Wander Dust

by Michelle Warren

  Chapter 20: Angels

  The shadow moves toward me at a measured pace. My heart stops, and I wonder if anyplace is safe.

  A flicker of light crosses his face. His cheeks raise slightly, revealing a dimple and accentuating his square chin. Then he smiles, less with his mouth and more with his eyes. They squint, forming upside-down smiles. The perfect green eyes I’ve dreamed about nearly disappear into a fringe of thick lashes.

  “Did I scare you?” His accented voice breaks the silence.

  I shrug, trying to control my heart. “A little.” Feeling flustered, my lips roll into a line.

  “What are you doing out here so late?”

  “I could ask you the same,” I say, although it’s obvious Bishop has just come home. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. He slips off his coat and unwraps his scarf, walking closer.

  “I was out with my mum. I don’t get to see her often."

  “Yeah, I know how that is.”

  “Do you?” He acts surprised.

  “Well, yeah—I mean, my dad actually. He’s always been there, but not really. He travels a lot. We moved a lot.” I’m not sure why I’m divulging this information. My mouth won’t shut up.

  He nods.

  “So, you’re being nice to me now?” I ask, but I quickly look down, instantly embarrassed. Has he really been mean to me?

  He looks around, unsure. Awkwardness laces the air, because I can’t find the words to apologize, to thank him for saving me from the gang, and for trying to tell me I’m a Wanderer.

  He digs his hands into his pockets. He says nothing. I say nothing. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal around him?

  I look back to the mural, trying to hide my feelings.

  Bishop hesitates, silent for several moments, as though he’s in contemplation, making a decision. The air pressure around me changes. Somehow, now it’s thicker, sweeter, something to be craved. I wrap my arms around myself and inhale.

  “I’m sorry about Sam," he says.

  “What about her?” I look at the painting. I won’t look at him. I won’t let him affect me.

  “I know how she’s been with you. I mean, I can guess. She’s young, so I think being an overbearing know-it-all is her way of trying to fit in with the older kids. Sometimes she overcompensates, but it’s just her way of coping.”

  “That’s pretty much how she’s acting.” It must be hard to be so young in high school.

  He clears his throat. “This is a Michelangelo Caravaggio.” He steps forward, gesturing toward the painting.

  “That’s what I thought.” I respond too quickly. An unexplained sense of competition lingers between us. Maybe I have a little of what Sam has also.

  “He was a master of painting chiaroscuro, the modeling of images with light and dark,” he explains. "This painting is the scene from our beginnings. Do you know the story?”

  I want to say no, so he will linger longer and tell me, but I don’t. I can’t let him think that he knows more than me. “Yeah.” I nod. “I heard it yesterday.”

  I assumed the subject of the painting and the story were one and the same. A golden obelisk stands in a field of grain. A river flows nearby. A king stands in the foreground. Two field workers at his feet, kneeling with harvest baskets. Geometric sunrays beat down from a cloudless sky. The painting, so large, so real, makes me want to walk right into it. Maybe one day, I will. I consider the thought.

  I look away, and Bishop’s eyes meet mine. A physical reaction occurs within me. It urges me toward him. I shiver and hold my ground. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, hoping they will anchor me to my spot.

  “What about this one? Do you know the story here?” He points to another painting.

  “No.” I shake my head, telling the truth.

  “Well then,” he smiles shyly, “we’ll have to remedy that.” He steps behind me and places his hand on my shoulders. In an instant, warmth circulates at the point of contact. With the floodgates open, energy surges between us, activating and stimulating every nerve in my body. He navigates my body back against the marble railing, positioning us at the center of the mural, farthest away for the best view.

  With the entire painted scene before me, in the silence and delicate, flickering light, he speaks softly. “This oil was painted by Leonardo Da Vinci.”

  “What does it mean?” I ask, inspecting it.

  “‘I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and His train filled the temple. Above Him stood the seraphim; each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew.’”

  I look back at him, confused.

  “It’s a passage from the Bible. Isaiah 6:1–3.”

  “Oh.”

  “The seraphim angel pictured here is of the highest guard of angels. Her mission is to protect God and His kingdom.”

  I look again at the angel with dark flowing hair and three sets of wings. Her flawless skin glows softly like alabaster. Black words scroll across each set of wings, along with simple symbols. The symbols are tattoos, if wings could have them. A gleaming kingdom sits in the background. Green earth wraps with convexity below her wing-covered feet.

  “Our people descended from many cultures, and therefore we are depicted in various folklore and religions.”

  “You’re saying we might be time-traveling angels?” I laugh a little. “Are you going to tell me we’re aliens too?”

  “Well, that painting is around the corner, but it’s not nearly as interesting.”

  I look back over my shoulder at him, raising my eyebrows. He smiles, but I think he’s serious. I look forward, searching the painting for answers.

  “What are the symbols, there on each wing?” I point.

  “Each set of wings represents one of the given gifts. The middle set represents the Wanderer. Here you can see the Wandering symbol.” He waves his hand toward the tattoo. “A set of wings.” It’s a simplified pictograph.

  “The top set of wings represents the Seer. Their symbol is there.” He points over my shoulder to a symbol of an open eye, reminding me of an Egyptian hieroglyph.

  “And lastly, of course, is the Protector. Our symbol is a coiled scorpion.” He points again, his arm grazing mine.

  “If this is true, what happened to our wings,” I ask.

  “The remnants are still with you,” he whispers. His fingertip slips down my shoulder and slowly traces the large bone on my upper back. I shiver. I pray he didn’t feel it, but I’m sure he did. Behind me, I think I hear his lips crack into a smile.

  “The scapula bone, it’s shaped like a wing. That’s where our wings were attached before God stripped them from us.”

  “Why would he do that?” I ask quietly.

  “The short story is that we needed to be punished for sharing our secrets with the Normals.” His finger lingers on my back. “She’s quite a special angel. She bears all three gifts.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “I believe that anything is possible,” he replies. I turn to look at him. His eyes search mine silently, asking something I can’t decipher. I blush, my face hot, and turn forward again. “We’re learning more about ourselves every day and are evolving in new ways,” he says.

  He walks around me. His footsteps echo in the atrium. Then he stops and faces me. We stand, eyes locked on each other for several seconds. Finally, he reaches down to brush his hand to my face, letting his fingers drift to the beauty marks on my cheek. He touches each one delicately, as though he might accidentally move one.

  “This painting could have been your portrait,” he muses and assesses my features.

  He leans down to my ear. His cheek grazes mine, and he whispers. His warm breath radiates around my neck, sending tingles racing down my back. All I want to do is reach out and hold him.

  “And the painting—it bears your name.” He says my name slowly, gently, letting it roll from his lips, while enunciating each syl
lable. “Ser-a-phi-na.”

  It’s as though I have never heard my own name before. The sound, so beautiful, so sweet, makes me close my eyes to hear it again in my mind. I inhale, holding my breath at the top of my chest. Being so close to him, encompassed in his sublime presence, leaves me feeling submerged with the current pulling me deeper, farther out, and uncontrolled.

  My eyes flutter open, and he’s gone.