by Kim Wilkins
“Open your eyes, Deborah,” the sweet angel voice said.
Deborah opened her eyes and suddenly, miraculously, all anxiety and urgency evaporated. She sat up and gazed around her. A twilit landscape stretched out as far as the eye could see around her; soft grass and a balmy breeze which shifted in the treetops like a gentle caress. The trees were dark against the velvet blue sky, the stars a magnificent landscape of shimmering points. In the distance, almost hidden behind a copse of trees, was a great hall which gleamed softly in the darkness. As she was trying to make out its lineaments, a tiny pulse of light darted from behind one of the trees and raced across the sky, a cross between a shooting star and a firefly. Her eyes followed it into the darkness where it disappeared. Another light detached itself from a tree and zoomed towards her, over her head and into the twilight behind her. As it passed her, a soft feeling of well-being descended over her, and the music grew suddenly louder. She remembered in a brief instant a moment of her childhood, sitting with her first stepmother in a sunbeam in the kitchen, as a fly grazed itself against the window. Her stepmother’s hands in her hair, gently stroking the silky strands. It flashed over her and then washed away; the music faded off. More of the lights darted around her, and she could feel glimmers and edges of old memories, of soft peaceful moments in ordinary corners of ordinary places, where a first breeze of autumn, or a touch of a bird’s wing, or a glint of sunlight through leaves had made a fleeting impression of happiness on her then been forgotten. The memories spun out around her like a glimmering net, one suggesting another, enveloping her in a sense of flawless peace. She sank down to the ground again, felt the dewy grass beneath her fingers and gazed at the sky, temporarily dumbfounded. The firefly thoughts whizzed around her and the music swelled and sank.
“That is my favourite music,” she said at last. “I am so glad to know it is also the favourite music of Heaven.”
“Everyone hears different music,” the angel said, “just as everyone draws different memories from the lightspinners.”
“’Tis so very wonderful here,” she said, knowing how profoundly understated such a sentence was.
“You cannot stay, Deborah. You are to return with your angel key if it is granted.”
She sat up again. The angel sat across from her. “I do not know your name,” she said.
“Natiel. I am a seraph.”
“And you know who I am?”
“We know all the children of earth.”
“I feel I should be frightened, but —”
“Heaven is a place of peace.”
“What must I do now?”
“You must meet with a committee of angels.” He indicated the gleaming hall in the distance. “You may wait here while I arrange it. I shall call you. Enjoy Heaven, for I fear a separation for you.”
“What do you mean?” Deborah asked, but he had turned to leave, and nothing seemed urgent or frightening here, so the comment slipped off her. She lay down again and watched the lightspinners dart about in the soft twilight. Memories glimmered and faded, over and over, and she felt herself sinking further and further into a mood of deep serenity. Hearing her name roused her.
“Deborah!” Natiel called again. She sat up and saw the angel beckoning her from the hall in the distance. She rose and began to walk towards him, feeling weightless and tranquil. The trees were cool and dark around her and she slipped between them, a soft breeze lifting her hair. She drew closer to the hall, and a sweet smell of cinnamon and flowers enveloped her. Natiel opened the door of the hall, and somewhere in the very back of her mind, a nagging doubt occurred to her. He had said something to her earlier which she should be concerned about.
“Let everything be as it is,” Natiel said, and his words instantly neutralised that fleeting doubt.
Let everything be as it is.
She ascended the gleaming stairs and entered the hall. Muted white light rose from every marbled surface, a chandelier of lightspinners hung above her, and as she looked up she momentarily forgot where she was, submerged suddenly in memories. Father touching her little head and calling her a good girl; running after Mary with a kite; the way the long grass moved one afternoon in spring; the snow that had clung to her shoe and glittered like diamonds before it melted in front of the fire; crying in Anne’s arms while listening to the warm beat of her sister’s heart; one of Amelia’s cats purring gently in her lap; hot potato soup on her tongue; the feel of her favourite nightdress; the delicate touch of her own eyelash on her skin — oh, the miracle of an eyelash … infinitely, infinitely perfect moments stretched out in an immense shimmering web around her.
“Deborah, welcome to the Hall of Morning.”
She blinked and fixed her eyes on a trio of angels who sat before her at a long carved table. “I did not realise my life had been so filled with joys.”
Natiel shook his head. “Hardly anyone does. Deborah, this is Huzia, warden of this celestial hall, and Poiel, a Principality.”
She greeted each in turn, trying to tell between them. Magnetic perfection and symmetry characterised each face, leaving no distinguishing feature for her focus to light on.
“Do you like our kingdom of peace?” Huzia asked.
“’Tis heavenly,” she said, then realised what a absurd thing it was to say and started laughing. The angels laughed with her, but she saw them exchange conspiratorial glances, and again the doubt flickered in the back of her mind.
“Let everything be as it is, Deborah,” Natiel said again. “It is of no concern, for one way or another eternity will come and every man, woman and child will eventually find the pathway to this place.”
It soothed her. Let everything be as it is.
“I need an angel key. My sisters plan to kill my father, and it is due to a fallen angel.”
“We know,” Poiel said. “We know the entire story.”
“Then you will grant me an angel key? I wish to destroy Lazodeus.”
“Are you willing to pay the price?” Natiel asked. His face seemed to darken suddenly with seriousness.
“What is the price?” she asked, that niggling doubt recurring to her.
“The price we name.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“We will tell you after the angel key is returned to us. We will confer upon it until that time.”
She considered for only a moment. “I agree.”
“You are certain? For as well you know, we do not like to be commanded by mortals, and expect a high repayment from them,” Natiel said.
She nodded.
“Very well,” Huzia said, “approach the table.”
Deborah did as Huzia asked and he held out a silver rod on a chain. She took it from him reverently and examined it closer. The silver was shot through with rainbow colours. If she focussed on it very keenly, she thought she could hear a faint ring of music emanating from it. She carefully hung it around her neck.
“Listen carefully,” Poiel said. “The angel key bears mighty and dangerous powers. You are protected by angel magic now and are not susceptible to its dangers, but you must not use it near any other mortals for they may be injured or die. You must deal with Lazodeus alone. The key protects you from his subtle senses, so he will not know you are nearby unless he sees or hears you, and nor can he read your intentions. As soon as the key has appeared in his presence, he will be earthbound and must remain so until the end of the matter. When the time is right, you must say, ‘I command Lazodeus’s annihilation.’ Seven Seraphim are contained within that key, and they will carry out your command. Then they will go, the angel key will disappear, and you may expect Natiel to call upon you soon after with your price.”
Deborah nodded, trying to commit it all to memory.
“We wish you luck, Deborah,” Natiel said. He glanced towards the door of the hall. “Morning fades. The sun will soon be upon us.”
“Have you ever seen the sun rise in Heaven, Deborah?” Poiel asked with a slightly mocking smile.
&n
bsp; “You know I have not.”
“Go and watch it, for Father Infinite passes over at sunrise to tell his love to all angels,” Huzia said.
“It is a moment you will never forget,” Natiel said.
“Even if an eternity might separate you from our kingdom of peace,” Poiel said.
She turned towards the door and saw that light had begun to grow outside.
“Go, Deborah. Go and witness what you may never see again.”
A coldness began to grow in her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“Let everything be as it is,” Natiel repeated. “Go quickly.”
The sense of peace returned and she hurried her steps to the world outside. She ran through the trees and out into the open field to watch the sun’s rising. The lightspinners shot past, bringing their happy ordinary memories and she stood with her back to the night, watching as the orange blaze broke over the horizon. Golden light bathed her, drawing a long shadow behind her. Birdsong rose and the sweet taste of morning kissed her lips. A swelling of promise; something wonderful was about to happen, and she could feel it at the very core of her being. Something magnificent and brilliant was about to erupt from the horizon and wash over her and it was …
She collapsed, fell backwards. Light moved and scudded above her, a giant tide of indescribable splendour and golden shadows, and she was suddenly awash in joy, in love, in ecstasy. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he …
Cold, spluttering, choking.
“Miss, Miss, you must try to breathe.”
Gasping, coughing, suffocating.
“Turn her over.”
“Her lungs are full of water.”
Flipped violently on her stomach. Cold, hard water splashing from her nose and retching out of her. She opened her eyes. The docks, the Thames, three men in simple clothes. She fought for air, her lungs felt bruised and twisted. Her fingers grasped at her neck, ensuring the angel key was still there.
“I saw her move.”
“She is alive.”
Their rough hands pressing her back, pushing the gagging water out of her. She spat and she coughed and at last she breathed. She breathed. She breathed.
“What happened, Miss?” one of the men were asking.
“He loves me,” she said, and her voice broke over a sob and tears began to mix with the river water. “He loves me.”
Betty clung to a corner of her bed and kept one eye open at all times. The slightest noise on the stair would send her curling up into a defensive ball, John’s name on her lips. If she saw Mary again, she knew her tired heart would stop beating and she would no doubt die of fright. But what was she to do about the girl? Run away? This was her home. Any attempts to banish the girl, however, would draw more repercussions. She wished she were not too weak and tired to think about it properly.
Someone approaching. She cringed under the covers, pulling them up over her face. Not John, with his careful feel-step, feel-step on the staircase. Not Liza, who had chosen not to return. One of the girls.
“Betty?”
It was Deborah. She steeled herself. Just because the youngest girl hadn’t yet turned her witchcraft on Betty, it didn’t mean she never would. “What is it?”
Deborah found her way through the part in the curtains and Betty saw that she was drenched. She had an expression of such serious intent upon her face, that Betty felt herself flinch.
“What is it?” she said again. “What has happened? Why are you wet?”
“Betty, listen to me,” Deborah said, sinking on the bed next to her.
Betty scrambled away.
“You are so serious. You frighten me.”
“I know you are still ill,” Deborah said. “But you and Father must get out of the house.”
“Why?”
“Be not so frightened. You will be safe. I am on the verge of putting an end on this whole wretched affair.”
“Get off the bed. You are wet. I shall catch a chill and die if you soak the covers.”
Deborah did not respond. “This afternoon, you and Father must purpose to go for a walk —”
“I am suffering from a terrible illness!”
“You are recovering rapidly. The illness was advanced by magic, it did not take hold of your body completely. Trust me. To stay here a moment longer is far worse. You must walk with Father, and at the bottom of the hill I shall have a hackney coach waiting for you to take you to Dartford for the night, where the driver shall drop you at a good inn and return to collect you the next morning.”
“We cannot afford a hackney coach. We cannot afford an inn.”
“Betty,” Deborah said, raising her voice, “you must listen to me and you must do as I say. If you do not wish to preserve yourself I would allow it, but you must preserve Father.”
Her stern tone jolted Betty into silence.
“I will pay the driver of the coach in advance for the whole expedition. He will arrive at five of the clock. You are to take Father for a walk, saying you are much recovered and you wish to take some fresh air. You are to lead him to the coach, put him in it and say it is Deborah’s command, and Deborah says he must trust her. He must trust me.”
“If he does not? If he purposes to turn and come home?”
“You must not let him.” Deborah reached over for her hand, but Betty withdrew it. “Betty, it is of extreme importance that you take care of this matter.”
Betty felt a terrible frightened sadness well up within her. “I despise you,” she said. “I despise all of you.”
“When you return tomorrow it will be over. None of us, not me, not Anne and certainly not Mary, will have anything beyond the ordinary powers to control the world around us. My older sisters may be sent away as apprentices and they will have no means to stop you.” Deborah sighed. “All will be well for you.”
Betty knew she had little choice. What Deborah promised was her dearest wish. As much as she didn’t want to give Deborah the gratification of seeing her bend so easily to her will, she nodded once. “I shall do it then.”
Deborah sank forward, and Betty noticed for the first time the dark shadows beneath her eyes. “What happened to you, child?” she said, more softly than she intended.
“I believe I may have done something foolhardy.” She pressed her face into her hands then looked up to meet Betty’s gaze. “What is your fondest memory, Betty?”
“Why, I don’t know.”
“You must have at least one fond memory. You must know a moment in which all was happy.”
Betty shook her head, wondering why Deborah was asking her. “My life has been very ordinary up until recently, when it has become frightening and precarious. There have been no great moments of joy.”
“What about small moments of joy?” Deborah said.
Betty waved her away. “Go and dress in dry clothes. You will catch a chill and then be no use to anyone.”
Deborah rose and left, heavy footed. Betty watched her leave and then pressed her fingers against her lips. All so complicated. She hoped Deborah was right. She hoped it would soon be over.
Father was grumbling and Betty was coughing and Deborah was sure her plan was doomed to fail as, that afternoon shortly before the bells had rung five, she realised just how stubborn Father could be.
“Betty, you are ridiculous. Just yesterday morning you were on death’s door, and now you want to walk! Go back to bed and rest. A dead wife is of no use to me.”
“But I am well!” Another cough. Deborah winced.
“You sound unwell.”
“I believe it was a short illness which has now passed. My heart beats strongly and I wish more than any remedy for fresh air. Please, John, we needn’t walk far.”
“Father, I can vouch for Betty’s colour,” Deborah said. “Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright.” This was very far from the truth, and Betty’s look of exasperation acknowledged it.
“And what if she should fall ill while we walk? What if she collapses a
nd I cannot revive her?”
“‘Twill not happen, John,” Betty said.
“I shall walk with you, then,” Deborah said suddenly. “I will be the guardian of you both.”
Father relented. “Very well, if she is determined to walk.”
“Yes, I am,” Betty said.
Deborah heard footsteps on the stairs and her skin itched with anxiety. How was she to get her sisters out of the house next?
Still, one problem at a time.
“Very well, let us go, for evening will soon be upon us,” Deborah said, leading Father to the door and fixing his hat upon his head. “Come, Father, here are your gloves.”
Betty looked very pale and Deborah hoped she was not sending her stepmother into the arms of a greater infection. She steeled herself against such thoughts. It must be over. It must be over soon. She ushered them out in front of her and began the descent down the hill. She could see the hackney coach waiting at the bottom of the Walk — she had paid for the whole venture from the bag of conjured guineas — and felt her pulse rise. It was up to Betty to get Father into the coach. They approached it slowly. A few yards away, Deborah said, “I have a hole in my shoe.”
Betty turned to her and gave her a determined nod. “Return home then. We shall wait here at the corner.”
Father stood staring into blind nothing, unaware of the plan.
Deborah pressed two guineas into Betty’s hand. “I shall return presently.”
Betty eyed the money in shock. “Good luck,” she managed, as Deborah ran up the hill.
Deborah paused at the door of their house, could see Betty and Father arguing. Long moments passed. She watched, her breath held in the hollow of her throat. Then, miraculously, Father was climbing into the coach and the driver was assisting Betty.
