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Angels on Fire

Page 7

by Nancy A. Collins


  “Roughly speaking, yes. Although perhaps a better analogy would be that of a park ranger sent to retrieve an animal that’s wandered off its preserve. Since the Beginning, whenever an angel has fallen into the mortal world, Nisroc has been assigned to retrieve it before it is corrupted. Most of the sojourners return as soon as they are located.”

  “Corrupted—? Are they afraid I’ll teach Joth to smoke, play cards and swear?”

  Ezrael shook his head. “It’s not that sort of corruption that concerns them. You’ve already had a brush with one such agent.”

  “That devil Meresin, or whatever he called himself?”

  “He’s a daemon, actually. He’s a get of the Infernal Machine, just as Nisroc is a spawn of the Clockwork.”

  “So—these Machinists that Nisroc mentioned, they’re daemons?”

  “Yes. However, the Horde, much like the Host, are not what you might think they are.”

  “Nisroc also said something about me having a halo—what was that about?”

  Ezrael grunted and rubbed his brow with the ball of his thumb. “The Clockwork is geared to one thing and one thing only: Creation. It is a generative force. It does nothing but eat positive energy and excrete galaxies. All living things are part of Creation—be they daffodils, jellyfish or orangutans. By reproducing and continuing their genetic structure, they feed the Clockwork.

  “Yet all living things serve the Infernal Machine as well, for in order to survive, all things must consume other things, and, in the end, all things must die. War, disease, misery—these things feed the Machine.”The creation of anything, whether it is a bird’s nest, a pointed stick or a thatched hut, serves to feed the Clockwork. Science and the discovery of new things feed the Clockwork, as does the service of justice and the healing of the sick. But it is not as simple as it might first sound. When a disease is conquered, the Clockwork is enriched. Yet when plague is rampant on the land, the Clockwork still thrives, for diseases are living things as well— things that breed and live and die, in their tiny, destructive way. So to destroy a disease is also to strike a blow against the Clockwork.

  “The Clockwork cannot operate without the Machine, nor can the Machine exist without the Clockwork. This is the First and Oldest Truth, as reflected in Ouroboros: the Great World Serpent, the Everlasting Circle and the I-Ching. The Clockwork and the Machine are the Consumer and the Consumed, the Dual Natures That Never Meet—except in one place, and one place only.”

  “Where is that?” Lucy asked.

  “In the heart of Man,” Ezrael said with a wise, sad smile. “Humankind is the fruit of the union of the Undivided Twin. In your way, you are demigods. You hold within you the seeds of Heaven and Hell. Every child born into Creation is a potential Merlin, Buddha, Jesus, or Athena—although most end up as accountants, mothers and farmers.

  “You’ve no doubt noticed the physical differences between Joth and the average human. The lack of genitals and fingerprints is nothing compared to what they lack within.”

  “You mean angels don’t have souls?”

  Ezrael shrugged. “Souls are no big thing. Many mortals live their lives without them. No, what the Celestials and Infernals lack is free will. Celestials are the spawn of the Clockwork, Infernals the get of the Machine. Yet your breed was born of the Machine and the Clockwork’s convergence. The results are as different as those of masturbation and copulation.

  “You see, the richest source of positive energy resides in those things created by mortal hands, for they are imbued with a tiny spark identical to that which fires the Clockwork at its heart. A thing of True Beauty awakens something of the divine in all who behold it, be it a painting, sculpture, pottery or a poem. These icons have the power to inspire those who look upon them throughout the ages and are loci of immense energy, providing, the Clockwork with its most potent food source. The best I can compare it to is the royal jelly that turns a drone into a queen bee.

  “Art, music, literature—none of these things would exist without the driving force that motivates humans to do more than hunt and gather and reproduce. This is the heritage bequeathed you by the Clockwork. And it is a precious one, indeed. Yet, mankind also has a genius for destruction, inherited from the Machine.

  “Animals do not destroy. They kill only out of hunger or self-defense. Man destroys because it pleases Man to do so. Animals do not create. They breed and build, spurred only by the need for food and survival. Man creates because it pleases Man to do so. And that, in the end, is what counts.

  “You hold the universe inside you. You’re not all one thing or another, but a combination: good and evil, wise and foolish, innocent and corrupt, hero and coward. In the heart of every sinner is a glimmer of saint—just as in the holy man lies hidden the sinner’s taint. To be absolutely Good or Evil is to be barren—bereft of the drive to create a world beyond one’s self. Humanity is not an inferior copy of the angels—they are but poor shadows of you!

  “Your power lies in your diversity. For only through verisimilitude can creativity emerge. Mortals are the only players on the board who have the capacity for surprise. A pawn may turn into a knight, while a king might prove to be worth no more than a rook. Animals are predictable in their actions and reactions to stimuli. Even their panic and aggression can be foreseen, given proper knowledge of the individual species. But humans— while you still possess a strong herd instinct, you are capable of foiling any number of well-laid plans by your simple unpredictability! Humans are creatures of chaos and order, law and misrule. You possess a capacity for duality which Nisroc and Meresin lack.

  “Meresin is a corrupter of souls, a sower of discord, a tempter of the weak and base—not because he chooses to be, but because it simply is his Nature to do those things, just as it is in the nature of a bird to fly or a fish to swim. Conversely, Nisroc is compelled to oppose Meresin’s machinations, not because it is motivated by any desire for the Greater Good, but because it is impossible for it not to do so. It would be like a duck sinking to the bottom of a lake—anti-nature.

  “While you would do well to fear Meresin, you are far from helpless in the face of the supernatural. You see, Meresin is at the greater disadvantage, so he must use all the powers at his disposal. It is Meresin who should cower and quake at the mere thought of crossing swords with you!”

  “That’s really nice of you to say, speaking as a human and all,” Lucy replied. “But what does any of that have to do with the halo Nisroc was talking about?”

  “Hm? Oh, forgive me—I did get sidetracked, didn’t I? Well, as I warned you, there are no simple answers in this situation.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “The halo Nisroc mentioned is a reference to your aura, Ms. Bender.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Angels! Auras! The I-Ching! You’re not going to start talking about chakras next, are you?”

  “Only if you insist. Now, allow me to explain: all things possess an aura, invisible to the human eye. The nature of the aura varies from individual to individual, but its strength is determined by the individual’s alignment...”

  “I knew it,” Lucy muttered under her breath. “Here come the chakras.”

  “Please! Allow me to finish! This alignment shows how greatly influenced the individual is by the Clockwork or the Machine. There are other factors involved—such as emotions and physical illness—that affect the halo, but alignment is the most important.”

  Ezrael fell silent for a moment as he studied Lucy, his lips pursed while he looked her up and down. “In your case, your halo shows extremely heavy influence from the Clockwork—you look shocked. Why is that?”

  “I guess I’m surprised—I’ve never considered myself particularly religious.”

  “Ms. Bender—religion has nothing to do with whether one is influenced by the Clockwork or not! The simple fact of being a female ties you to the Clockwork at its most primal level. You are also an artist, which binds you even tighter yet. Thirdly, you bear the genetic mark of those
sensitive to the invisible world. Is there insanity in your family?”

  Lucy blushed furiously and dropped her gaze to the floor. Ezrael smiled and gave her hand a pat.

  “Come now—you need not be ashamed. Was it your mother?”

  She lifted her eyes to Ezrael’s and nodded, too shocked to speak.

  “Your mother had inner sight, Lucy, but not what was necessary to endure it. Often it lies dormant until a grave emotional or physical shock awakens it, usually far too late in life to do more than damage. But you are an artist, which means that your inner sight is constantly active—like an old dog that dozes with an eye half-open.”

  “Is that why I can see Joth’s wings and no one else can?”

  “In part. But, more importantly, you were at ground-zero when Joth fell to earth. That is why you can see its true nature while others do not. They see only what they expect to see. As I said, your kind is gifted, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t fools.”

  “You keep saying ‘your kind,’ and ‘you humans,’“ Lucy frowned. “You’re not still an angel—are you?”

  Ezrael laughed and shook his head. “No, I haven’t been one in quite some time! I am, however, what is known as a Muse.”

  “Muse—? But aren’t they supposed to be women tricked out in sheets?”

  “—wearing a laurel wreath and carrying a lyre? Hardly. While some of us are female, not all of us fit such a strictly classical definition. And before you ask, while I am not a human, I assure you I am mortal. While killing me is exceptionally difficult, as my enemies have discovered over the centuries, and I age very, very slowly, I am capable of dying. I surrendered my immortality a long, long time ago, under circumstances very similar to Joth’s.”

  “What? I don’t understand—?”

  “As I said earlier, it is not unheard of for angels to fall from their world to this. And, as I said, Nisroc is usually quick to retrieve them, for the longer an elohim is away from the Host, the more unstable it becomes. But should something interfere with the initial retrieval—then the sojourner has only two more chances to return to the Host.”

  “What if next time Joth tells them he wants to return?”

  “It will have to undergo purification in the Fire of Righteousness, in order to burn away all the impurities it has acquired from Creation. The Fire is fierce and terrible, and Joth would have to dwell in its heart for a year or more before being allowed near the Clockwork.”

  “What if Joth didn’t return?”

  “Then it will turn into a daemon.”

  Lucy gasped audibly, glancing first in Joth’s general direction, then back to Ezrael. “Wait a minute—I thought you said you weren’t on Meresin’s side!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not!” he chuckled. “The transformation from angel into daemon is not Joth’s only possible fate. It will only become a daemon if its refusal to return is not of its own choosing. If Joth decides to remain on earth of its own free will—then the fires of Creation shall burn away its divinity and it will be as other mortals.

  “It will be as if Joth was born into the world a full-grown human, knowing hunger and want and cold for the first time—but also discovering joy and warmth and love. What happens after that is up to Joth. Not all former angels are Muses, though most of us are—since we can be as unpredictable as any human, now that we have free will. However, most of us find ourselves drawn to the Blessed; those humans who possess within them the divine spark—creative types, such as artists, builders, inventors and the like.

  “I, personally, have a predilection for the visual arts, although I know a fellow Muse who leans more towards playwrights. By using my magick in subtle ways, I encourage to greatness talent that might otherwise find itself thwarted or consumed. In this way I still serve the Clockwork. But now the service is of my own choosing.”

  “So—Joth will become mortal if he—”

  “It! Joth is an it, not a he. Besides, there’s no guarantee, should Joth choose to remain on earth, that it would become male.”

  “Okay, whatever. As I was saying—Joth will become normal if it chooses to remain on Earth of its own free will. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “But you said angels don’t have free will.”

  “Yes,” Ezrael sighed, sipping his tea. “Bit of a Catch-22, that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lucy glanced out the window and saw the sun going down. “Oh, Jesus!” she moaned as she slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot to call in sick!”

  Ezrael grunted as he ferried their empty cups to the sink. “Where do you work?”

  “A brokerage firm on Wall Street. I’m a clerk-typist. It sucks, but it pays the bills.”

  “I’d say you had other things besides work on your mind today.”

  “Yeah,” Lucy sighed. “I really thought the sky was the limit this morning. Now I feel like I’m looking up at it from the bottom of a dry well.” Lucy shook her head in disgust. “That’s what I get for having great expectations!”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Ezrael smiled. “After all, you’re only human.”

  “Which puts me in the minority around here,” she said, resting her chin on her fist. “So what do I do now?”

  “We prepare ourselves.”

  Lucy turned to fix Ezrael with a quizzical stare, cocking one eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘we,’ white man?” she asked.

  Ezrael laughed as he squeezed her shoulder. “I am here to help, Lucy, whether you choose to believe it or not.” The older man fished an antique pocket watch out of the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and frowned at it. “You are right about one thing, however—time is slipping away. If I am to be ready for what lies ahead, I must make a few errands before it gets too late.” He snapped the watch shut and returned it to his pocket. “I will try to be as quick about my business as I can. You stay here and keep watch over Joth. Do you have a spare key?”

  “Look in the cookie jar,” Lucy said, pointing at a large ceramic bear set atop the refrigerator. “Uh—don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing, Mr. Ezrael—”

  “Call me Ez,” he said, plucking the spare key from where it was taped inside the bear’s head, pocketing it as easily as a magician would a coin. “And I’m doing this because I owe it to Joth—and to the memory of someone I cared for a long time ago.”

  The former angel motioned for her to follow him. “I need you to make sure the door is locked behind me when I leave. And while I’m gone, allow absolutely no one entry! Meresin is far from the only Machinist in New York City—any one of which would most gladly surrender a horn or a hoof to make Joth one of their number.”

  Lucy followed Ezrael to the front door, trying her best not to let the fear rising within her show in her eyes. Muggers and serial killers were nothing compared to the Unknown—the fear of which, countless eons ago, had given form and reason to such half-glimpsed things as Joth and Meresin in the first place. As she moved to close the door, Ez grabbed the door jam and thrust his face back in one last time.

  “Remember—allow no one entrance until I return!”

  “I understand. Just hurry back, okay?”

  Lucy quickly locked the door and shot the deadbolt into place. She hurried through the apartment, turning on all the lights, banishing the shadows back to their corners. She hadn’t realized how late it was until she turned on the lights in the living room, causing the walls to leap out like guests at a surprise party.

  Once all the lights were on and the doors and windows shut tight, Lucy sank down onto the red velour sofa, chin propped atop her fist, and stared at her peculiar house guest. Joth remained motionless, hunkered on the living-room floor like a living gargoyle, eyes fixed on some unknown point. Lucy was glad Ezrael was gone. She needed time to marshal her thoughts and try to digest all she had been told. Up until now, things had been moving way too fast for her to do anything but react.

  Assuming everything Ezrael
told her was true and she wasn’t tied to a bed in Bellevue talking to the ceiling-tiles, she had no other choice but to trust him. It had been a long time since she had to do that. After all, Manhattan was hardly a city that encouraged its citizens to put their faith in absolute strangers. Everyone here was out for themselves, as Nevin had amply proven.

  Thinking of Nevin made her wince and rub the back of her head. Now that all the lights were on, it was impossible to ignore how bare the walls looked. She sighed and bit her lower lip. There was a down-side to catching her breath—up until now she hadn’t had time for feeling used.

  What she was experiencing, however, was more anger aimed at herself, not at Nevin. She was mad at herself for being so damned stupid—again. The signs had been there for her to see, but she had—as usual—chosen to ignore them. She used to think she was unlucky in love, but now she was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t just out-and-out masochistic.

  The lump in her throat had grown so large and heavy it was strangling her. She grabbed a short, tight gasp of air around it, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to keep the tears from spilling, unbidden, down her cheeks. So much of her time, self and money had been tied up in those photographs. Losing them was like having a pet taken from her. Now all she had left was one picture—the hand-tinted print of the irises lying atop her mother’s casket. And the only reason Nevin hadn’t taken that as well was because the frame was damaged. She had been upset when Joth broke the frame earlier—but now she was glad it happened. She didn’t know how she would have handled Nevin absconding with that piece. She glanced over at where the print rested in its ruined frame, propped against the wall.

  “Oh, Mama,” she sighed, shaking her head. “What would, you make of all this, huh?” The tears came then. She had not cried at her mother’s funeral. Nor had she cried in the three years since. Now, she finally let her grief come forth. “Mama,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely squeeze the words out. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Lucy had spent most of her life trying not to think about Mama; first out of shame, then out of guilt, but mostly out of fear. The fear that if she thought too much about Mama, she would end up like her.

 

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