The Bone Cup

by L. J. LaBarthe

  “It is to be endured,” Michael said. “I would endure worse to make the one I love happy.”

  “You’re such a good boy, Mike,” Raziel said.

  “Perhaps. Excuse me.”

  Gabriel heard Michael walk to him and felt his lover’s hand in his. “Gabriel,” Michael said softly, “are you angry with me?”

  Gabriel looked at him and sighed. “No, not really. Raph’s right, I was scared, and I know, in my head, that you’re okay, and you’ll be fit and healthy really soon, but in my heart, I’m still a bit freaked out. I’m sorry.”

  “It is all right. I understand.” Michael gave Gabriel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “In no time at all, you will see for yourself that I am truly well, and we will both be happy again.”

  Gabriel pulled a rueful face. “You’re so good to me.”

  “Sometimes not as good as I fear I should be. Nevertheless, we have work to do, so let us begin.” Michael tugged Gabriel’s hand gently, and Gabriel moved with him, rejoining the group of Archangels.

  “We’ll need to cleanse them one piece at a time,” Raziel said. “Here’s the bowl.” He withdrew a silk-wrapped object from his satchel and carefully removed it from its covering.

  The interior of it was dark, like burned wood, and there was a strange odor coming from it. Gabriel wrinkled his nose even as Tzadkiel asked, “Why does it stink?”

  “That is the smell of halted magical corruption,” Raziel said. “It will be gone soon.” He held out the bowl in both hands. “Now, we must all touch the rim of it and concentrate on cleansing it, on it being free of evil and returning it to its natural state as an object of good and of God, Earth, Hell, and Purgatory.”

  They all reached out and laid their fingers on the rim, feeling the carefully worked wood beneath their skin. Despite the smell and the blackness of the stain inside it, the bowl felt smooth and Gabriel could tell that it had been made out of love. That was astonishing in itself—that even after Naamah’s ritual, the sense of deep and abiding love that had filled the wood turner when he had made the object remained.

  “Begin… now,” Raziel said, and as one, the ten Archangels focused on the bowl and the things that Raziel had instructed. As they poured their power into it, the object began to glow, black and ugly at first, gradually fading until the glow was a pure white. Before Gabriel’s eyes, he could see the burn marks fade, draining away from the wood and out of the cells of the piece like water poured from a cup.

  It took them a few hours, for Naamah had worked hard to corrupt it and manipulate its power to her will. At the end of it, when Raziel set the bowl down on the altar stone, all of the Archangels were panting, and some of them were sweating.

  “This is hard work,” Tzadkiel said. He peeled off his woolen coat, folded it up and placed it on a rock not far from the altar.

  “Harder than it looks, anyway,” Haniel agreed. “I had no idea magically cleaning up a corrupted holy object would be such tough work.”

  “Sometimes, working with one’s mind is more difficult than working with one’s hands,” Samael said. “It appears that this ritual of cleansing that we are doing is one such thing—much more is required than would be needed to reconstruct a ruined house, for example.”

  “Water?” Remiel asked. He held out two large bottles. “Have a drink, guys, and then we’ll do the trencher.”

  They passed the water bottles around until they were drained of their contents. Remiel collected them and concentrated, filling the bottles up again.

  “Because I bet we’ll need a drink when we’ve finished with the trencher,” Remiel said. He set the bottles down on the sandy floor and when he straightened up again, he squared his shoulders. “Okay, Raz, let’s do the next one.”

  Raziel dutifully pulled the silk-wrapped trencher out of his satchel, unwrapped it, and held it out.

  “As we did with the bowl, we must do with the trencher,” Raziel said.

  Once again, they laid their hands on the rim of the trencher, and once again, there was a sense of watching decay and disease drain away. Gabriel felt the lingering sense of love once more, and he wondered who had made these vessels and had imbued them so deeply with love. It wasn’t a specific love, more a love of everything—of life, of freedom, of God, of Jesus, of fate, of Creation. It was a comforting sort of love, the sort of love that Gabriel knew intimately from Heaven.

  He gasped as that thought entered his head. “Jesus made these, didn’t he?”

  Raziel nodded as he set the trencher beside the bowl. “He did, yes. He made them when he worked with his father, Joseph.”

  “That’s why they feel so full of love, like Heaven does,” Gabriel said.

  Raziel smiled. “Very good, Gabriel. You are absolutely correct.”

  “I had no idea,” Metatron said. He stared at the bowl and trencher and then at Gabriel, profound respect on his face. “That’s amazing.”

  “What about the cup, though?” Remiel asked.

  “That wasn’t made by Jesus or Joseph,” Raziel said.

  “Then who made it?” Samael asked.

  Raziel quirked a small, whimsical smile. “Guilty,” he said.

  As one, they gawped at him and Gabriel blinked several times. “What the hell? How… why… what?”

  Raziel laughed. “That’s a fantastic reaction. Okay, so God came to me. Well, His voice did. He told me that I needed to make a cup for His son for a special feast, a final feast for Jesus and his disciples. I asked what sort of cup, and He said only that it should be made from bone. And let me tell you, Archangel or no, making a cup that’s watertight out of bone isn’t easy! But I did it, obviously, and Jesus used it, and then it was used to collect his blood while he was on the cross at Calvary. I didn’t know it was going to end up doing that, obviously, but I still felt horribly guilty.”

  “Oh, Razzy,” Uriel said softly. He hugged Raziel quickly. “You shouldn’t feel guilty, baby. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. But something I made was used as part of the destruction of the Son of God, our maker, and it’s hard not to disassociate oneself.” Raziel shrugged. “I’m over it now, but it took me a while.”

  “I wondered why you took it so hard when Christ died,” Uriel mused. “I mean, we all took it hard, but you were fucking inconsolable for months.”

  “Well, now you know.” Raziel smiled a watery little smile.

  “May we see the cup?” Michael asked.

  “Oh right. Yeah.” Raziel dipped his hand into his satchel once more and pulled out the last silk-wrapped object. He removed the covering and held it out.

  It was squat and round and a yellowish-white color. There were wine stains on the rim and in the bowl of it, and it looked more like a beaker than a cup or goblet. Gabriel squinted at it.

  “It ain’t that pretty, really,” he said.

  “As I said, working with bone to fashion a cup is not easy,” Raziel said.

  “What sort of bone did you use?” Haniel asked.

  “Cow. I sort of banged together hollowed-out tibia bones and sealed up the bottom of it with a scapula bone. I used a paste of various herbs and gum Arabic to make it watertight.” Raziel looked critically at the cup. “Then I had the fun of carefully sanding it back so it was smooth. Let me tell you, inhaling bone dust is highly irritating. I sneezed more during that than I ever have in my life.”

  “Remarkable,” Remiel said.

  “It is one of a kind,” Samael said. “Made by Raziel, as is the book, Sefer Raziel. God has asked difficult things of you, dear friend. But never more than He knew what you were capable of doing.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it?” Raziel brightened, looking happier than he had. “I’m damn glad that Naamah didn’t corrupt this, though. I’m a bit fond of this little cup. It’s not my finest work, but it was my toughest.”

  “Do we need to do what we did with the other two bits to this one?” Haniel asked.

  Raziel shook his head. “All we need to do is give it a ble
ssing. That shouldn’t take us long, should it?”

  There was a murmur of agreement and once more, Raziel held out his hands, and the cup sat within them. Because the rim was much smaller than the bowl and trencher were, each Archangel rested his index finger on it and concentrated, praying and blessing the cup, pouring their benediction into it.

  It took them ten minutes, and when they were finished, Raziel turned to the altar stone. He carefully set down each item of the Holy Grail: the trencher, the bowl, and the cup. Side by side, they looked utterly unremarkable and not at all like objects of tremendous power. Gabriel felt a little awed by them, by just how ordinary they were and how they were so very important to all life everywhere.

  “Is it done?” Michael asked.

  “Should we do the protections on the cave outside it or while we’re inside it?” Raziel asked.

  “What do you think?” Samael enquired.

  “Well, I don’t think it would matter either way,” Raziel said.

  “Why don’t we do it while we’re still inside?” Tzadkiel suggested. He nodded his thanks to Remiel as he took one of the water bottles. He toyed with the lid a moment as he added, “That way, we don’t have to worry about tourists or curious wildlife.”

  “Or rain,” Uriel said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Not being soaked while we work would be awesome,” Haniel agreed.

  “All right then, let’s do it like that,” Raziel said.

  “In an unbroken circle, holding hands again?” Gabriel asked.

  “It’s the best way to keep what we’re doing in synch,” Raziel said.

  “Right.” Gabriel reached out and took Michael’s hand with his left, with his right, he took Samael’s. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “AND SO all is well again?” Ishtahar asked.

  Remiel nodded. He sat in the comfortable armchair before the fire, nursing a cup of tea as the love of his life seated herself opposite him. “We cleansed out the Grail, left it in its cave, sealed it up and then went our separate ways. Mike’s a bit sore from his injury, but Raph says he’ll be fine. That’s about the only negative.”

  “But Gabriel is worried?” Ishtahar asked.

  “Oh yeah.” Remiel laughed. “He’s like a mother hen.”

  “Do not tease him, beloved. You would be the same in his position.”

  “That’s true.” Remiel reached over and squeezed one of Ishtahar’s hands. “How are the boys?”

  “They are well. Ahijah is helping a family at the end of the street with their sick cow, and Hiwa remains in Russia.” She rolled her eyes comically. “He telephoned earlier, promised that he would stay out of trouble, but I know him, I know that he is probably associating with criminals even now.”

  Remiel sat back. “You can’t change him, dear heart.”

  “I know. But I am his mother and I worry,” Ishtahar said. “I feel badly that I did not do more to steer him toward a decent and honest life.”

  “You did all you could, Ish.” Remiel set down his cup and got up, moving to Ishtahar’s side. He dropped down to his knees and wrapped his arms around her. “They love you. You’ll always be their mama, and they’ll always be your little boys. But they’re grown now, and they know what they’re doing, even if you don’t like it.”

  “I suppose,” Ishtahar grudgingly agreed. “But I do not have to approve!”

  “If you approved of Hiwa being a Russian criminal mastermind, I’d wonder if you’d taken a fever,” Remiel said. He kissed the back of Ishtahar’s hand. “It’ll be okay. Now that things are getting back to normal, we can all move forward.”

  “Which reminds me,” Ishtahar said, sitting up straight. “Ahijah, the prophecy he found. It was correct, was it not?”

  “That’s hard to say,” Remiel said. He sat back on his heels. “Raziel’s got this theory. At first, I thought he’d managed to hit his head on a very big rock and his brains had dribbled out of his ears, but Haniel, Metatron, and I talked about it while we were tending the graves of Gabe’s kids with Sammy.”

  “And what is this theory, and what did they say?”

  “Raz thinks that God’s tired of endless war. You know, the one between Heaven and Hell.”

  “Ah,” Ishtahar said. “I see. Yes, I can see how he would think this. There has been much work done in concert with Archdemons of late, and this has not been the case before. In fact, they have been invaluable in many endeavors. And so, it leads me to think that perhaps Hashem is not alone in His weariness and Lucifer Morningstar is as well.”

  Remiel blinked, surprised. “You knew?”

  Ishtahar canted her head to one side. “Knew? Is this also what you, Haniel, Metatron, and Samael spoke of?”

  “Yeah.” Remiel stared at her. “You’re an amazing person, Ish. How did you figure this out so quick?”

  “Because you said of Hashem…”

  “And you figured the rest,” Remiel finished. “Blimey. Okay, that’s the whole theory. You think it makes sense?”

  “I do. Lucifer is content in Hell, is he not?” As Remiel nodded, Ishtahar went on. “Then I do not see that the need to continue the ongoing stalemate and small battles that makes the war in Heaven everlasting. We are all old, and we know from the Nephilim here in this village that they are weary of war, weary of hiding from vengeful angels. They do not entirely accept that the order to slaughter them has been rescinded, it is true, but they will, over time. And so it will be with this.”

  “I wish you could explain this to those who are going to have a shit-fit,” Remiel said. “There’ll be souls like Camael, who think this is all an abomination, and they won’t just be limited to Heaven. Beings in Hell, Purgatory, and here on Earth won’t agree—or believe.”

  “What will be, will be,” Ishtahar said. “And what will finally be, will be wonderful.”

  Remiel smiled, reaching up to run a hand through her long black hair. “I hope you’re right.”

  AGRAT AND Lilith walked slowly through the long grass. The meadow was another surprise here in Purgatory, a place that Agrat had always thought of as being shrouded in shadow and despair. She had quickly learned that yes, there were parts of it that were indeed dark, but that was for the vampires and other monsters who could not survive the daylight. Purgatory provided environments for all her residents, and the monsters who dwelt there, both the living and the souls of the dead, loved their peculiar, myth-like home.

  For herself, Agrat was discovering beauties that she had never seen before. The previous evening, Morgana and Arthur had taken her and Lilith to listen to a concert given by a clan of fairies, and their high, sweet voices had filled the night air with song and life. Agrat had been moved more than she could remember being in some centuries by the song, telling of the history of the fairies, their triumphs and struggles, their loves and losses. She had been honored when Morgana had introduced the fairy princess who ruled this particular clan, and the tiny creature had settled on the palm of her hand.

  And then in the morning, Arthur had taken them to meet a group of weres, shifters of all shapes and sizes. They had been very shy, but Lilith had bowed to them and blessed them, and the weres had soon grown bolder. They had provided lunch for their guests, a spread of dishes that Agrat had not eaten for centuries, and bright red wine, and there had been laughter and conversation such that Agrat had felt a pang of regret when Arthur had said they had to go.

  Now, Arthur was taking them to meet a group of giants who lived in the foothills of the mountains where the witches and wizards lived, and Lilith was excited, practically quivering with it. Agrat knew why—Lilith’s first children had been giants and they had been slaughtered, their souls banished to Purgatory. She hoped, for her sister’s sake, that she would be able to commune with her long-dead offspring, even as she looked around the lush green meadow and smiled at the loud singing of a thrush in a nearby oak.

  “They’re still a little wary, Auntie Lilitu,” Arthur said as t
hey walked. “Everyone saw the smoke when the Archangels set fire to Mother’s house. They came to watch, and I don’t think they all quite believe that they’re free again.”

  “You know we really are sorry about the way things went with your mother,” Agrat said.

  Arthur gave her one of his sweet, innocent smiles. “I know. And that means a lot. We haven’t known you very long, but you’re more family to us than she ever was.”

  Morgana came up to walk beside Agrat and took her hand. Agrat smiled warmly at the girl. “Mother would never let me do this,” Morgana said. “She hated it when we touched her.”

  Agrat and Lilith exchanged a sad look.

  “I wish we had known about you sooner,” Lilith said. “But we are here now, and we’ll make up for lost time.”

  “Purgatory is happy you’re here,” Arthur said. “I can feel it.”

  “You are in tune with your home, dear Arthur. It is normal and natural that you are aware of how it feels,” Agrat said.

  “Well,” Arthur said, “I do love it here.”

  “So do I,” Morgana said.

  “Mother didn’t,” Arthur added.

  “Your mother was what we in Hell call a damn fool,” Lilith said.

  Agrat laughed. “Not just in Hell, Lilitu. On Earth, in Heaven, everywhere.”

  “Some things are universal,” Lilith agreed.

  “One day,” Morgana said, “could we meet Lucifer and Shateiel?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Lilith said. “You might have to visit Hell to meet my dearest Morningstar. He doesn’t leave his kingdom.”

  “But I would be honored to bring Shateiel here to meet you both,” Agrat said. “He’s been here once before, some years ago. I don’t think he spent much time here, though, so he would not have been aware of Naamah.”

  “He was looking for something to do with those angel kidnappers, wasn’t he?” Lilith asked.

  “Yes,” Agrat said.

  “Then he probably wouldn’t have been around here. It’s too lovely. It isn’t really what you associate with demons, though demons do love beauty.”