Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Introduction
MURDER MYSTERIES
THE HOUSES OF THE FAVORED
AN INFESTATION OF ANGELS
SECOND JOURNEY OF THE MAGUS
THE BOWMEN
OKAY, MARY
PLAGUE ANGEL
SCENT OF THE GREEN CATHEDRAL
SNOW ANGELS
NEPHILIM
THY SPINNING WHEEL COMPLEAT
OLD MR. BOUDREAUX
A FEAST OF ANGELS
TRANSFIGURATION
EVIDENCE OF ANGELS
FEATHERWEIGHT
MOLLY AND THE ANGEL
S.D. WATKINS, PAINTER OF PORTRAITS
BEING RIGHT
NOVUS ORDO ANGELORUM
SARIELA; OR, SPIRITUAL DYSFUNCTION & COUNTERANGELIC LONGINGS: A CASE STUDY IN ...
WITH THE ANGELS
THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW MY FATHER KNEW
THE FOLD
BASILEUS
BEAUTIFUL MEN
GOING BAD
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For
PETE & NICKY
Whom I am blessed to call friends.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Keith Riegert and the staff of Ulysses Press, Dorothy Lumley, Milt Thomas, Elizabeth Harding and all the contributors, who have been angels to work with ...
“Murder Mysteries” copyright © Neil Gaiman 1992. Originally published in Midnight Graffiti. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Houses of the Favored” copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2010.
“An Infestation of Angels” copyright © Jane Yolen 1985. Originally published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, November 1985. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Curtis Brown, Ltd.
“Second Journey of the Magus” copyright © Ian R. MacLeod 2010. Originally published in slightly different form on Subterranean Online, Winter 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Bowmen,” originally published in The Evening News, September 29th, 1914.
“Okay, Mary” copyright © Hugh B. Cave 1949. Originally published in Liberty, 1949. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“Plague Angel” copyright © Yvonne Navarro 2010.
“Scent of a Green Cathedral” copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2010.
“Snow Angels” copyright © Sarah Pinborough 2009. Originally published in different form in The British Fantasy Society Yearbook 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Nephilim” copyright © Mark Samuels 2003. Originally published in slightly different form in Black Altars. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Thy Spinning Wheel Compleat” copyright © Chelsea Quinn Yarbro 2010.
“Old Mr. Boudreaux” copyright © Lisa Tuttle 2007. Originally published in Subterranean Magazine No. 7, September 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“A Feast of Angels” copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2010.
“Transfiguration” copyright © Richard Christian Matheson 2010.
“Evidence of Angels” copyright © Graham Masterton 1995. Originally published in 13 Again. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Featherweight” copyright © Robert Shearman 2010.
“Molly and the Angel” copyright © Brain Stableford 1999. Originally published (as by “Francis Amery”) in Interzone No. 145, July 1999. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“S.D. Watkins, Painter of Portraits” copyright © Steve Rasnic Tem 2010.
“Being Right” copyright © Michael Marshall Smith 2003. Originally published in More Tomorrow & Other Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Novus Ordo Angelorum” copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2010.
“Sariela; or, Spiritual Dysfunction and Counterangelic Longings: A Case Study in One Act” copyright © Michael Bishop 1995. Originally published in slightly different form (as “Spiritual Dysfunction and Counterangelic Longings; or, Sariela: A Case Study in One Act”) in Heaven Sent: 18 Glorious Tales of the Angels. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“With the Angels” copyright © Ramsey Campbell 2010.
“Things I Didn’t Know My Father Knew” copyright © Peter Crowther 2001. Originally published in Past Imperfect. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Fold” copyright © Conrad Williams 2010.
“Basileus” copyright © 1983 by Agberg, Ltd. Originally published in The Best of Omni Science Fiction No. 5. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Beautiful Men” copyright © Christopher Fowler 2010.
“Going Bad” copyright © Joseph E. Lake, Jr. 2010.
INTRODUCTION An Angelology, of Sorts
CELESTIAL MESSENGERS or instruments of divine retribution? Heavenly guardians or Hellish demi-gods? Angels can mean many things to many people ...
The term “angel” is a combination of the Old English word engel and the Old French word angele. Both are derived from the Latin word angelus, and entered the English language in very early times, denoting a supernatural being of kindly qualities. In the Bible it translates as Hebrew and Greek words meaning “messengers” (or the Malachim), and first appears in the Old Testament in the phrase “angel of the Lord”—the title given to the divine messenger who told Hagar that she would give birth to Ishmael.
More recently, “angel” has been used to describe various notions of spiritual creatures found in many other religious traditions, ranging from the Qur’an to Kabbalah to New Age mysticism.
By the late fourth century a hierarchy was established among the angels, with many taking on specific names and roles. Amongst the highest ranks of archangels is Metatron, who is often depicted as a scribe. Michael is God’s warrior, while Gabriel serves as a messenger or force of justice. Raphael is God’s healer, Uriel leads us to destiny, and Seraphims are the “burning ones” who protect the gates to the Garden of Eden.
In Jewish and Christian mythology, angels are God’s courtiers or intermediates, helpers of men. They are often described as beautiful, winged creatures of light. Sometimes they are described in theological texts or depicted in art as androgynous or even female. But there are also other kinds of angels—harbingers of doom or dispensers of swift and powerful justice. And then there are the Fallen Angels, such as Lucifer and, of course, Malach HaMavet, the Angel of Death.
A poll conducted in 2007 discovered that sixty-eight percent of Americans believed that angels and demons were “active” in the world. A survey the following year by Baylor University’s Institute for Studies in Religion found that fifty-five percent of Americans—including one in five who said they were not religious—were convinced that they had been protected by a guardian angel during their life. Perhaps even more remarkably, according to four separate polls conducted last year, a far larger percentage of Americans believed in the existence of angels than those who believed in global warming.
A 2008 survey of Canadians recorded that a mighty sixty-seven percent believed that angels really existed while, in the UK, a 2002 study found that people said to have had experience of angels either described the “classic” image of a human figure with wings, a remarkably beautiful and radiant figure, or a shining countenance of pure light. These sightings were often accompanied by visions, a pleasant fragrance or the feeling of being pushed or lifted out of danger.
This new anthology reflects many interpretations of these remarkable creatures, with original and occasional reprint stories by
some of the world’s leading fantasy, horror and science fiction authors:
Neil Gaiman’s “Murder Mysteries” is a celestial murder mystery with the Act of Creation at its heart. Jane Yolen and Ian R. MacLeod present us slightly skewered Biblical stories about angels, and Arthur Machen’s “The Bowmen” gave rise to perhaps the most famous angel mythology of modern times.
The protagonists of the stories by Sarah Pinborough, Lisa Tuttle and Brian Stableford find themselves having unexpected encounters with angelic creatures of sorts, while it is guardian angels that come to the aid of humans in the tales by Graham Masterton, Michael Marshall Smith and Peter Crowther.
Michael Bishop’s contribution is a one-act play that, in part, addresses the question of angelic sex. In Steve Rasnic Tem’s tale, an artist only paints what he can see, and Jay Lake gives us five very different vignettes about angels.
The “angels” depicted in the stories by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Hugh B. Cave and Richard Christian Matheson are not necessarily of the supernatural variety, while the entities encountered in the work of Robert Shearman and Ramsey Campbell most definitely are—and in the most terrifying way.
Those angels found in the contributions from Yvonne Navarro, Mark Samuels and Conrad Williams are also of the decidedly darker variety as well.
A computer programmer converses online with angel avatars, with disastrous consequences, in Robert Silverberg’s “Basileus,” and as the End of Days fast approaches, a group of beautiful strangers herald the coming Apocalypse in Christopher Fowler’s poignant tale.
Through these twenty-seven very different stories, the authors explore our acceptance or fear of angels, at a time when many people are questioning their own beliefs and the need to perhaps once again trust in some kind of divine intervention or spiritual guidance.
Of course, this being a genre anthology, I can’t actually guarantee that it will all necessarily end in a good way ...
Stephen Jones
London, England
July 2010
MURDER MYSTERIES
Neil Gaiman
NEIL GAIMAN recently became the first person ever to win the Newbery Medal and the Carnegie Medal for the same children’s novel, The Graveyard Book, which spent more than fifty-two consecutive weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. The book has also won the Hugo Award, the Booktrust Award and many others.
The ever-busy author also has out a book of poems, Blueberry Girl, illustrated by Charles Vess; Crazy Hair, a new picture book with regular collaborator Dave McKean; the graphic novel compilation Batman: Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader? (with art by Andy Kubert); and Stories, an anthology of all-new tales co-edited with Al Sarrantonio.
During the past few years, Gaiman co-scripted (with Roger Avary) Robert Zemeckis’ motion-capture fantasy film Beowulf, while Matthew Vaughn’s Stardust and Henry Selick’s Coraline were both based on his novels. He wrote and directed Statuesque, a short film starring Bill Nighy and Gaiman’s fiancée, singer/songwriter Amanda Palmer, and he has also just written an episode of Doctor Who for the BBC.
He is very happy.
“‘Murder Mysteries’ was the hardest story I’ve ever written,” admits Gaiman. “I’d never done a classical detective story, the kind that plays fair with the audience, before, and it took draft after draft until I got it right.
“Some years later I turned it into a radio play. Then P. Craig Russell took my story and the radio script and turned it into a graphic novel. And I got a phone call recently to tell me that it might be turning into a movie.
“So I’d like to thank Peter Atkins, all those years ago, for reading eleven different drafts of this, until I got it right.”
The Fourth Angel says:
Of this order I am made one,
From Mankind to guard this place
That through their Guilt they have foregone,
For they have forfeited His Grace;
Therefore all this must they shun
Or else my Sword they shall embrace
And myself will be their Foe
To flame them in the Face.
—Chester Mystery Cycle: The Creation, and Adam and Eve, 1461
THIS IS TRUE.
Ten years ago, give or take a year, I found myself on an enforced stopover in Los Angeles, a long way from home. It was December, and the California weather was warm and pleasant. England, however, was in the grip of fogs and snowstorms, and no planes were landing there. Each day I’d phone the airport, and each day I’d be told to wait another day.
This had gone on for almost a week.
I was barely out of my teens. Looking around today at the parts of my life left over from those days, I feel uncomfortable, as if I’ve received a gift, unasked, from another person: a house, a wife, children, a vocation. Nothing to do with me, I could say, innocently. If it’s true that every seven years each cell in your body dies and is replaced, then I have truly inherited my life from a dead man; and the misdeeds of those times have been forgiven, and are buried with his bones.
I was in Los Angeles. Yes.
On the sixth day I received a message from an old sort-of-girlfriend from Seattle: she was in LA, too, and she had heard I was around on the friends-of-friends network. Would I come over?
I left a message on her machine. Sure.
That evening: a small, blonde woman approached me, as I came out of the place I was staying. It was already dark.
She stared at me, as if she were trying to match me to a description, and then, hesitantly, she said my name.
“That’s me. Are you Tink’s friend?”
“Yeah. Car’s out back. C’mon: she’s really looking forward to seeing you.”
The woman’s car was one of the huge old boat-like jobs you only ever seem to see in California. It smelled of cracked and flaking leather upholstery. We drove out from wherever we were to wherever we were going.
Los Angeles was at that time a complete mystery to me; and I cannot say I understand it much better now. I understand London, and New York, and Paris: you can walk around them, get a sense of what’s where in just a morning of wandering. Maybe catch the subway. But Los Angeles is about cars. Back then I didn’t drive at all; even today I will not drive in America. Memories of LA for me are linked by rides in other people’s cars, with no sense there of the shape of the city, of the relationships between the people and the place. The regularity of the roads, the repetition of structure and form, mean that when I try to remember it as an entity all I have is the boundless profusion of tiny lights I saw one night on my first trip to the city, from the hill of Griffith Park. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, from that distance.
“See that building?” said my blonde driver, Tink’s friend. It was a red-brick art deco house, charming and quite ugly.
“Yes.”
“Built in the 1930s,” she said, with respect and pride.
I said something polite, trying to comprehend a city inside which fifty years could be considered a long time.
“Tink’s real excited. When she heard you were in town. She was so excited.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
Tink’s real name was Tinkerbell Richmond. No lie.
She was staying with friends in a small apartment clump, somewhere an hour’s drive from downtown LA.
What you need to know about Tink: she was ten years older than me, in her early thirties; she had glossy black hair and red, puzzled lips, and very white skin, like Snow White in the fairy stories; the first time I met her I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Tink had been married for a while at some point in her life, and had a five-year-old daughter called Susan. I had never met Susan—when Tink had been in England, Susan had been staying on in Seattle, with her father.
People named Tinkerbell name their daughters Susan.
Memory is the great deceiver. Perhaps there are some individuals whose memories act like tape recordings, da
ily records of their lives complete in every detail, but I am not one of them. My memory is a patchwork of occurrences, of discontinuous events roughly sewn together: the parts I remember, I remember precisely, whilst other sections seem to have vanished completely.
I do not remember arriving at Tink’s house, nor where her flatmate went.
What I remember next is sitting in Tink’s lounge, with the lights low; the two of us next to each other, on the sofa.
We made small talk. It had been perhaps a year since we had seen one another. But a twenty-one-year-old boy has little to say to a thirty-two-year-old woman, and soon, having nothing in common, I pulled her to me.
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