by C. L. Roman
“If he survived the last battle against Sabaoth, he is the lucky one,” Sena said, and shivered, closing her eyes against the memory of her last view of Par-Adis. Behind her eyelids, she could see it still; angels falling, screaming in agony, from the halls of Heaven, their wings afire, hair and clothes streaming smoke and blood, lightning searing through the air, bodies vaporized with each flash. “Or perhaps not so lucky after all.”
“Fine then,” Volot stared at his hands in the firelight, then turned a heated glance to Adahna, “Why should “Lucky” even care about us?”
“He was always arrogant and prideful. He will see anyone who didn’t support him as an enemy and he will want vengeance.” Fomor flicked a look at Volot under his brows. “Lucky was an archangel, the oldest and most powerful among us. Only a fool would ignore the threat he represents.”
Volot stared at his commander, acknowledging the truth of his words with a short jerk of his chin before turning to Adahna. “Have you seen any signs that “Lucky” or any of his minions have traveled through here?”
Adahna looked at Fomor before replying. “None. The last thing I saw before shifting down here was Sabaoth joining the battle Himself. I don’t think even “Lucky,” she slanted a wry glance at Volot, “could have survived direct conflict with the Maker.”
Jotun leaned forward, “We have seen no further evidence of battle since our arrival here.”
“You mean the Fallen have stopped hurtling to Earth like miniature comets?” Volot asked, one pale eyebrow lifting, mocking Jotun’s attempt at delicacy.
Grimacing, Jotun nevertheless nodded in agreement.
“Then it is possible that the battle is over,” Adahna said.
Sena sat forward from where she had been reclining in Gant’s arms. “Then we can go home,” she exclaimed.
The others looked at her sadly but it was Fomor who spoke, his voice low with regret.
“The battle may be over. If so,” he looked up and his gesture took in all of creation, from earth to sky, “the fact that the Earth still exists is proof enough that Lucky has lost, but that can make no difference to us. Jotun is right to call us deserters. It may be that we can never go home.” He looked away from Sena’s crushed expression, reflecting that, though it was unusual for angels to mate, it was good that she and Gant had each other. Exile would be easier shared. He turned back to the group and said as much. “I have led you to this, and I can no longer claim to be your captain but—”
“You are my captain,” Jotun said, “now and always. I will not be doubly forsworn.”
Murmurs of assent came from all sides and Fomor bowed his head a moment, hiding his expression from them. He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak again, but his voice was strong when he did.
“Very well then. If Lucky,” his mouth twisted in grim amusement at the appellation, “has escaped somehow – and if anyone could, it would be him – then the war is not over. Even if we did return and were not summarily executed, we could face the same choice we fled from in the first place.”
“I did not flee,” Volot said, bridling at the implication.
“What else might you call it?” Phaella asked, speaking for the first time since her arrival in camp.
Volot sprang to his feet and rounded on her. “I am not afraid to fight,” he snarled.
Adahna put out a restraining hand, “None of us fled Par-Adis from fear, Volot. It is not cowardice to refuse to kill one’s brother.”
“Neither is it bravery to desert in the midst of battle.” Phaella refused to look at her companions, staring instead into the flickering heart of the fire.
“We were not in battle, we received no orders,” Volot shot back, his grip tightening around his scimitar hilt. Gant leapt between his sister and the angry lieutenant even as Phaella sprang up. Suddenly, five angels were on their feet, angry shouts filling the air, hands trembling dangerously near their weapons.
Fomor looked over at Adahna and signaled with a twitch of his fingers. Adahna sighed and stood wearily to her feet. Raising two fingers to her lips she let out a piercing whistle that had every voice mute and every eye upon her before the shrill sound died on the wind.
Fomor’s voice cracked into the ensuing silence with equal parts authority and despair. “Enough. There is no accusation we can hurl that each of us has not already thought of, and bowed under its weight of shame.” He pushed into their midst, forcing them to back away from one another, and turned slowly, looking deep into each face as he spoke.
“We have abandoned Heaven, and we may have lost our purpose. But we have not, I hope, completely betrayed the One who made us and in that frail thread may lay our salvation.”
He faced Phaella and braced her shoulders in his hands. “I do not know if there is any chance of redemption, but I do know that we must hold together and cling to the marrow of our honor, or we have no hope at all. It was for love that we turned aside from what we knew to be right. Let it be love that sustains us now or we are completely lost.”
The whisper of flames devouring hardwood drifted over the silence. Minutes dragged past with each angel lost in private thoughts.
At last, Jotun shook himself and spoke. “We’ll need food,” he said, and slipped away into the surrounding forest.
Volot, his face mottled red with emotion, muttered something about gathering fire wood and stalked off in the opposite direction.
One by one, without a single order given, the others moved off to bring water, or mount a watch, or to do whatever they could think of that would give them a little time alone.
Adahna was the last to go. She put a comforting hand on Fomor’s arm and smiled at him. “Give them time,” she said, “they know you are right, but it will take a little time for them to come to terms with it.”
The wealth of grief in the smile he returned to her brought a heavy lump to her throat.
“They have much to blame me for,” he said.
She shook her head. “Each of us made our own decision Fomor. You are not to blame for that.”
He could not agree with her, but had no reply, and so remained silent as she walked into the woods.
***
Jotun was standing watch when dawn found the rest of them around the fire again, preparing to face the day. The mood in camp was uneasy, but mending, as each member settled themselves to a new way of living.
“We’ll need to keep moving,” Fomor said, “at least until we know it’s safe to create a permanent dwelling.”
Volot nodded thoughtfully, “It makes sense. We can gather news and scout for an uninhabited stretch of land, if we’re careful.”
“We need to stay out of sight.” Adahna rolled to her feet and began packing up. “Any human that sees us is either going to run screaming in the opposite direction or fall to his knees like they did when Hermes visited that human village awhile back.”
Volot gave a snort of laughter, remembering. “Yeah, he shot out of there double quick, didn’t he? I wonder which side he…” He sent an apologetic glance into the sudden quiet. Swallowing hard, he said, “But we aren’t that scary or that divine looking.”
“To a human who has never encountered us before, we might be,” Fomor said. “Adahna is right. We are, in their eyes, huge, if nothing else, not to mention the wings. The last thing we need is to draw attention, from anyone,” he said, placing special emphasis on the final word.
“But we’ll need to contact any villages we may pass, if only to see if there’s news of Luci—” Volot stopped himself with a frown. “Of Lucky, or his vermin, being active. Sena’s smallest. She might pass for a rather tall human.”
Sena sent him a narrow glance. When he only looked back innocently, she relaxed, and even managed a smile. “Well, it’s a sure bet you won’t pass anyway,” she said, brushing the last crumbs of her breakfast from her tunic as she stood. “Humans tend to be at least a little attractive.” She stepped lightly over the pine cone he sent scuttling at her feet and continued
over the chuckles of her companions, “I’d better relieve Jotun. How long before we leave Captain?”
Fomor looked at the sun, just peaking above the eastern horizon. “Long enough for Jotun to eat,” he said, popping the last of his own meal into his mouth. He stood and stretched.
“Gant, you and Phaella clean camp. Save some of the oat cakes for Jotun and pack up the rest, but make sure nothing is left behind. Adahna, you and Volot take point, Sena and Gant will take rear guard. We’ll switch off in two hours.”
In less than twenty minutes the unit was moving through the forest, single file, with Jotun munching as he walked. Toward nightfall, Phaella came back from the front of the column to report a village ahead of them and Fomor called a halt.
“Sena, do a recon flight for village size, population and main occupation if it can be determined. We need a water source and a hidden place to camp. If we can’t find those we’ll keep moving tonight. If we can, we’ll camp for the night and move out in the morning.”
Sena nodded and rolled her shoulders once. Out of sight under her tunic, the flat image of wings began to twitch and writhe into three dimensional space. Pressing bloodlessly free of her skin, the pinions thrust outward, seeking the hidden slits in the back of her tunic with smooth accuracy. The white feathered arches stretched over her head and she flexed them once, in a light, fluttering motion, settling each remige into place.
In less than a second her wings were fully extended. She crouched and pushed free of the ground, barely suppressing a spurt of laughter but unable to hide the wide grin that lit her features with pure joy. I was made for this, she thought, and for the first time in her existence, felt that truth to be bittersweet.
Sena approached the village at treetop level, careful to keep the dense foliage between her and any curious gaze that might be directed skyward instead of homeward. No stray glances appeared to threaten though. The inhabitants seemed intent, to a man, on food and rest, possibly not in that order. Sena giggled as she noticed an older man settling onto a bench outside one house. In a moment, he was curled comfortably, pillowing his head on his arm, giving every appearance of falling instantly asleep.
Circling outward from the settlement’s perimeter, she saw grain and vegetables growing in neatly divided squares of tilled earth. The river flowed beyond the farmland, winding its way south through the encompassing forest. So much for the village. Now to find a water source with a hidden place to camp.
In the hope of finding a clearing close to the water, Sena flew north along the river. She achieved her purpose a little over thirteen cords from the village. Above a small drop in the riverbed a large boulder divided the flow of water, widening and slowing the current while forming a pocket of deeper water. A stretch of sandy soil extended from the water to the tree line; not big enough for a permanent settlement, but perfect for a single night.
Fomor might not think it far enough from the little community, but flying further north and taking a run to the south produced no better results. This would have to do. The reconnaissance officer returned to her unit.
Within an hour the angels had skirted the tiny village and reached the river. Fomor hesitated a moment but offered no objection to the encampment’s proximity to the humans, instead accepting Sena’s assertion that no better options existed if they didn’t want to keep moving. Looking around, he had to admit that, though it was closer than he liked, it was probably further than the humans would want to walk at night. Equally important, there were no signs of activity near the pond. It seemed unlikely that the unit would be disturbed, let alone discovered.
“All right. Make camp and set a watch. I’m going to do a perimeter check.” No one reminded him that Sena had already scouted the area.
Fomor set off into the surrounding trees, threading his way between the great trunks on barely discernible animal paths. The fronds of enormous ferns overhung the trail, brushing his shoulders and hips as he passed through them. For the first few hundred yards the forest was silent around him, but as they realized what he was, the birds broadcast his presence. In moments he was joined on the trail by a long black shape, pushing its feline head under his palm and looking up at him with glowing eyes.
“Hello friend,” he said to the panther pacing at his side. He gave the sensitive ears a gentle scratch and was rewarded with a contented rumble. Looking up, the angel noted several sets of huge, round eyes peeking at him through the foliage. With a pat on the shoulder, he sent the panther on his way and stopped to hold out a hand to the curious fingers reaching for him.
“Greetings, little one. I’ve not seen one of your kind before,” the searching digits grasped his and he gave a startled, “Oooof,” as the primate jumped into his arms, cuddling close and patting his cheek enthusiastically. She was small, fitting easily into the crook of his arm, with pale, tan fur from neck to tail. Fomor scratched the red hat of fur between her ears and gazed into her black face. Her eyes seemed almost too big for that face, looking up at him with gentle curiosity.
He gave her a sad smile. “You can still smell Par-Adis on me, I know. But I am far from that home and it seems impossible that I will ever see it again.” She made no reply, only closing her eyes in an ecstasy of pleasure when his fingers began to rub the itchy spots behind her ears. A few moments later he boosted the lemur back onto her tree branch and moved off, his glance piercing both sides of the forest in a continuous sweep.
Turning toward the river, the path became less clear, the overhanging foliage more dense. Crouching made passage easier, but for the most part it was a matter of muscling through the underbrush. A final push brought him abruptly into a tiny opening, the sudden ease of movement nearly sending him sprawling into the river. A bone-chilling snarl to his left was the only warning before a long, scaly body rushed at him, huge mouth open, teeth glinting in the sunlight. Without thought, Fomor vaulted into the air, wings extending as he moved. The massive jaws snapped closed on nothing and the crocodile slid back into her wallow in a sullen pout.
“My, aren’t we grumpy in the evenings? Missed your nap today did you? And, nasty little monster that you are, you want to take it out on me?” He hovered over the wallow looking at the reptile and her home. She had hollowed out a depression in the soft sand and covered it over with small tree branches and leaves. Nearby was a flat, smooth area for use in entering and leaving the water to hunt. Recognizing the nest for what it was, Fomor’s expression softened. “I’m sorry Mother. I didn’t mean to startle you and I am no threat to your hatchlings.”
The small, dead eyes, with their vertical pupils, swiveled avidly, searching for the owner of the voice over her head. The long, bulbous snout opened in warning. Fomor shook his head. Obviously not a friendly sort.
Alighting on the opposite shore, Fomor allowed his wings to settle back under his tunic, melting into his flesh in the form of an elaborate tattoo. At least the animals weren’t afraid of him. Most had seemed even to welcome his company. No doubt the other angels would experience the same type of reception should a meeting occur between angel and animal. I wish I could be as certain that encounters with humans will go as well. He frowned as he moved through the forest, eyes scanning, feet silent in the soft loam.
He had so little hard information on the world he now found himself in. His wide shoulders twitched uncomfortably as he recalled one of Gabriel’s first communications on human reactions to Sabaoth’s messengers. The words, “tend to be ones of awe and reverence, even an instinct to fall down in worship,” flashed through his memory, causing another twitch.
But since the murder of Abel, other reports had come back; reports that Sabaoth’s favored ones were becoming steadily more unpredictable. There was no guarantee that the population here would receive angelic visitation benignly. Outright hostility was not out of the question. Bone deep revulsion curled in his gut at the thought of attempting to defend himself in such a situation. How could we ever pull steel against a human?
No, far better to stay o
ut of sight, observe any village they came across from a distance, at least until it could be determined that the two groups could interact without harm to the human population.
A few steps further on brought him to a narrow shoal where the river curved and he stopped a moment. Kneeling at the water’s edge, he scooped up a handful of water to drink, a few sparkling drops glittering as they fell from his hand back to the river, one or two fading into his tunic instead. From a little further upriver, he could hear the water tumbling over the big boulder at the encampment and knew his respite was ending. His head dropped a little as he considered, then sadly discarded, the idea of asking Sabaoth for help and guidance. No, that door was closed for now; maybe forever. Though it was warm enough, Fomor shivered slightly, as if in a sudden, cold breeze. Blowing out a slow breath, he set off and in moments was walking back into camp.
***
Enosh, headman of Bend village, was a big man with heavy features and sharp, black eyes. Black hair, cropped close to a blunt skull topped a frame four cubits tall that was heavily muscled and robust from years working his fields and those of his neighbors. He stared down at his callused hands and wondered how even such hands as these could do such rough work as that which faced him now. He stared up at the huge tree before him, its branches arching out and down from the trunk, forming a dim, green cave. Jared was inside, he knew. And now he had to bring him out. There was no choice really. The god had spoken.
Heaving a sigh, the big man sank to his knees and crawled in between the branches, ignoring the tugging of the limbs that clutched at him, as if entreating him to stop. The boy sat huddled at the base of the trunk and Enosh took a seat beside him. Tears filled the seven-year-old’s eyes, making them look an even deeper blue before streaking down the dirty face.
“Please Father,” he cried, “I’ll be good, I promise.”
Enosh pulled the boy into his arms, struggling with his own grief, “You are a good boy Jared. You are my own sweet boy.”
