by Bruce Blake
Newspaper reports attributed the explosion at the church to a gas leak; strange enough, but more peculiar was the body found in the smoldering wreckage. It belonged to Father Dominic, the elderly priest found killed by a shotgun blast weeks before, his body cremated. That little tidbit threw the cops for a loop. If Father Dominic’s body was the one burned in the church, then who did they cremate? Or vice-versa? I didn’t know the answer, either.
During that week, my mind often wandered to the events in the church. Most importantly, that Trevor was alive and now knew I was, too. The conversation between Mikey and Azrael before they’d begun their Chuck Norris versus Bruce Lee impression also occupied my time.
“You’ve done nothing but ruin his life,” Azrael said. The words gnawed at me, termites rampant in my mind. Did he say it for my benefit, to turn me against Michael? Or was there more to it? I asked Poe, but she defended Mike the way a teenage girl might stick up for that Bieber kid. I’d have to look elsewhere for answers.
One morning, I’d had enough of staring at the wall of my room. I donned sunglasses, pulled a wooly toque tight on my head, and made my way to the park. Under the drooping limbs of the willow tree, I sat on the end of the bench where Sister Mary-Therese had sat, my derriere adding to the hundreds before that had worn the varnish through to bare wood. The solitary swan beat its wings, using its size to discourage the ducks from the bread I tossed into the water. I’d come to say yet another good-bye to Sister Mary-Therese, to tell her how much I missed her, but found myself mesmerized by the emerald algae floating atop the pond. Each movement of duck or swan sent it undulating, rippling on top of waves encouraged by a gentle autumn breeze. The water lapped at the muddy shore: the spot where Sister Mary-Therese lost her life.
I miss you.
A group of swallows flitted past, perching in the willow tree. I didn’t need to look up from the squabbling mallards to know Gabe had taken a spot on the bench beside me. I felt her energy, her presence. And you don’t often see swallows around this close to winter.
“Hi Gabe.”
She leaned back on the bench, face tilted to the afternoon sky.
“I love the sun.”
“I know.”
I tore a chunk of bread crust and tossed it to an eager drake. Another fellow that could have been its twin--no bigotry intended, but all ducks look alike--dove for it at the same time. Quacking and bickering ensued. I attempted to break up the disagreement by throwing more bread, but it only exacerbated the situation.
Gabe lowered her head and looked at me, so I turned away from the quarreling water fowl. Her entire face, down to her gingerbread eyes, smiled at me.
“You didn’t just drop by to say hello, did you?”
“Would you be happy if I did?”
“Yep.”
I threw the rest of my bread into the pond. The ducks on the shore flapped and quacked, racing for the food, leaving us alone to talk. Swallows chirped at their duck-cousins, urging them on like bettors at a horse race.
“Flattering. But I’m the messenger, you know.”
“I know.”
She pulled a scroll out of her back pocket and handed it to me. I unrolled it immediately, having learned not to delay the inevitable. Unconsciously, I held my breath as I read the swooping letters, releasing it when I didn’t recognize the name. It would be like that every time from now on.
“Dominic is gone.” She stood, and I shot her a look to let her know I didn’t appreciate her reading my thoughts, but she merely smiled. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
A few swallows fluttered out of the tree and headed for the horizon as she took a step away, then stopped. She spoke over her shoulder without facing me.
“This is the one, Icarus.”
I stared at the detailed feathers of the swallow tattoo on the back of neck, the way they shimmered like the real thing, but didn’t say anything. A nervous lump formed in my throat. After a few seconds, she turned to look at me.
“After you bring this soul to her salvation, you may start your life again.”
I sat up straight. It took a moment to gain control of my emotions enough to respond.
“Will my mother survive this time?”
Her lips twitched into a sad smile like a parent gives a child trying to understand quantum physics.
“The past cannot be changed. You will not relive the same life--that has already been done.” She stepped toward me and put her hand on my forearm. Static electricity jumped up my arm. “This life will end and a new one will begin. One where you can make new choices.”
Her gingerbread eyes held me rapt as my mind raced, playing her words over and over again until I grasped their meaning.
“A new life? I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t be Trevor’s father?”
“No, Icarus. You would be reborn tomorrow, your soul in a new life to live as you choose.”
Tears filled my eyes. After years, my son had finally called me ‘dad’ again. I had the opportunity to be part of his life in some tiny way. Could I give that up to live a better life?
“No.”
Gabe tilted her head. “No?”
“I don’t want to start again.”
She kneeled in front of me. “This is the reward for all harvesters, Icarus, not just you. If you don’t take it, you stay here harvesting souls.”
“Forever?”
She shrugged.
“I want to stay.”
“So it shall be.”
She stood and the rest of the swallows in the willow tree took flight, the sound of their wings like a drum roll in the autumn air. My heart jumped in my chest as I considered what I’d just given up.
But at least there’s Trevor.
“Will you stay with me a while?”
She stopped and lifted her face toward the sun. I don’t know if she was simply enjoying its rays or asking permission for an unscheduled coffee break.
“Sure,” she said finally and sat beside me again. “For a little while.”
We sat on the bench for a half hour, she enjoying the sun and me enjoying her proximity and the feelings of peace it brought. I wanted to ask her so much. Had I made the right decision? What would happen next? And I wanted to interrogate her about Mikey and Azrael, but the calming effect of her presence leeched the intent from me. Ducks waddled around our feet looking for more bread, swallows raced through the sky playfully chasing one another while they waited for Gabe. Neither of us spoke.
***
I arrived at the address on the scroll ten minutes before the allotted time--I’d learned my lessons the hard way. The nerves I’d felt on my way to the address dissipated when I saw the name on the building: Shady Oaks Retirement Home. Pretty good chance no one here would be a murder victim.
I hoped.
Pretending to be the devoted grandson--the one who’d never been to visit before--I inquired at the front desk about my ‘grandmother.’ Mrs. Emily Carter was in the garden, a pleasant woman told me. I strode down the hallway, perusing colorful reproductions of landscapes and animals in faux-gilt frames. When they built this place, they’d done their best to make it look like a turn-of-the-century mansion with high ceilings and elaborate crown moldings, but the effect fell short. The rust-colored carpet and cream walls were pleasant enough, but a smell reminiscent of a hospital smothered in Ben Gay permeated the place and no amount of architecture or interior design would disperse it. Most of the doors were open a crack, many leaking the sound of soap operas or game shows through the opening, but a few stood wider, revealing octogenarians sleeping peacefully in their beds. At least, I assumed they were sleeping. I didn’t see any wayward spirits hanging about.
I exited through a door looking more like it belonged on a storefront than leading to a patio, and entered the Shady Oaks’ garden. A hodge-podge of vegetation, all neatly trimmed and arranged, cluttered the little courtyard. A huge old oak dominated the middle of the yard, while a spiky monkey tree grew in one corner and a palm
in another. A variety of flowering bushes and shrubs looking rather empty and bland at this time of year filled the gaps.
Emily Carter was the lone resident of Shady Oaks--though it should have been ‘Shady Oak’ since only one oak tree grew on the grounds--taking advantage of the garden. She’d parked her wheelchair in the middle of the lawn, away from the meager shade of the barren oak. A wool blanket in a tartan pattern nestled up under her chin, an oxygen bottle hung on the back of her chair. As I approached, the way she sat made me think of Gabe, face toward the sky, basking, enjoying the sun for the last time.
What a nice way to go. Beats being knifed.
I crossed the lawn, steps quieted by grass which should have been cut once more before putting the lawn mower into hibernation for the winter, and stopped at Mrs. Carter’s shoulder. The shallowness of her breathing made it hard to believe her lungs drew air at all. I glanced at my watch: still a couple of minutes until she’d join me. To pass the time, I sat cross-legged on the lawn beside her, ignoring the autumn-dampness of the grass, and joined her in enjoying the beautiful day. The sunshine warmed my cheeks, energizing me in spite of the coolness in the air. It was easy to understand why an angel like Gabe who doesn’t get to be human all the time dug it so much.
I knew I’d made the right decision.
“Are you here for me?”
I opened my eyes and looked at Mrs. Carter’s spirit standing in front of me, casting no shadow. The soul looked very much like the Mrs. Carter sitting peacefully dead in the wheelchair beside me, but a few years younger, not quite so wrinkly. I pushed myself to my feet, wiping at the dampness on the ass of my jeans.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The muscles in my thighs tensed, ready to take off after her if she decided to flee. Being in her seventies, I assumed I’d be able to catch her. I glanced around the courtyard and saw no one watching: no humans, no carrions.
“Good,” she said slipping her arm around mine. “I’ve been waiting for you. What took you so long?”
I smiled and she led me back to the building, through the corridor and into the street beyond, chattering all the while about her life and all the things she learned this time around and how she couldn’t wait to see what the next life held in store.
Maybe this isn’t such a bad job after all.
####
About the Author
Bruce Blake lives in a small town on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest cafe to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Chemainus, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Bruce is the father of two and trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.
Bruce's first short story, “Another Man's Shoes” was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon. “Yardwork” was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod. On Unfaithful Wings is Bruce's first novel but there are many more to come.
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Coming Soon: “All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel)”
Chapter One
When your guardian angel and her friend, the archangel Gabriel, tell you to stay put, it’s probably a good idea to listen.
I should have, but I have inexplicable difficulty with authority figures.
An old Buick sat to the right of my motel room door looking like it hadn’t moved in a decade or so, and it certainly hadn’t budged since I checked in; a few other cars were parked in the motel’s lot but there were no people. I stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind me, the click of the lock firecracker-loud in the winter night.
I paused. Still no one around. I breathed deep and stepped away from the door, the first time I’d been outside the dingy, musty-smelling room in weeks.
A month ago, the police found a tranny prostitute named Dante Frank dead on a bed in a five-star hotel, hairy chest and hairless vagina exposed for the world to see along with the biblical references his killer carved in his flesh. Dante, who I’d known as Danielle Francis, was the last victim of the serial killer dubbed the Revelations Reaper by the media. The police had a suspect in the string of killings: me.
I didn’t kill them but, if the truth be told, their deaths were on me.
Forget the angels telling me to stay indoors, the fact the local news had been flashing an unflattering picture of my face on the screen every night until a week ago should have kept me inside my seedy room. But you know what they say about common sense...it ain’t so common.
Icarus Fell: living proof.
I didn’t think that because they finally stopped plastering my face all over the six o’clock news they’d stopped looking for me. Every cop in the city likely still carried my picture but, after four weeks in my motel-room-prison, the prospect of remaining inside held no appeal. I’d spent every moment of the last month thinking about my role in the deaths, wishing things were different. Another minute trapped alone with my guilt might prove one too many.
I slipped away from the motel and down a side street, disappearing in shadows and down alleys where ever I could. The taste of impending snow in the early December air fortified my lungs.
As I ranged farther from the motel, the garbage strewn on the streets and graffiti spray-painted on walls became less frequent until it disappeared completely. I’d made my way to a neighborhood where people cared, a fact which should have rang alarm bells in my head and made me more careful, but the lack of hookers and drug dealers lifted my spirits and my worry ebbed taking caution along with it.
Dumb ass.
I paused at the intersection, the lights of an approaching car reflecting on the frost-rimed pavement as I waited to be sure it would obey the stop sign. Without the fresh air loosening my wits, I’d have waved him through, but freedom made my head light in the way of a non-smoker after a few drags on a cigarette. The car’s brakes squeaked as it rolled to a halt. I stepped off the curb and raised a hand in thanks, squinting against the lights, but couldn’t see the driver. Hand replaced in pocket, I continued on my way, thinking nothing of it until I heard the hum and chatter of a power window in need of repair.
“Hey you.”
The words weren’t spoken with the timbre of someone in need of directions. The caution and worry the beautiful night had leeched from me flooded back; I quickened my pace.
“Stop.”
I broke into a run before his engine roared and tires chirped. Cutting across a well-manicured lawn, I hopped a fence, ran through a back yard dominated by an inter-locking brick patio and an in-ground pool emptied for the winter, then vaulted another fence into a rear lane, cursing my stupidity with every step.
Despite a house between us, I heard the car’s engine rev and labor as the driver gave chase. I dove through a line of tall shrubs, their branches scratching my face, and into another yard, keeping my flight to places the car couldn’t go. Ten minutes of fence-jumping and shrub-diving later, I emerged on a sporadically lit street. Familiar graffiti scrolled across the side of a building. Close to my motel. My lungs labored, the cold air hurting my chest instead of refreshing it as a stitch in my side dug in and grabbed hold. I stopped to catch my breath, bent at the waist, hands grasping knees like a marathoner run out of steam, but rest didn’t last long. A siren wailed behind me and I forced my legs back into action.
I darted into an alley and the all-too-familiar stink of garbage and piss, depression and decay hit me immediately. I’d lost so many days and nights of my youth in alleys like this, sleeping off a bottle of vodka or poking a needle in my arm. I forced the thought from my mind. This was no time to sel
f-analyze by way of shitty memories.
Tires screeched at the mouth of the alley. I didn’t look back, my attention taken by a figure stepping out of the shadows into my path. A Carrion, I assumed–a human-shaped demon sent to collect souls and make my life difficult–but I quickly realized the silhouette was smaller and more feminine, leaving two possible people. Angels, really. I halted a few paces beyond arm’s-reach in case I was wrong.
“Hey, mister. Long time, no see.”
I recognized the voice immediately. The angel stepped into the light and I saw her gingerbread hair, glimpsed the freckled skin of her cheek.
“Gabe.”
The Archangel Gabriel is the messenger. She brings scrolls with my assignments inscribed on them: who’s scheduled to pass, where, when, and where to take them when it’s done.
I couldn’t think of a worse time for her to show up.
“Did you miss me?”
Her pure voice echoed off the alley walls and a chorus of swallows which always accompanied her, but that I couldn’t see in the dark, chirped and chittered on a fire escape overhead.
“Don’t have time right now, Gabe,” I said breathlessly and glanced over my shoulder. The alley remained empty, but it wouldn’t for much longer.
“Here.”
She offered a scroll which hadn’t been in her hand a second before.
“Really, Gabe? I don’t--” I gestured toward the alley at my back, offered a pleading look. She shook the scroll at me and raised an eyebrow.
I’d learned the hard way that harvesting wasn’t the kind of job you could slack off at; the hard way seems to be the way I choose to learn everything. I gave in without any real fight.
