Guardian

by Dan Gleed

  * * *

  Lucifer growled involuntarily as he eyed Michael. One day. One day he would prevail over this angel, even if he’d shown himself to be completely helpless against God. Come to think of it, once he’d nearly stolen a march over Michael. He’d been visiting Persia at the time, organising his incompetents to oppose yet another irritant, a praying Jew named Daniel. And he’d caught a complacent Michael on the hop. Very nearly removed his head with the first swing of his blade as he stepped from what he could only describe as a devilishly cunning ambush (no pun intended, but he did rather fancy himself as a wit). Yes, one day he would succeed. Of that he was certain, despite all the obvious indications to the contrary. Had not Jesus once acknowledged that because the first human, Adam, had rebelled against God, he had essentially transferred his authority over planet Earth to himself? Effective, right up to the time he had masterminded that ill-conceived crucifixion (no disguising the fact of his involvement). And three days later his army of fools had lost the plot and let Jesus walk right back out of Death Valley (or Hell as he preferred to call his domain), totally unmolested and taking some of the supposedly condemned humans with him. Finally to reappear in front of His human followers, claiming victory over death and declaring that from then on, humans who believed in Him and were content to acknowledge this before others would be freed from Hell’s grip.

  Shrugging irritably, Lucifer let his hand wander to where his weapon should have been. The trouble with visiting rights was they required him to disarm and partly disrobe on arrival. Two requirements that caused him particular misery. The foremost being that, whilst exposure to Earth’s sunlight was bad enough, exposure to God’s unique light caused him nothing short of intense and virtually constant pain. Particularly to his eyes and the skin of his face and arms which, by decree, had to remain uncovered. He had long since assumed this to be one of Michael’s arrangements, issued under the dubious pretext of security, because every angel was perfectly capable of seeing straight through any disguise he might employ. And that, of course, served perfectly to rub his nose in it. Exactly as it was designed to do. Although it wasn’t all doom and gloom. At a stretch, there was a plus to any visit. An aspect that made the humiliation and pain almost worthwhile. Forays into Heaven provided a reassuring side effect when he returned to the dark corridors of Hell. An immediate and satisfying whiff of terror amongst his nightmare attendants, as they fought to retreat from the fading glow of his exposure. A ‘cause and effect’ that never failed. But today was one of those occasions when it was more important to gather information than relish the idea of future pandemonium. And the only way he was likely to succeed was to crawl to his erstwhile comrade in arms, Michael. How he hated these occasions. He, Satan, the once noble Jewel of Heaven, forced to grovel to a mere Archangel. But there was little choice, given Heaven was evidently plotting something that apparently involved a certain Paul Moncton. An individual who was already beginning to prove a nuisance to Hell’s executive. He knew something was happening and whilst he was pretty sure he knew what the final outcome would be, he could never quite rid himself of the urge to upset Heaven’s confidence. And anyway, the matter was beginning to exasperate him. It was one of the drawbacks to an unsuccessful rebellion. You lost every last vestige of peace.

  So, trying to effect a confident swagger, Lucifer marched straight towards Michael from behind, hoping to catch him unawares. Stupid, he knew. But at heart he was a brawler, a chancer, and he simply couldn’t help himself. But as if to compound his frustration, Michael didn’t even look behind him.

  “Morning, Lucifer. I didn’t think it would take you long to get here. I’ve noted your recent interest in the East African coast. So, let me guess. You want to know what we’re planning and where Paul Moncton fits in.”

  Grinding his teeth (he just couldn’t help it), Lucifer stopped and drew himself to his full, repellent height. How did Michael always know? It was nauseating, but he was forced to listen as Michael continued unhurriedly.

  “As I’m sure even you have realised, I cannot divulge our overall plans, but I will say that Paul’s progress and life are of great importance to God. There are a number of steps young Paul must yet take before he acknowledges God’s Son, Jesus, as the Supreme Being. So, God has ordered that not only is Paul to be protected from physical death, but no demon is to possess him again. Harass, yes. Possess, no. You would do well to remember that. And no. Don’t even think of trying to jump me. You wouldn’t get half a pace before I skewered you like the parasite you are. Look around you, Lucifer. Are you now so blind that you cannot see my companions, my guards?”

  Michael’s hand motioned the space around him and although Lucifer knew he would not lie, he still couldn’t see. Frustrated, he waited as Michael calmly pointed out that not one of the sentries loitering in a separate dimension would hesitate to materialise and deal swiftly with such a prize, the moment he stepped out of line. The protection was discreet but no less effective for all that. And Lucifer knew it.

  “But back to Paul. The Lord God has decided that you may get up to your usual devious tricks and may allocate demons to test Paul. Moreover, they may even do to him as you wish, except, I repeat, under no circumstances are they to hound him to the point of death. As for Roz Lescal, she is also given into your power for a short time, but, again, her life may only be taken by another human. Certainly not one of your sidekicks. Is that quite clear?”

  Faced with the implacable and menacing nature of Michael’s deceptively mild delivery, Lucifer decided to make a conscious effort to uncurl his hands and relax his tense muscles. Michael was acting unusually. Normally he was urbane charm itself, poised elegance personified. So, clearly, Paul Moncton was important and would have to be watched, which meant he’d better find out who had been assigned to meddle with him. If anyone, given Hell’s ramshackle administration, he thought sourly.

  Chapter 49

  If ever there was a saying that suited Ahmed’s foul mood, heightened as it was by the irritation of lost assets, it was ‘spitting feathers’. That he’d probably lost a white slave was the height of stupidity, especially one who had apparently defied Abdel-Aziz in the process and over whom he’d clearly lost a substantial sum (even the female provided in exchange was no compensation as she’d died shortly after arrival, forcing him to modify his particular vice). But, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was now being forced to join Abdel-Aziz in the godforsaken hole they called Malindi. At least the boy had paid a certain price before escaping, having been whipped to within an inch of his life. A stark warning to any other slave who might be foolish enough to consider mutiny. Add to that the loss of three of the crew at such an early and crucial point in a transit voyage and he was looking at little less than financial catastrophe. But all else paled into insignificance besides Abdel-Aziz’s failure to return with his nephew, Abdullah. That unexplained disappearance could spell disaster when it came to the continuing support of his invaluable source of ready funds, the family fortune.

  Upon such infuriating events did a lifetime of investments turn. The real problem was that whilst his easy-going grandfather was the nominal head of the family and supposedly in charge of its considerable wealth, the actual power behind the throne (though never admitted in polite Arab circles) was his aunt, Buhaysah (named even from her youth for ‘walking with pride’). Not for nothing was she known for her almost homicidal, usually unreasonable and always direct response to avoidable blunders. Especially if she felt there might be a personal insult involved. Something she would assuredly believe in this case, given her favourite grandson was one of the missing. And if Abdel-Aziz didn’t provide a satisfactory answer to the matter pretty soon, then his demise was unlikely to be much delayed. Captain or not. Of course he, Ahmed, had not the slightest concern for his nephew per se. It was just that he had guaranteed safe passage and so found not only his considerable reputation in possible jeopardy, but an unexpected frisson of fear pricking his mind at the thought of eventually havi
ng to face his imperious aunt. And his aide’s immediate enquiries amongst the crew had determined that nobody had seen the young fool alive since they’d all turned in on the night of the raid. For which there could only be one explanation. He must have been snatched by the scum assisting the girl. Had she not displayed the sort of impudent temerity that only a white girl could, by stepping uninvited onto one of his ships? A ship that, true to Arab tradition, had never been sullied by an uninvited female foot. Invited, yes. Uninvited, no. Over many decades, the decks had no doubt hosted a far from inconsequential stream of harlots and ladies of a certain ilk, all bent on providing suitable and erotic entertainment for the crew.

  But enough of such distracting thoughts. Angrily, Ahmed had had Abdel brought before him. “Aziz, you will return to your ship immediately and this time you will find Abdullah. Allow me to assure you that if you do not return with him soon, it will not be long before you join your ancestors.”

  Abdel-Aziz knew this was no idle threat, but equally he understood that if Abdullah had been unable to look after himself thus far, then it was highly likely there was absolutely nothing to be done for him now. Either he was already fish food, or he was a prisoner and thus a useful hostage who would not be surrendered lightly. Whichever, right now Aziz knew he could do nothing about it. Except, of course, look as though he actually gave a toss and head north on the assumption the man had been taken prisoner. Muttering and cursing under his breath, Abdel had left to begin the task of putting to sea once more, issuing a stream of orders to set course safely through the reef gap and on out into the great Pacific rollers, before backing the dhow once again onto a northerly track to retrace the assumed route of the fleeing bandits. Finally clear of the reef, his ship had strained eagerly forward into the steepening undulation of an on-shore swell and the hiss of water gathering pace under her bluff stem was at least comforting. Not that it made any marked difference to the crew’s demeanour, because they were already disgruntled enough and now knew for certain there was unlikely to be a pay day following this year’s efforts. Moreover, they couldn’t be less interested in Ahmed’s relative, as no one really cared a hoot for anything other than the money the escaped boy and remaining slaves represented.

  And sailors, unlike land-based traders, know there is nothing to be gained from trying to outsmart wind and tide. Or find missing crewmen off a shark-infested African coast. Moreover, to try fighting the wind merely to look for a missing sailor was not a matter to be taken lightly. Clearly, it was going to involve the better part of a week searching north before beating back to Malindi, always assuming they even managed to find Abdullah, or recapture the escaped slave. A state of affairs that meant at the very least they faced rampaging sickness amongst the cargo, as the old scow squandered time, bucking and rolling against the set of wind and wave. Perhaps even the death of some captives. It wasn’t just Aziz who was beginning to heartily regret ever setting eyes on the white boy. It was every man-jack of the crew.

  Chapter 50

  On the day my body finally began to register some genuine improvements, I remember stirring very carefully as I came round, there to find to my delighted surprise that movement was no longer quite the ordeal to which I had grown so wearily accustomed. An experimental foot waved in the general direction of the floor completed the initial appraisal and I found I could move within a controllable level of pain, and this, coupled with the gradual realisation that I was far more awake than usual, proved to me that I really must be on the mend. How many days had I been lying there semi-comatose? I still had no idea, but it was clear from the angle of the sun streaming through a gap in the wall that already this particular day was wearing away, the sun heading inexorably towards late afternoon or early evening.

  Whatever the hour, I felt a distinct surge of renewed energy, which in turn fuelled a fresh sense of purpose, and such was the degree of change that I needed to tell someone about my progress. Preferably Roz. Opening my mouth to call her only led to the discovery that I was beyond dry, my tongue being firmly stuck to the roof of my mouth. Which put an immediate end to any hope of shouted communication. With no alternative but to get myself up, I rolled gingerly towards the edge of the bed frame and dropped to the floor on hands and knees, before hoisting myself upright with the aid of an obligingly placed stool. That was the easy bit. The real effort came with hauling myself outside in a bid to start looking for Roz. Where I soon discovered that not only had she disappeared, but so had every last member of the community. Presumably to engage in that stalwart of the mañana society: horizontal PT (under the shade of some handy palms). Fortunately, given there was no one in sight, it wasn’t long before I picked up on the distant sound of laughter, which proved easy enough to follow as I lurched away from the settlement and towards the area of beach over which I vaguely remembered being carried ashore. The problem wasn’t so much my innate physical weakness, more an inability to move with any enthusiasm without first taking in some much needed water. The very reason I had been forced to stagger out in the first place. Consequently, I not only started to feel distinctly lightheaded, but soon had to endure the onset of a blinding headache. Still, gritting my teeth, I managed to totter slowly in the general direction of the noise, sustained by little more than a fervent hope that I wouldn’t collapse along the way.

  They weren’t too far, but my somewhat unstable arrival produced an eminently satisfactory reaction within the gathered throng. Roz came running towards me from somewhere in their midst, arms outstretched, presumably the better to catch me, as I was beginning to tip forward on the distinctly uneven sand. But for all I cared, that sand was welcome to do its worst, because I don’t think I’d ever seen Roz looking more beautiful. I can still conjure that vision to my mind’s eye, as though it were yesterday. She could have been wrapped from head to toe in a sheet and she would still have been stunningly beautiful. But on that late afternoon and in that place, she was in perfect harmony with her surroundings. And, to my further enchantment, wearing little more than her obvious concern. The ubiquitous khaki shorts were rolled down at the waist and up at the leg, the better to maximise the tanning of her honey-coloured skin. Above them, her slim stomach took a long inward curve past the delicate valley of a finely shaped, elegant belly button, the whole lightly dusted with delicate blond hairs. Just above the rib cage where her flesh began to sweep upwards and outwards in fine counterbalance to the fulsome curve of her hips, a startlingly white bra cupped high, tight and delightfully rounded breasts that would have been the envy of virtually any woman on the planet. And certainly the desire of any man. Graceful arms and finely turned legs, the latter seeming to sweep all the way to her armpits, completed that enthralling, never to be forgotten picture of beauty. The whole set off by the most attractive face I had ever seen. And all topped with a long blonde ponytail that swept back and forth across those lissom, tanned shoulders, responding as if imbued with a life of its own and swaying in time to the easy, graceful lope that brought her ever closer to me.

  I think I can measure my total enchantment in this delightful lady and my absolute and undying enthralment from that precise moment. It was the instant when every feeling I had ever had for her, both physical and emotional, crystallised into a grand passion that would forever dominate my life, never fading, only deepening. I was captivated. Fortunately, she caught me before I hit the deck and if I ever needed confirmation that the Moncton juices were back out in force, it was established in the sheer ecstasy of erotic feeling that raced through me as her strong arms and soft hands wrapped around my naked torso, stabbing me with all the electric excitement of physical contact that one of the opposite sex can impart. Even with still bruised and beaten skin, the sensation of sliding against a warm, scented body was utterly enthralling. Of my own hands, suddenly allowed to follow the play of muscles bunching and relaxing down the length of her supple back, I can only reminisce. Of firm breasts pressing against my chest as she fought to keep me upright, I remember thinking that Heaven h
ad nothing finer to offer. Before having to turn half away as my unruly and unfettered member let me down in a fundamental and embarrassing manner. Which she judiciously ignored.

  “Paul, it’s great to see you up, but please be careful. You’ve been off your feet for a couple of weeks now and I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

  What is it about love that changes everything? One minute you’re sane enough and concentrating on numero uno. The next you’re completely disorientated, hooked by a retroussé nose, and a look that can only be described as ‘one to die for’. Lost in a tender world you could never have imagined, even had you tried. If I’d been more a man of the world, I would no doubt have seized her then and there, laying my mouth on those lips placed so close to mine it almost hurt. But, as yet, I was unschooled in such matters. Perhaps fortunately for my esteem, it didn’t seem as though I was expected to say or do anything much and so the moment passed and I relaxed, seizing the welcome opportunity to enjoy every lingering second of surreptitious and continuing contact. And to pretend a little regarding the matter of energy and ability, because simply being near her had already given me all the stamina I needed.

  How things do change. Physically and mentally. Most of my pretensions and preconceptions had been stripped bare in those past days of imprisonment and ‘not knowing’. Days of fearing for my life. Days that had turned to weeks then months, during which I had been forced to reconsider all that I held dear, to confront every previous assumption and face down each dread as it arose. And had I but known it, I had already sunk to the root of all that mattered. Somewhere between Matt, Giuseppe, Ahmed, Adam and Roz I had grown up, matured and entered into that other reality, the world of adults, light years from youth’s dream. A world so packed with injury and destruction (for me at least) that the average individual could probably never envisage it, never confront such choices, no matter how long and varied life might be. A world of danger and hardship, of indifference, of participants too cold and devoid of basic compassion to be considered fully human, but yet a world in which unknown and unsung heroes were prepared to give their very lives as the price for a stranger, or two people could become more than the sum of their parts by falling in love and learning to share in everything. But dreams are there to be shattered and I should have known my idyll was never going to last. At any rate, that was what the world had clearly been bent on teaching me. Perhaps I just hadn’t learned the lesson. Regardless, I still had a few delicious hours in which to cement the love I not only owed Roz but longed to confirm for her anyway. And it would not be very long before I became aware of the fly in my particular ointment.