by Jane Lebak
TEN
Remiel sat in the front room, her legs tucked to her chest and her forehead down on her knees. Moonlight cast a triangle on the tiled floor.
For the moment, she couldn’t even pray. She kept her eyes focused on the moonlight triangle and wondered how long until dawn and what she could do until then.
Mary came into the room. “What’s wrong? Can I get you something?”
Remiel couldn’t answer.
“I’m sorry,” Mary said, “but at my age I’m often awake during the night, and I heard you get up.” Mary approached. “Do you want some company?”
Remiel huddled tighter around herself.
Mary rested a hand on her shoulder, and Remiel flinched as if burned. “Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary drew back. “Let me at least get you some wine, and you can get back to sleep.”
“I’m not going back to sleep.” Remiel swallowed hard. “I’m not going to sleep anymore.”
Mary waited, and when Remiel didn’t elaborate, she said, “Did you have a dream?”
“Don’t say it like that, like I’m a kid who doesn’t know nightmares aren’t real.” Remiel hugged her knees tighter against her chest, and if she still had wings, she’d have closed them around herself like a cocoon. “Sometimes they are real. I don’t want that to happen again. If I don’t sleep, it can’t.”
Mary said, “What was it?”
Remiel’s jaw clenched. Eventually she said, “Please.”
“I’m going to be awake for a while praying,” Mary said. “I can pray with you.”
“I want your prayers.” Remiel closed her eyes. “But I want to be by myself. I’m sorry.“
“You don’t have to explain.” Mary got to her feet slowly, as if stiff. “God hears each of us just as well in separate rooms. But if you want someone with you, call me.”
She left the room. Remiel again pressed her face into her arms.
The night crawled. Why hadn’t Gabriel found out what that weapon was yet? Why wasn’t Michael interrogating those two demons until one of them confessed what they’d done? Why had she rushed ahead and gotten them into this mess in the first place?
When she calculated the time, it wasn’t that long she’d been trapped in a human body. Longer than she’d at first thought she’d be stuck, yes, but not terribly long overall. It had been early morning or mid-morning when she’d first regained consciousness, and they’d gained a few hours when they transported to Ephesus, so it might be coming up on a day. Sometime soon Michael ought to be returning with a report about what had happened and what they were going to do to fix it. These things took time, but the Cherubim were on it, and Gabriel had proven repeatedly he could figure out anything. He’d come through for her. Or Saraquael would.
The room grew lighter, and shortly she realized a shape sat across from hers. Gradually it became apparent that the shape had wings, and then Remiel could make out a face.
Remiel squinted. “Nivalis?”
The figure smiled, and yes, it definitely was her. She wore the uniform she’d worn these past twenty years since the end of her guardianship over Judas Iscariot, but despite the drab colors, Nivalis’s eyes were bright and her face animated. Her wings picked up a mother-of-pearl-tone in the early sunrise, and she carried them high.
Remiel scrambled forward. “Did someone die here last night?”
Nivalis shook her head. “I’m not here on business, don’t worry. No one’s lost.”
Remiel blinked. After the Resurrection and the judging of human souls, Nivalis had asked God’s permission to form a team she called the Grief Squad. There hadn’t been a need for them before, but once some human souls were a confirmed loss, their former guardian angels needed support. In need of support herself, Nivalis had taken charge of meeting the need.
Remiel’s brow furrowed. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m here for you, silly.” Nivalis’s shortish hair curled around her face, and her black eyes glinted as she moved. “I have a perfectly capable team to handle my regular work, and for the time being, I’m stationed with you and Zadkiel.”
Remiel frowned. “As a grief counselor.”
“As whatever you need.” Nivalis looked unperturbed at Remiel’s tone. “I’ve had experience as a guardian, as a soldier, and as a listening ear.”
Remiel pursed her lips. “What awful thing did you do to get stuck with me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I asked to be with you.” Nivalis cocked her head. “In prayer for you two, I had a strong urge not to be on the sidelines. I wanted to help, and I asked God how I could. He asked what I wanted to do, and I told Him I wanted to be here, with you, helping directly. I don’t know what I have to offer, to be honest, but I’m at your service.” She smiled. “I’ve gotten permission for you to see me, too.”
Remiel stared at the floor. “So you’re not here because of my dream?”
“Oh, tell me about your dream.” Nivalis flashed right in front of her, and Remiel’s skin crawled from the residual angelic energy. “I didn’t know about that.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your coming, but this isn’t going to work.” Remiel didn’t look up from the tile floor. “Saraquael has to stay away because we need to avoid detection. You’ve already been a guardian, so the demons know you’re not with one of us. And that’s not even addressing the fact that normal humans can’t see angels.”
“Apparently these objections don’t bother God.” Nivalis sat back. “We’ll work out the details as we go along, but for now, I’m assigned to you and Zadkiel. She’s still sleeping, though.” Nivalis got a concerned look. “You don’t need to stand guard over her. I’ll do that so you can get some more rest.”
Bristling, Remiel said, “I’m not going to sleep. Why is everyone so concerned about that?”
“Because you’re tired and you’re making stress hormones.” Nivalis looked momentarily sad. “That can’t be comfortable.”
“I’ll handle it.” Remiel smirked. “Maybe I’m doing that making up for what’s lacking in the sufferings of Christ thing.”
“Meritorious suffering has some benefits.” Raising her wings, Nivalis rested back on her hands. “But you don’t need to look for additional opportunities. I think you’ve had enough already.”
Remiel shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Saraquael put us here because we’re somewhat safer in this house than out in the wild, and they’re working on finding an answer for us.” She pivoted her head. “Or are you here because they don’t have any answers?”
Mary entered the kitchen then. “You didn’t get back to sleep, did you?”
“No, and now I have a new companion. Are you able to see her?”
Mary looked around the room, then shook her head.
“Well, she’s waving hello.”
Mary bowed her head. “Hello to you in return, my guest.” She turned to Remiel. “Please don’t be offended by my working, but I need to set the bread to rise.”
Remiel stood. “Why would I be offended? I’d prefer you put me to work. Tell me what you need.” When Mary hesitated, she took a step closer to her. “Last night you told us to consider ourselves members of the community. Don’t your community members do things for one another?”
Mary rewarded this logic by letting her help make the bread. As they mixed and kneaded, Mary kept the conversation light, and Remiel watched Mary’s hands to figure out how to work the dough. Her loaves were nowhere near as expert as her hostess’s (Mary could justifiably have taken them away and redone them all) but Mary was gracious and didn’t comment on their flaws as she set them to rise and later as she put them in the clay oven.
By turns the rest of the household began to rise, and Remiel introduced herself as Remaya. Zadkiel slept through most of the awakenings, but when she awoke, Remiel called her Key, and everyone was glad to have her as well. Remiel busied herself bringing bread and olive oil to the table as the men ate, and when the men began headi
ng out to do their work, she served the women.
A muscular man in rough clothing came to the door with three girls, and Mary ushered the children inside. After the man had left, she said, “He’s a fisherman. His wife died of a fever, so he brings us his girls during the daytime.”
Remiel said, “Is he a part of your community too?”
Mary chuckled. “No, but he’s willing to take advantage, and the girls are learning the Good News.”
The middle girl of the three walked with a pronounced limp, leaning on her youngest sister. “Can she be healed?” Remiel said.
“John won’t pray over her until the father allows. The father has so far refused, so we’re waiting.” Mary patted Remiel’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’re all praying for him every day. When he’s ready for faith, he’ll ask, and when he asks, God will respond.”
The girls settled at the table near Zadkiel, and the younger two chatted with her while the oldest went to a storage room in the back. Shortly the girls were taking Zadkiel by the hand out into the courtyard where they were going to start their work for the day.
Mary said, “Key, I’m going out, and I’m going to take Remaya out with me. Can you supervise them?”
Zadkiel raised her head, startled. “Can I?”
“They’re good girls,” Mary said. “They’ve plenty of work to do mending the nets, and you can stay with them. You should come in from the courtyard before it gets too hot, though.”
“We’ll tell her!” the girls asserted.
Mary loaded Remiel with two baskets of bread, and she took a third. “With your help, I was able to get a lot more done this morning. Thank you. But that means we’re going to be busy if we want to finish our visits before the heat peaks.”
They walked through Ephesus, Mary in the lead and Remiel following with her head bowed the way a slave should. Mary strode without hesitation through some of the narrower streets, to certain smaller houses and specific crowded apartments, and in every one she left food, and in some she checked bandages and sent Remiel to fetch water, and in every one she prayed over the residents. “That’s the temple of Artemis,” Mary said at one point, gesturing to the most magnificent building in the city. “Artemis doesn’t take care of the people, though, so the Ephesians are willing to let a few of those odd Christians help out.”
Remiel said, “Well, other than the silversmiths going after Paul. Do they still give you trouble?”
“Not since the riot.” Mary sighed. “I’m glad I wasn’t here for that, but I heard it was chaotic. The Romans might have gotten involved, and that would have been a disaster. For now, they’re leaving us alone. And so is Artemis.” She straightened. “One last house. This child is very sick, so I understand if you don’t want to stay.”
They’d already gone into several houses with sickness, and Mary hadn’t warned her before those, so Remiel only said, “I’ll accompany you, Kecharitomene.”
Mary tapped her on the head. “You’re a sweetheart, but you’re being stubborn about the title.”
At a spacious house with a landscaped courtyard, Mary entered. A servant led them through several rooms until they reached a small one at the back.
The stench hit Remiel before she even entered, and with her eyes watering, she halted in the doorway. Mary walked right inside with a bright, “Good morning!” and then went directly to the child’s bed.
In the windowless room lit only by an oil lamp, the child’s mother looked drawn, her eyes sunken. As she raised her weary head, Mary said, “Go take a break for a while. You should nap if you can. I’ll care for her.”
Beside Remiel, one of the household’s servants whispered, “It’s horrible, eh?”
Horrible in so many ways. Remiel had done so many sick calls that one more shouldn’t have bothered her, but the stench from this room was like a miasma.
“I can’t see that she’s going to help her much.” The servant grunted. “You’d be better to get your mistress out of here.”
Instead Remiel stepped forward. She didn’t know why: the smell, the scene, the surroundings ought to all make her want to run, and instead she found herself moving toward rather than away. Mary turned, but Remiel didn’t meet her eyes. Instead she took another step closer to the child.
“Remaya,” Mary said.
Remiel stared only at the child, and again she stepped closer.
“Remaya.” Mary’s voice grew firm.
And then came the voice of Nivalis. “Remiel!”
Remiel started. Her eyes focused, and she looked at Mary.
Mary said, “Don’t come closer.”
Nivalis appeared, looking urgent. “Back off. Now.”
Remiel looked around. The room was small, close. The smell was still there, and it burned the back of her throat. Mary was washing the child’s shrunken limbs with a basin of water and a soft cloth, and Remiel’s eyes stung: she couldn’t tell whether it was the stench or actual tears. And still her heart wanted to move just a little bit closer even though her body hungered to run. Run away even if it meant knocking over that servant at the door or the lady of the house in the hall, run until her limbs ached and she couldn’t breathe and she collapsed in the day’s rising heat.
Mary shooed her. “Go. I’ll take care of her. Go.”
It took more effort than it should have. She’d been acting the slave, and she’d made herself Mary’s guest, and she kept using Mary’s title. And despite that all, Remiel wanted nothing more than to defy her and move right up alongside that child.
Instead she backed away a step, and that first motion made it easier to take a second, and then a third. Finally she left the room. In the diminishing shade of the courtyard walls, she waited.
The servant came out to dump water from the basin and get new.
Remiel struggled to find her voice. “What’s wrong with the child?”
“She’s wasting away. I don’t know what else.” The servant shuddered. “Her skin’s the wrong color.”
“What was the smell?” Remiel said. “Gangrene?”
“They don’t tell me anything,” said the servant.
“Death,” said Nivalis. “I don’t have a body, and even I could tell she smells like death.”
The servant carried the basin back into the house, brimful with clean water. Alone, Remiel closed her eyes against the sun and prayed while she waited. The air smelled like flowers, and flowers didn’t smell like death.
ELEVEN
In the courtyard with the three young voices, Zadkiel wondered how exactly she was supposed to be supervising them. Any one of the three could wander off without catching her notice.
So the better to keep track of their voices, she started asking questions, starting with their names, and she quickly picked up their different cadences. If she kept them talking, she’d at least know where they were. They wanted to know about her, why she was blind, if she’d always been blind, and what things look like when you’re blind. They told her about people they knew who were blind, and that got Zadkiel’s attention. “What do those people do?”
“Oh, they do all sorts of things,” one girl said.
“There’s that old man who begs,” said the youngest girl.
“But he has only one foot,” said the middle girl. “That’s why he begs. Otherwise he’d do stuff.”
“Mary said you’re not from Ephesus, right?” The oldest girl had a sensible voice, very steady. Zadkiel couldn’t guess her age, but she might end up married off in the next couple of years. If her father hadn’t remarried by then, he would expect her to take her sisters into her home. “Tell us about where you come from.”
Zadkiel wondered how she’d pull that off, and when no way out presented itself, she said, “I’ve got an idea. I’ll tell you some stories about where all of us come from.”
So while the morning crawled on, she told them the story of Joseph from the Torah. They hadn’t heard it, so they peppered her with questions, and they were oohing and laughing when Joseph ended up
saving his brothers in Egypt.
At one point the middle girl handed her work to Zadkiel and asked the youngest to help her go fetch some water. “She has trouble walking,” said the oldest.
Zadkiel fingered the work that they’d dumped into her lap. “What is this?”
“We’re making nets. Here.” The oldest manipulated the ropey fabric until Zadkiel felt an oval wooden object in her hands. “That’s the shuttle. You use that to make the knots so you can have a net.”
“Oh, for fishing.” Zadkiel ran her hands over it, noting the pattern of knots and strands. “Would I be able to make a knot?”
“That’s easy. Watch.” She couldn’t watch, but the girl sat beside her, resting her hands on top of Zadkiel’s and moving the shuttle in her hands. It took two or three passes, and then she tugged it tight. “See, that’s a nice knot. You need all the knots to be strong like that so if any one of them breaks, the rest of them hold. That way the whole net isn’t ruined and all the fish don’t get away.”
Zadkiel said, “Teach me again.”
The oldest must have taught her younger sisters how to do this, because her instructions were simple and to-the-point. After she’d demonstrated a second and third time, Zadkiel tried on her own: bring the shuttle up through the loop, toward herself. Then bring the shuttle back through the middle of the loop, wrap it around the back, and run the shuttle again in front of the loop. She tightened it, and the girl said, “It’s a bit large, but it’s good!” The girl gave her a rounded stick to gauge the size of the loop she made, and Zadkiel tried again.
By the time the younger two had returned, Zadkiel had made three more knots, so the oldest handed her work off to the middle girl, and she started repairing one of the broken nets.
“We sell the new ones,” said the middle daughter. “And when Dad’s nets get broken, we repair them for him.”
Mixing knot-making with story-telling, Zadkiel spent the morning. She needed some help when she reached the end of a row, but the girls would get it turned for her and then ask for more stories.
