“She spoke with her Possessor.”
“Is her Possessor the Angel Raphael?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you ask me to swim the Waters Above? If Raphael speaks to her, why not Ali? She could describe what she sees to him.”
“It was not part of her covenant. We asked. She refused.”
“Why not compel her?”
“God has gifted man with free will. It is not for the Angels to take away.”
I thought on this a moment. “When I asked you to send Ali back with me, you said We will not compel her. You didn’t say We cannot compel her. Does this mean her Possessor can compel her, if it wishes?”
“She has a soul and so free will.”
“And what of the vessel of the soul? May the Possessor compel that?”
Zeracheil stared at me for a moment, likely trying to understand my intent. “If its soul assents,” Zeracheil said slowly, “its vessel may be compelled.”
I wasn’t comfortable that I fully understood Zeracheil’s response, so I tried to think of another way to ask my question. “If I took an oath to do something, and changed my mind, might I still be compelled to fulfill my promise?”
“An oath in God’s name,” said the Angel, “is inviolable.”
Ali’s Angel had spoken to her, and, through her, guided us to Lower Heaven. Yet that, in itself, wouldn’t have been enough. If not for my egregious sin, and the guilt and remorse it engendered, I would not have allowed Ali to bring me here. Had the Angels known this, too? And knowing this, had they compelled Ali the day I’d raped her? I’d never bested her in any of our practise sessions with Kite—save when she’d wanted me to. And yet, in my fragmented memories of that day, she’d struggled furiously. Yet I still managed to pin her to the ground.
I wondered, then, if the Angels had contrived everything that led me here. . . .
Staring at Zeracheil, his face a blank page, my suspicion hardened into a sickening certainty, one that shook my belief, not only in the Angels, but in a just and caring Creator—for how could I believe in a God who would let his Messengers use a girl in such a way, or coax a boy into mortal sin?
Worse, I believed Ali was about to commit another mortal sin, one for which there could be no forgiveness. I don’t blame you, she’d said to me on the bridge. If I had, you’d have been dead long ago. Who, then, did she blame, if not the Angels? Her Angel. And so I knew she meant to kill Raphael.
I did my best to hide my alarm. “I would talk with the Archangel Raphael.”
“That one has departed, to do God’s will.”
“Departed?”
“Raphael makes for the other side of Lower Heaven.”
I had hoped to meet the Angel face-to-face and kill it—so that Ali might not. I owed her this much, at least. But with the news that Raphael had departed, I felt a surge of relief. Though I hated the Angel for what it had done, I had no taste for murder, and was grateful for the reprieve. Flying to the opposite side of Lower Heaven and back would, I imagined, require several days. With a bit of luck, we’d be back in the Apostle Peter’s Sphere before then.
But there were still things I needed to understand. “When we return to the lower Spheres, will Raphael continue to speak to Ali?”
“Yes.”
“If this is the case,” I said, “I fear for her sanity.”
“As do I.” It was the first time I’d heard Zeracheil not use the ubiquitous we with which all Angels referred to themselves. “Yet she made a covenant.”
“I know I have already promised to perform your first indulgence, and I will be as good as my word. But I have a second boon to ask of you.” I drew a breath. “If I do this thing, will you release Ali from her pledge?”
“We cannot give back what has been promised to God—and to Raphael.”
There was nothing to be done for the moment, then, save to complete the first task as fast as possible, so that I might hasten our departure. Raphael had said that before I could swim the waters, we must wait for the suns to go off. I looked to the firmament; the last light of day was leaking away, and the suns would be off within the hour. I told Zeracheil I was anxious to get on with it.
The Angel handed me the stick it had been holding, and explained what he wished me to do with it. A short time later it directed me to climb onto the palanquin. Zeracheil beat its great wings, lifting towards the firmament, and the platform rose, drifting obediently in the Angel’s wake. There was nothing to cling to, so I lay flat, as far away from the dizzying height as possible, even though Zeracheil had assured me the hand of God would not falter. The platform rose smoothly and steadily, the gentle waft of air from the Angel’s wings tousling my hair.
Presently, I caught sight of a strange shower of water, only a few metres wide. I looked up and saw that, far above, a narrow stream ran off the back of a dwindling sun, fanning out into the gentle rain before us. I knew what its source must be. As I watched it fall, I considered the intrigues of the Church and of the diseased Angels, and of my plotting the murder of one of God’s Messengers, and couldn’t help but think, For us God weeps. . . .
The Vault of Heaven
I stood on the broad, convex back of the extinguished sun, its latent warmth creeping into the soles of my feet, the sharp contrast of icy water washing around them. With the suns out it was too dark to see anything above, so I had followed the diminutive stream, shuffling, tapping along with my stick as a blind man would, to its source: a fall of water, no thicker than a finger. Looking a metre or so above my head, I saw a twist of silver, reflecting the tiny bit of ambient light, then darkness above as if the water materialized from nothing. A perpetual miracle that ran down the back of the sun and leapt off its edge, scattering God’s tears on the gardens far below.
Do not fear, the Archangel Zeracheil had told me. An arm’s length away on the stream side. Hold your breath—and jump. Jump with all the strength God gave you.
Here, in the highest reaches of Lower Heaven, where gravity was a fading memory, jumping wouldn’t be the problem. No, the problem would be directing my jump without being able to see what I was jumping toward.
I reached out until the tips of my fingers touched the tiny waterfall, then stepped back a full arm’s length.
The opening, Zeracheil had told me, was roughly two metres square, too small by far for an Angel, but more than enough for a large man. For a skinny boy, plenty. Still, a small error and I’d smash into the surface of the firmament, hard enough, perhaps, to break bones. The most danger, though, was in the rebound. There was no telling where I’d end up. And there was nothing to grab onto on the back of this sun. I might bounce past the edge, tumbling to the ground a kilometre below.
When Zeracheil had perceived the fear in my eyes, the Archangel had curled a long hand over my shoulder, squeezed it lightly, and said simply, Have faith.
Faith. Wasn’t that what I had always professed to have?
I crouched. I want to have faith, I thought. Raising my hands above my head, I clasped them around the long stick as if in prayer. If I hit the firmament, the stick would likely snap first, and I might just have enough time to do something. What I might do, though, I wasn’t quite sure.
I believe, I said to myself, certain the doubt I harboured, the doubt the Angels didn’t seem to suspect, doomed me.
Shutting my eyes, I sucked in a deep breath and sprang.
For a heartbeat, the rush of air. Then cold waters sluiced over me, slowing me.
Astonished, I realized I was in the Waters Above. For what seemed like a minute (later, when I related this to Zeracheil, I acknowledged it was probably only a handful of seconds) I drifted up through sluggish liquid. I breached the surface of the Waters Above, felt the chill of air, but dared not breathe.
I opened my eyes.
And gasped—unwittingly drawing a deep breath.
Against utter darkness, millions upon millions of points of pure light, a wash of unearthly brilliance, some so bright I could barely look upon them. I
gaped open-mouthed at the splendour—and felt smaller than I had ever before.
Souls.
Zeracheil had told me to expect this. I nodded piously at the time, as if I’d believed, the same way I’d nodded at the stories told by the Priests. Back then, though, I had believed their tales about forgiveness, love and, of course, the immortality of the soul. Life after death. I had always liked those stories, wished them to be true with all my heart. Only experience had brought doubt, and I had come to the conclusion that they were wish fulfilment more than anything else.
Or so I’d thought.
Now, I felt all traces of disbelief wash away. Heaven was real, and the dwelling place of immortal souls. How could I not believe what was in front of my eyes? The epiphany was heartfelt, even if all else was too overwhelming to be comprehended in the moment.
I stared in wonder.
From my lessons I knew the most brilliant souls would be the Angels of the first sphere: Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones. The next brightest would be those of the second sphere: the Dominions, Virtues, and Powers. And the others—all the millions, perhaps billions, of others—the souls of men saved. One might even be my father’s, no matter the Church said different.
I lifted my arm, fearful of what would happen if I made contact, knowing the souls were near and yet infinitely distant. Why shouldn’t they be? The laws of time and space held no sway over God.
Water crept over my lower lip. In the diminished gravity, I sank very slowly, but sink I did; I kicked and bobbed back up, treading water now, the physicality of movement shaking me from my reverie, suddenly aware of the gelid waters, of the stick in my hand—remembering abruptly what I was to do. The task God had given me, through the agency of his Archangel Zeracheil.
I extended my arm completely, raising the stick directly over my head as Zeracheil had instructed me. There was a barrier, Zeracheil had said, invisible to the eye of man, and I was to touch it with the stick if I could. I waved the stick in small circles but it met no resistance. I kicked myself higher, as high as I could surge from the waters, waving the stick, and still nothing. I flung it, and counted to three before I heard it strike something invisible, perhaps five metres above my head.
That was it. That was all I was to do.
I opened my mouth to pull in a lungful of air, then stopped mid-breath. The air. Raphael warned me. If it was noxious, it was too late, for I’d already drawn several breaths. So I pulled in another tentative lungful, this time tasting it on my tongue and in my gullet—stale, with a metallic tang. But breathable. If it was poison, it was slow-acting, and there would be time enough to worry about that later. The important thing, the only thing, was to return to Lower Heaven that I might complete my first indulgence.
I looked a last time at the multitude of souls, and felt my own stir as if it longed to join. A soul I had not quite been able to believe in moments before.
Not yet, I told myself. Too soon.
I picked a glimmer out of the vast array, a small unprepossessing one and, focusing on it, mouthed a short, silent prayer for my father. Then, sucking in a deep breath, I dove, and swam back to the world of the living.
Map of the World
Occupying a top corner of Zeracheil’s house, closed off on all sides, was a room with a large, panelled door, the only door I’d seen in the house. It swung open silently as Zeracheil approached, and the Angel stepped into the gloom thus revealed. I followed, and as soon as I’d crossed the threshold, the door sighed shut behind me. A momentary panic seized me in the perfect darkness; then a ball of light blossomed in the centre of the room. Zeracheil stepped up to it, put its hands together inside the ball, as if in prayer, then flung them wide. The ball expanded to fill the room, creating a floor-to-ceiling Sphere with Zeracheil at its heart.
“Do you know what this is?” asked the Archangel.
The sphere was lucid, blue-tinged on its surface, and contained within it the ghosts of other concentric spheres. Fourteen, all told. I reached out to touch it, my fingers passing through the outermost layer with only a slight resistance, the sort you might feel in putting your hand into a bowl of water. “A map of the world,” I said, staring in awe.
“It is God’s Eye,” said Zeracheil. The Angel raised its hands again, this time holding them about a metre apart, then brought them together and the Sphere shrank to half the size. Zeracheil stepped out to stand at my side. It placed its hands on the ghostly blue surface, as if the sphere was a solid thing, and then rotated it beneath its touch. The Angel’s hands stilled, and so did the globe’s movement. “This is where you were,” Zeracheil said, touching a spot on the outermost surface. “In the Waters Above.” It turned to face me. “Do you know why we brought you here, David?”
“To ask your second indulgence.”
“Would you hear it?”
“I promised I would.” When I’d struck my deal, I promised easily, believing there was nothing that might move me to consider the second indulgence. Only, that was before, when my belief had faltered. In swimming the Waters Above, I’d felt a resurgence of the faith I’d thought lost. Did I still have doubt? Certainly. And I knew it would always be so. That was the lesson the Waters had taught me. That faith, without doubt, is not faith at all, just as courage, without fear, is not courage at all. I’d witnessed the choirs of Angels and the countless souls of men, and felt the grace of God upon my face. How could I now refuse to contemplate Zeracheil’s second request? “Ask,” I said.
“God wishes you to heal His Wound.”
I do not believe Angels are much good at reading the expressions of men, but no one, not even an Angel, could have missed the astonishment and confusion writ on my face. “I don’t understand.”
“The world is God’s Body, the Waters his Blood,” Zeracheil said. “God bleeds, and the Waters Above diminish.”
In waving that stick, I knew I’d confirmed the Angels’ fear: the Waters were no longer as plentiful as they’d once been. Yet it seemed to me there was no small amount remaining; more below, I’d have guessed, than stale air above, and if in all the world’s time it had only diminished this much, then it seemed to me that ages would have to pass before it would be perilously low. I said so to Zeracheil.
“The rain that falls to fill the rivers, that runs to lakes and seas, that slakes the thirst of plant and man and beast—all comes from Heaven. And returns to Heaven. Yet now, less rises than descends, and so the Waters Above diminish. When weighed against the extent of the Waters, the difference is small. But this is how the Devil works. Small differences are like small sins, and over a lifetime they will blacken your soul, until there is no hope of salvation. So it is with the world. The rains fail below, and with them the harvests, for there is not enough in the Waters Above to sustain all.”
I pictured the sere fields and the dwindling shorelines in the lower Spheres. Droughts that worsened each year—or so Kite had told me. And in my travels, I’d seen nothing to persuade me this was not the case. Rather, what I’d witnessed convinced me that on the heels of drought, like yammering dogs, came famine, plague, and war. “Can God not replenish the water?”
“He gave us the Waters that all the Spheres of the Apostles might thrive. It is the River of Life, and His Blood. How much more would you ask of him?”
If Zeracheil’s words were an attempt to make me feel shame, they succeeded. Still, the Angel hadn’t answered my question. “If God will not replenish the Waters, what can be done?”
“No one can retrieve what Satan has already stolen. But you can stop the Fallen One from taking more.” Zeracheil repeated the first gesture he’d made several times, and the Sphere grew again and again, and with each successive magnification I saw more detail on the surfaces as they flew past. They were not smooth, as I had supposed, but textured, showing the outlines of recognizable things: hills and valleys and rivers, the spectral regularity of geometric shapes that I took to be cities, towns, and villages. The image dove down into the world, until the surfac
e of the last Sphere, that of the Apostle Paul, passed beyond the walls of the room, and only a diffuse glow was left. Zeracheil continued to gesture in the same way and I suppose the image was magnifying over and over, but little seemed to change. Then, after a few moments, a tiny, seething ember appeared in the centre and Zeracheil stopped.
“Hell.”
The Angel must have noted my look of incredulity, for it said, “Do not be fooled. Hell is vast beyond imagination, weighing more than all the Spheres combined. Even here, in Lower Heaven, its pull is felt.” The Angel rotated the image, then gestured, and a thin silver thread lanced the room, running from the ceiling to where it sparked against the surface of the ember. “Hell is an absence that devours, and from which nothing escapes.” Zeracheil reversed the process, and the ember receded, but the silver line remained; we raced back along its length. When the lowest Sphere dove through the room, Zeracheil froze the image. The thread was cut off at the undersurface of the lowest Sphere, that of the Apostle Paul, directly beneath a structure. I had no idea how tall or wide that building might have been, and there was nothing in the image that would have provided a clue to its actual dimensions, but its proportions were the same as an Assumption. “God wishes you here, David,” Zeracheil said, pointing to the ghostly image in the lowest of all Spheres, “to staunch the flow of His Blood.”
“How? How could someone like me do such a thing?”
“God has not revealed this to us.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You must have faith, David.”
I didn’t. Leastways, not in the Angels of Lower Heaven. Although the turn of their minds might be different, I believed they schemed as much as those holy men of the Church. Perhaps they were not to blame for that; perhaps their proximity to men had infected them. I looked into Zeracheil’s blank eyes. “My faith is not as strong as you might suppose.”
“God chose you for two reasons, David. Because of the strength of your faith, and because of the gift of memory He granted you.”
The Book of Thomas - Volume One: Heaven Page 25
