it through this angelic purification without losing their minds?”
“There are no others.”
“What? I’m the first?” Arel stopped and gripped a side table with both hands. “You gave me your blood when its effects haven’t been tested before?”
“We tried everything else. It was your decision.”
“Great, blame the person who’s doomed!”
“I promised to help you through this. We’ll find a way—”
“What way?” Arel’s hands clamped down tighter on the table. “My god, how much of the damnable stuff did I drink that night?”
Michael shrugged.
“How much of your blood did I drink, Michael? A pint? A quart? A gallon?”
“Maybe a few ounces.”
“That’s all? It seemed like a lot more.”
“It only seemed that way.”
“A few ounces did this to me?”
“Don’t forget that you weren’t in good shape to begin with.”
Arel’s eyes went dark as he let go of the table and staggered back over to where Michael was standing. “You should have a skull and crossbones tattooed on your neck just in case you decide to try this on another victim.”
“Is that what you think you are, a victim?”
Arel’s jaw tightened. He knew he should take more responsibility, especially now, but he couldn’t get past his anger. He turned and gave Michael a scathing look. “It’s just that I had the stupid idea that I was dealing with an angel. And I asked myself, ‘How bad could a messenger from God screw me?’ Well, now I know.”
Michael stiffened. “How do you expect me to help you if you feel like that?”
“At this point, I don’t have a clue!” Arel hesitated next to a bronze warrior on horseback and put his hand over the cold metal, letting it draw off some of the fever in his body.
After a few minutes of silence, Michael cleared his throat. “Earlier, I was thinking about that night I arrived. It was so cold. I didn’t think you’d ever open that door.”
“That seems like so long ago,” Arel whispered. “I wanted to hate you, but damn, you were very persuasive. I’m lying there on the foyer floor, mad as hell, but you were so kind. I was cussing you out, and you were trying your best to help me.” He paused and fingered the metal horse’s rearing hooves. “I never knew anyone could care about me like that, except for—”
“You’re thinking about William?”
“Yes, William was almost a brother.” Arel averted his eyes, but he couldn’t avoid remembering a time when he and William were university students. In those days of heavy drinking, it wasn’t unusual for Arel to end up in a drunken stupor, sprawled out on a London street. William would come to the rescue. He’d stare down at Arel with eyes that were almost as blue as Michael’s. He’d extend a hand to Arel. “Get up, you idiot. Let’s get you back to your room.” His tone was firm, but playful. There was also kindness in his manner, a kindness that he didn’t share with anyone else. But they’d become unlikely friends. At times, when William had partied too freely, it was Arel who was extending the hand of friendship.
Arel sighed with disgust. “He was almost a brother until he cursed me. So much for brotherhood.” He made his way back to the sofa and sat down. He gave Michael a cursory glance and laughed. “It was bizarre to find out what you are, Michael, but I’ll take an angel over a brother any day.”
“Even if my blood is the equivalent of drain cleaner?”
Arel noted Michael’s compassionate smile. “I do have a clue, Michael. You’ve been my only, true friend.”
“Remember that will never change.”
Arel shut his eyes. His weariness was bone deep. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll go back to bed for awhile.”
Three
AREL SLEPT FOR hours. When he woke up, he felt stronger and more rested. He didn’t know how he’d accomplished a serene, dreamless sleep. Perhaps, for one miracle moment, he’d been able to bridge the gap between his own frantic struggle to survive and Michael’s unwavering calm. Perhaps he was so exhausted that some childlike part had surfaced and let Michael in. It wasn’t the terrorized child, but the one who had held on to dreams and a happy future.
It had been a long time since Arel thought about the hopeful boy he’d once been. Yet, once the door to his past was opened, a bright and curious child came walking in. He was small for his age, with a tangle of black, unruly curls and awkward mannerisms.
That child had an older brother, Aldwin, a brother who demonstrated
the ease of growing up and becoming a man. That child believed he could achieve a similar goal with his brother’s guidance. But his reveries of a flourishing future were lost the day that Aldwin was killed in a riding accident. It was the kind of accident that tears lives apart and leaves mutilated bodies in its wake.
With Aldwin dead, Arel was alone in the world. Instead of knowing the joy of brotherly support, he was gobbled up by the ravings of a father who had lost his oldest son, his beloved, golden boy. That kind of father does the worst of things while he’s railing against God and the injustice that was thrust on him.
Arel remembered those horrible times with his father. He remembered crashing into furniture and clawing at the floorboards when the beatings wouldn’t stop. Michael spoke about holding on to the calm of a dreamless sleep, but “calm” wasn’t a practiced virtue. The effects of his father’s hatred and bitterness were so much easier to slip into. With memories of the past flooding his mind with hopeless, emotional storms, he was overwhelmed very quickly. A thought about hiding in a closet and dreading the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs was such a familiar groove for his mind to follow. If he was ever going to stop the cycle, he had to get a grip.
Michael’s right. I have to take charge of what’s happening.
Arel’s first task was to fend off the fear long enough to entertain other, more positive thoughts. Michael said that even a daily routine could help. Most of his current day was gone, but he could salvage some of his evening. That meant getting out of bed, going to the closet, and getting dressed. He'd been raised as an upper class gentleman. Proper attire was as natural to him as brushing his teeth. When he slid open the closet doors, a familiar and comforting world greeted him.
