All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel)

by Bruce Blake

  I searched the horizon and saw nothing: no boats, no land, no wayward surfers or swimmers; nary a threatening shark fin cut through the water.

  Maybe he brought me here for the view.

  “There.”

  I’d have referred to the craft plummeting toward the ocean as a Cessna, but I don’t know much about planes. A plume of black smoke trailed behind the single engine, concealing the cockpit and leaving a widening smudge across the sky like squid ink in water. As it plunged seaward, I imagined how the pilot must feel watching death approach, knowing he couldn’t prevent it. Sort of how I’d felt with a gorilla-sized mugger on my back plunging a knife into my kidneys.

  Nice to have something in common with the people you work with.

  The plane hit two hundred meters away with the biggest splash I’ve ever seen, like a mechanical giant belly-flopping from the high-diving board. We rose and dipped with the wave but my shoes remained dry—the pilot wasn’t so lucky. The impact obliterated the craft, sending pieces of airplane shooting into the sky. When the wave settled, a million pieces of debris bobbed on the surface of the sea, one of them the body of a man.

  “We should help him.”

  I said the words already knowing they were meaningless. It’s not my job to help not in the paramedic sense of the word, but I meant his soul, not his body. Mikey remained silent. Seconds later, a not-quite-opaque figure sat up from the dead pilot, using his corpse as a life raft. I looked from the spirit to Mike and back. I hadn’t received a scroll with the man’s name, but that didn’t mean he should be left to...whatever happens to souls left alone too long.

  I took one step away from the archangel and went headlong into the sea; salt water filled my mouth and nose, gagging me; cold assaulted my flesh. I thrashed and struggled, so surprised by the need to swim that I forgot how. My head broke the surface giving me a second to gulp a breath past the briny taste in my mouth before I went under again. The first time I died, the knife wounds were unexpected and painful, but drowning was an entirely different kind of trauma. I kicked and stroked as my mind reeled, wondering if I could die again.

  Michael pulled me out with one hand, dangling me above the water like a fishing trip trophy—the one he wished had gotten away. I sputtered until my lungs cleared and breath filled my chest again.

  “There is nothing you can do.”

  I barely heard his words above the buzzing in my ears. After hanging there shaking my head to clear the water, I realized the noise wasn’t an audio reaction to my near-second-death experience, but the sound of an outboard motor.

  Mikey set me back beside him and I looked across the still-undulating sea at a speed boat which, in keeping with its name, approached rapidly. Its black hull cut through the water; two black-clad men piloted the boat toward the crash site and its floating non-survivor.

  Carrions. Again.

  The boat pulled up beside the soul floating on his corpse-canoe and one of the Carrions leaned over the side and offered his hand. The man’s spirit accepted eagerly, like a drowning man offered a hand, strangely enough. If he knew where his rescuers intended to take him, he probably wouldn’t have been so keen. They pulled him in, the motor roared, and they sped off toward the horizon.

  With the boat’s wake lapping beneath our feet, I turned to demand an explanation, but the world wavered before I opened my mouth, then faded to black. In the darkness, I wondered if the world would return or if this was my final punishment.

  †‡†

  I paced, amending my path occasionally to avoid errant umbrella stands and waterproof cushions fallen from their piles. Anger and guilt roiled and twisted in my gut; I breathed deep, attempting to control it. There was nothing to gain by venting my ire at the archangel, I’d learned that lesson. Michael stood nearby, arms crossed, waiting. Finally, I stopped and faced him, mimicking his pose.

  “Why didn’t you let me help them?”

  “They were beyond help.”

  “But I was right there. I could’ve done something.”

  “Their time has passed, Icarus. They died while you hid in your motel.”

  “Will you call me Ric, for Christ’s sake?”

  He glared at me—presumably for taking the name of the boss’ son in vain—but didn’t respond. I held his gaze feeling like a man engaged in a staring contest with a cat. Time crawled past, my discomfort increasing as each second ticked by.

  “Why? Why would you show me that?”

  “So you would see that death happens, Icarus Fell. Whether you are there or not, death happens.”

  “I know that. I can’t be everywhere, I’m not God.”

  “You most certainly are not.”

  I fought the urge to smack the smug look off his face, which might equate to committing suicide-by-archangel. Instead, I bit down hard on my back teeth so my next words came out poorly enunciated.

  “But there are souls who went to Hell because of me. That’s not right.”

  Mikey shrugged and the action of his shoulders rising and falling acted like a pump inflating my anger.

  “What is it you humans say? ‘Shit happens’?”

  “But they wouldn’t have died if I’d harvested the priest’s soul, like I was told. It’s my fault.”

  He looked like he might shrug again and I gritted my teeth, readying myself in case I had to slap him and he had to hurt me. Lucky for both of us, he chose to speak instead.

  “Every decision we make, good or bad, yields a consequence.”

  “Will you stop fucking saying that!?”

  I yanked my gaze back from his and paced again, feet hammering the concrete floor like a child denied dessert. I realized I could do nothing on my own to correct things, but that didn’t mean nothing could be done. If anyone possessed the ability to do it, the blond-haired behemoth occupying the lawn furniture warehouse with me was the guy.

  I stopped and faced him.

  “Help me get them back.”

  His features softened; he tilted his head slightly to the right and reached his hand out to me like a peace offering.

  “Icarus.” He spoke slowly, like he provided explanation to someone with a severe mental issue. My hackles stirred. “You have seen Hell before. You cannot possibly want to go again.”

  “I don’t want to; I have to.”

  “No.”

  My hands bunched into fists but his expression didn’t change.

  “You have to help me.”

  “I have to do nothing.”

  He crossed the space between us, his hand stretched toward my shoulder in a fatherly gesture. I dodged to avoid his touch but his fingers found me. The electric shock of his touch flowed down my arm, spilled into my chest, exciting nerve endings and spasming muscles.

  “You will go back to your motel and await Gabriel’s scrolls. You will do nothing else but wait.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and a vision flashed before me: a lake of souls writhing in agony, their moans gathering to a cacophony threatening to burst my ear drums. He let the pressure off and the vision faded but the cold sweat it brought to my forehead remained.

  “Do you understand?”

  I nodded minutely—all I could manage. I suddenly knew what it was like to be the hapless Star Wars stormtroopers: ‘these aren’t the droids you’re looking for.’

  Mikey stepped back, his form wavering in the dim warehouse. My nerves tingled for a few seconds before the excitement subsided leaving a gap in my being which ached for his touch to fill it. It was always that way with an angel’s touch: impossible to get used to, impossible to avoid, impossible to do anything but want more. My shoulders sagged and it required effort to keep my head from lolling forward. When the last shadow of him disappeared, my chin drooped and I collapsed onto a conveniently placed stack of cushions.

  Minutes ticked by while I lay there, each of them tugging at me to get up and get on with my death. I’d seen what happens to unharvested souls; I knew Mikey’s intention in showing me the vision was to sc
are me off the idea of going to Hell, but it had the opposite effect.

  I wasn’t responsible for every soul sent south–I couldn’t save them all–but there was the matter of the ones who’d been damned because of my poor decisions, my laziness, my ego. I couldn’t let them stay there.

  As I reclined, staring up at the girder-and-pipe-filled ceiling from the not-too-comfortable cushions, recovering from the archangel’s touch and the latest episode of Hell-o-vision, I didn’t know how I’d go about getting them back, only that I would.

  Somehow.

  Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

  Chapter Four

  Poe knocked again and waited. Someone walked by on the sidewalk and cat-called her but she ignored the man’s slurred words. The first snowflake of the season floated lazily past her nose making her smile: she had loved snow since childhood, and the love carried on beyond life into the sweet hereafter. She peeked over her shoulder at more big, puffy flakes drifting down. The sight relaxed her.

  She turned back to the door and knocked a third time.

  A minute later she stepped away, looked up and down the street, some of the calm brought by the snowflakes gone. The man who had cat-called her leaned against a lamp post a block down, vomiting; the street was otherwise empty.

  Where is he?

  Poe died too young to have a child, but being guardian angel for Icarus Fell, she thought she knew how it felt. Michael had left no doubt he wasn’t to leave his room, yet here she stood, wondering where Icarus was. There were only a few possibilities: restaurant, cafe, bar, or Trevor’s. She glanced at her watch: eleven-thirty pm.

  Too late for a cafe or to see his son. She tapped her chin with her index finger. I hope he’s not drinking again.

  Michael said he might be upset—the reason she was looking for him—but could it be bad enough for him to hit the bottle again? Not with Trevor back in his life.

  What would upset him?

  Michael didn’t say; he considered the detail above her pay-grade.

  Unsure where to go, she headed left down the street; searching was better than waiting. The snow continued with flakes the size of cotton balls. Poe caught one on her tongue, one of life’s joys an angel rarely gets to appreciate. The last time she’d experienced snow while in human form was eight or nine years before, when Icarus passed out in someone’s back yard. She’d dragged him out of the yard and onto the sidewalk for someone to find and call 911. He’d been a dead weight, and she remembered being thankful for the packed snow under him lending aid. Snow: helpful and beautiful.

  Poe’s first destination lay at the end of the next block, and as she breathed deeply, inhaling the snow’s crisp freshness, the odor of fried food encroached—a sure sign she neared the Denny’s Icarus liked to frequent before his motel arrest.

  Traffic sent the massive snowflakes swirling, hurling exhaust and noise into the winter-crisp, fried-food night. Halfway down the block, the urge to turn and run, to find a place away from traffic and people and responsibility, grabbed Poe. She’d daydreamed about lying in a field, snowflakes falling on her until they buried her, transforming her into a hill in the landscape of winter instead of a cog in Heaven’s machine. No more worries, no pressure, no responsibility.

  And no Michael. Or Icarus.

  Poe shook her head as she reached to pull the restaurant’s door open, clearing snowflakes from her blond hair and silly fantasies from her thoughts. Escaping sounded wonderful, but could she desert Icarus? Could she bear never seeing Michael again?

  No to both.

  Crossing the threshold into the restaurant was like passing through a force field separating calm from chaos. Behind her, traffic hummed rhythmically past, its cadence constant, while ahead glasses clinked, silverware jingled, people chatted—loud, inconstant, nerve-jangling. Somewhere near the back of the restaurant a plate crashed to the floor eliciting a sarcastic cheer from a few patrons. Poe let the door swing shut behind her and stepped into the clamor, her nerves set on-edge by the noise. She glanced around the room and observed a man leaning forward on his table, apparently asleep; a group of teens sneaking sips from a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag; tables-full of men and women talking, eating, laughing. In the far corner, away from everyone else, she spied Icarus Fell sprawled alone across the bench of a booth designed to seat six, a full cup of coffee untouched on the table in front of him. She waved, but despite the fact he looked right at her, he didn’t acknowledge her.

  Maybe he didn’t see me.

  Poe breathed deep, nearly choking on the greasy odor of French fries, fried eggs and superbird sandwiches. She crossed the floor, breath held, the thought of speaking with Icarus and ordering an extra-thick chocolate shake pushing her on.

  “Hey, stranger,” she sing-songed as she slid onto the bench across from him. Icarus looked at her but didn’t smile.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Icarus glanced down at the coffee cup, wiped away a line of coffee which had run down the side with his thumb, but didn’t answer.

  “Michael said I should drop by and see you. Why aren’t you in your room?”

  “Michael,” Icarus repeated, disdain plain in his voice. A knot of dread crept into Poe’s chest. “What does he care?”

  “He cares. He just shows it his own way.”

  “Right.”

  Poe glanced over her shoulder, searching for a server from whom to order a shake and interrupt the unenjoyable conversation. She disliked it when Icarus spoke badly of Michael or vice-versa.

  “I need your help.”

  She turned to find Icarus had abandoned the survey of his mug in favor of her; his gaze on her brought a giggle to her lips.

  “That’s what I’m here for, silly. I’m your guardian angel.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you want to talk about something? Is it Michael?”

  “Not Mike. He wouldn’t help, that’s why I need you.”

  “He wouldn’t? Why not?”

  “Because I want to go to Hell.”

  Poe felt the blood drain from her face; her fingers and toes went cold. She opened her mouth with no intention of speaking. When she realized it happened, she forced it shut again. Images flashed through her mind of winged things with twisted limbs and melted faces. She closed her eyes to make them leave.

  “What can I get you?”

  The server’s words startled her. She opened her eyes and looked up into the woman’s plump, fifty-something face, half-expecting the face of a monster to be waiting to take her order. When it wasn’t, she still struggled to find words to answer.

  “She’ll have a chocolate shake. Extra thick.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  The woman left and Poe looked back at Icarus, her lips quivering, finally forming a word.

  “Why?”

  “Because there are souls condemned to an eternity of torture who shouldn’t be there. They’re in Hell because of me, not because they deserve to be there.”

  She grasped the edge of her seat hard enough that her knuckles went white. She made herself relinquish her grip and breathe a steady breath through her nose.

  “This is why Michael thought you’d be upset. He told you not to go.”

  “He said he wouldn’t help.”

  “Then you can’t go.”

  “But I am.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and she sniffed to see if he’d been drinking. It didn’t smell like it, but the odor of coffee and fried food made it difficult to be sure. “And you’re going to help me.”

  “No,” she said. A whisper. “I can’t.”

  “You have to.”

  She shook her head; Icarus’ eyebrows canted toward his nose, lines formed on his forehead. Poe leaned away from him, her back pressed against the booth’s cushion.

  “You said it yourself: you’re my guardian angel. It’s your job to help me.”

  “It’s my job to keep y
ou safe, but not...not there. Not if Michael said no.”

  Icarus slammed his open palm against the table slopping coffee over the edge of his mug; the impact made Poe jump. She pushed herself harder against the seat back.

  “Damn it, Poe. Whose side are you on?”

  She forced her lips into a thin, taut line for fear if she opened her mouth the word ‘Michael’s’ might come out and anger him further. But her silence provided the same effect. Icarus rose from the booth, hip bumping the corner of the table and spilling more coffee. Standing, he leaned toward her, hands braced on the end of the table. Poe fought the urge to cower.

  “I’m going with or without you. Will you help?”

  The guardian angel stared at him, eyes wide, unwilling to answer. The muscles in his jaw bulged and she thought he’d get angry with her. Instead, he straightened, turned toward the door and stomped away. Poe shifted in her seat to watch him pick his way between the tables before being slowed by a crowd milling about near the door.

  “Here’s your shake, sweetie.”

  Poe looked at the waitress and ventured an unsuccessful smile.

  “Is your friend done?”

  She nodded.

  “He barely touched it. Spilled more than he drank, I think.”

  The woman picked up the mug and used a cloth hanging from her apron to clean up the spilled coffee. She took a step to leave then stopped.

  “Are you alright?”

  This time Poe forced the corner of her mouth to turn up a bit and nodded.

  “Well, let me know if you need anything else, honey.”

  The waitress left and Poe turned to look for Icarus again. He was gone. She sank back into her seat and contemplated her milk-shake: the curly-cue of whipped cream topping it, the patina of frost on the side of the metal overflow cup. She considered going after him but realized that she had no idea where he might go, what he might do. After all the years she’d watched over him, all the things they’d been through, this time she felt out of her league. She’d seen Hell and it was too big and too bad a problem for her.