Angel

by Jon Grahame

  ‘Mysterious ways?’ Reaper said.

  ‘The plague.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in God.’

  ‘What do you believe in, Brother Reaper?’

  ‘Survival? The human spirit?’

  ‘Don’t you think God resides in the human spirit? In that part of a man or woman that we call the soul? That part that makes him different from the animals and wild beasts?’

  ‘I’ve met quite a few wild beasts in the last twelve months who claimed to be human. I killed them. Was I killing God?’

  ‘You were killing the devil.’

  ‘I don’t believe in the devil, either. I believe that a man can be a right bastard without any help from anyone or any god.’

  ‘Satan was once part of God’s holy horde, His holy alliance, until he and a third of all the angels rebelled against God’s word. Ever since then, they have lured man from the path of righteousness through temptation. They have driven men, through greed, ambition and lusts, to wage wars, to commit genocide, to hate.’ He smiled. ‘This is the simplified version. It can be taken as an allegory of the human spirit. Good and evil are intertwined within us in perpetual conflict. Small inner battles that govern small personal decisions, in trying to lead the best life we can without harm to our fellow man. But it is still good and evil. God and the devil … good and evil. See how closely the words are. God is in the spirit of man, Brother Reaper. And the devil is the unholy aspect of this alliance.’

  Reaper did not respond. He suspected getting involved in a philosophical discussion about good, evil, and God might be unrewarding.

  Abraham smiled. ‘Let’s have lunch. Rebecca?’ he called.

  After a moment’s hesitation the door to the vestry on the other side of the church opened and a young woman entered, bare feet slapping on the stones. She wore a full-length dress of white cotton and, from the way it moved against her body, very little else. Her hair was tied behind her head and she wore no make up. She looked fresh and lovely. She carried a tray upon which were two glasses and a bottle of wine that had already been opened.

  Rebecca knelt on a cushion, placed the tray on the floor and transferred the glasses to the table. She poured wine into both, stood the bottle on the floor, and went to kneel beside Abraham.

  Another, similarly dressed, young woman also emerged from the side room. She carried a bigger tray loaded with food. She was a plainer girl, although pleasant to look at and the drape of the dress showed her shape to be attractive. After placing the tray on the table, she knelt on the other side of Abraham.

  He put an arm around each and, with a smile, said, ‘Mary and Rebecca. My Trinity is complete.’

  The men ate and the girls watched. Fresh bread, cheese and slices of ham. The wine was a Burgundy and extremely palatable, even to Reaper, who knew nothing about wines. The meal – and the wine – invited conversation and Reaper explained how and why he had travelled to Haven and how the community had formed. He described the attack it had survived.

  ‘You fought?’ Abraham asked.

  ‘We fought.’

  ‘And you vanquished your foes?’

  ‘We vanquished them.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘It’s the only way. Turn the other cheek and they’ll come back and kill you.’

  ‘I’m afraid what you say is true.’ Abraham was reflective. ‘I had hoped it would be different, that the world would learn. But it hasn’t.’

  ‘It’s getting better. The good guys are winning and settlements are growing.’

  Abraham nodded and said, ‘But there are still dangers. Envy and greed still stalk the land. Rapists and murderers still look for victims.’

  ‘True. That’s why all the settlements near us help each other. There is strength in numbers, in federation, in a common spirit.’

  ‘That may be so. But we, in this blessed city of York, have put our trust in the Lord and in the past.’

  ‘You mean, no motor cars, no petrol, no guns?’

  ‘I mean we have put our trust in an age before greed and jealousy were lauded. Before people had a 42 inch effigy to Mammon in their front room, spewing out enticements to buy more, acquire more and forsake true Godliness in the pursuit of a perceived happiness that only came from possessions.’

  He sipped wine.

  ‘Humanity lost its way. The populace was confounded and confused. Religion became bigger car, bigger house, bigger breasts, bigger debt, bigger sins. Sin became the norm,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Godlessness was rife. The commandments were shattered. God’s vengeance was a plague.’

  Reaper said, ‘And so you arm yourselves with bows and arrows and Brother Mark doesn’t wash?’

  ‘That is only the surface manifestation of a deeper belief.’

  ‘The plague happened,’ Reaper said. ‘Whether the virus was man’s mistake or God’s vengeance, it happened. But those who are left have to plan for the future with whatever they have available. Surely that includes cars, petrol, tractors. Even guns for protection. Bows and arrows will not protect you from an Uzi sub-machinegun.’

  ‘Then we will die. In the meantime, we will pray to God and try to cleanse our souls of past misdeeds and misconceptions. And if we don’t die, we shall thrive because we started our new lives in the simpler times of the past, without cars but with horse power, without guns but with arrows for hunting. How will Haven cope when the petrol runs out, when there are no more bullets?’

  Reaper picked up the wine bottle and held it so the label could be read.

  ‘But you make exceptions?’ he said

  Abraham smiled.

  ‘It would be sinful not to,’ he said. ‘God would not wish us to waste a good bottle of Burgundy, nor indeed any tinned food that may still be edible. Brother Mark, however, is a purist. He refuses the wine in preference of our own brewed beer which, to be honest, is less than palatable. He has embraced the past so completely that he has forsaken washing and personal hygiene, as you have noticed. His only concession is the shoes he wears. Mark has bad feet and needs the comfort of his blessed trainers. Yet even there, he assuages his conscience by choosing Nike, named after Ancient Greece’s Winged Goddess of Victory.’ Abraham smiled anew. ‘Nike, you might say, is protecting his soles.’

  Reaper grinned in response.

  ‘It seems that in your new religion, you can pick and choose.’

  His gaze went from Rebecca to Mary.

  Abraham laughed.

  ‘There is personal choice. There has to be. We are a community of contradictions. All I do is preach and pray. I try to set an example and hope that others may follow. That’s all I ever did, and the people came.’ He put his arms around the two girls and gave their shoulders a squeeze. ‘Mary and Rebecca came and I chose them to make my Trinity because my choice was not to cast out beauty but to revere it.’ He kissed each on the head in turn. ‘I revere them but I do not sully them. I am celibate, Brother Reaper, in the face of this daily temptation.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Because I have free choice. Because I have the strength to be celibate. Because by being celibate, I prove my fidelity to God, to a higher commitment. So that I can eliminate lust and practice love.’

  ‘Gandhi slept with naked disciples to test his celibacy,’ Reaper said.

  ‘Brachmacharya,’ agreed Abraham. ‘The philosophy of spiritual and practical purity. But I’m not Gandhi. We don’t sleep naked together. You can take temptation too far. And I do not impose celibacy upon those who follow me.’

  ‘Will you always be celibate?’

  Abraham raised one eyebrow and the smile returned.

  ‘Who knows what God plans.’

  ‘His mysterious ways?’ said Reaper.

  ‘Exactly. Per
haps he will speak to me among the prayers I hear within these walls every night and give me new directions.’

  Reaper chuckled.

  ‘I founded this community by accident, Brother Reaper. You founded yours by design. Perhaps God spared you to help others. Perhaps we are more alike than you would like to think?’

  ‘Why are you so certain you know God’s will?’

  ‘Because I am following God’s orders. He told me to pray and to preach. Others interpreted what I said in their own ways and, before I knew it, I had a following. The way we live has evolved through trial and error. I started with an Amish ideal. You know of them?’

  ‘I’ve heard of them.’

  The Amish are … were? … a Christian religious sect in America that believed in simple living without modern conveniences. They often banned such devices as motor vehicles, radios or electricity. They practised humility and submission to the will of God. They kept their contacts with the outside world to the minimum, so as to avoid temptation and contamination. The Amish ideals are still here, in York, but have been adapted. Our personal beliefs within these city walls may take many different forms, but our lifestyle comes from consensus and tolerance. There are 182 men, women and children living here, and they have all chosen to live this way. But with discretionary contradictions.’

  He nodded to himself and gazed into his wine glass for a moment as if considering his words.

  ‘I pray, others organise, and a sort of order out of chaos was founded around me.’ He shrugged. ‘If I wanted to change it, I doubt I could any more. I am a victim of my own success.’

  He grinned, almost sheepishly, and Reaper couldn’t help but like him.

  Abraham indicated the dishes and the two women rose, cleared the trays and returned to the vestry, closing the door behind them. They left the bottle of wine and the glasses and the two men alone.

  Reaper said, ‘Who organises the city? The defences, food, day-to-day life? Obviously, you look after the spiritual well-being, but who looks after the rest?’

  ‘We have the Council of York,’ he said. ‘It makes most decisions. As I said, they are usually based on consensus. Brother Barry is a more practical person than I. He leads the Council.’

  ‘Wears a cloak and a dog collar and rides a horse?’

  ‘You’ve met him?’ Abraham seemed concerned.

  ‘I saw him in the street. He spoke to Brother Mark.’

  ‘He will have been piqued that you did not ask for him.’

  ‘Barry doesn’t sound a very religious name?’

  ‘Barry Foster. He used to be a theatrical medium. He’s been talking to the dead for years.’ Abraham smiled mischievously.

  Reaper said, ‘Then he had plenty to talk to after the virus finished.’

  ‘He now prefers preaching his message to the living.’

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  ‘He lived in Boston Spa. Lost his wife in the plague. They didn’t have children. He came here because he had a booking at the Theatre Royal. Would you believe it? The world had ended and he turned up because the date was in his diary. An Evening With Psychic Medium Barry Foster. I think, like many, he was living in shock immediately afterwards. I’d been preaching, and holding non-denominational services in the Minster for about a week, when I noticed him because of the cross he wore around his neck. It was a plain wooden one, then. Now he wears a gold cross he found in the Minster. As I said, he is more practical than I am. He began organising and started holding services of his own, sort of … ancillary to mine. For some reason, he made me the figurehead.’

  ‘Because you look like a prophet?’ Reaper said.

  Abraham laughed. ‘I suppose you have a point.’

  ‘What about Brother Mark?’

  ‘Brother Mark would have joined the Crusades if he had been born at the time – and what did they ever do but consolidate an enmity between Muslim and Christian that lasted a thousand years. Thank goodness there are no crusades left. But he does have a great belief in good and evil.’ He smiled. ‘He was a second year student of theology at the university. A mature student. His application to become an ordinant in the Anglican Church had been unsuccessful and he hoped this would prove to the bishop that he was serious in his desire to join the priesthood. I suspect he fights his demons every day and every night. This place is right for him. He would be lost anywhere else.

  ‘Everyone here, I suppose, is damaged in one way or another, as are people everywhere. But through work and routine and prayer, they are learning to live again in simplicity. They have inhabited the older parts of the city for this very reason. We keep animals, grow vegetables, make cheese, brew ale, make candles. We have a blacksmith and farrier and a fully working forge. You should have a blacksmith, Brother Reaper. Plan for the future.’

  ‘Do you weave?’ said Reaper.

  ‘We have ambitions in that direction.’

  ‘We have sheep. We could trade you wool, if you didn’t consider trade a contamination.’

  Abraham smiled.

  ‘We have principles but there is no point cutting off the nose to spite the face. Trade could be acceptable. What would you want in return?’

  ‘How about allowing one of our people to work with your blacksmith? To become his apprentice and learn his trade?’

  Abraham nodded.

  ‘That seems a reasonable request. I shall put it to the Council.’

  ‘As well as wool, we could offer fresh produce.’

  ‘That, too, would be welcome.’ He smiled. ‘I feel we have come to an understanding, Brother Reaper. An exchange of ideas is always welcome. I have tried not to preach, but to explain. Besides, I rather think preaching would fall on stony ground, as far as you are concerned. So I shall pray for you, instead.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, your companions outside the gates will be worrying about you. Perhaps it is time to reunite you with Brother Ronald so that you can go home.’

  He led the way to the door and, in the porch, he slipped his feet into a pair of open toed sandals.

  ‘Dr Scholl may not be a god like Nike but he made damn fine sandals,’ he said. ‘I may raise him to the sainthood.’

  Brother Mark waited outside, along with the two guards. Two horses were tethered to the porch. Abraham handed the reins of one to Reaper.

  ‘Do you ride?’ he said.

  ‘Not very well, but I can manage.’

  ‘You should learn.’ Abraham smiled. ‘It’s the future.’

  They led the horses into Goodramgate and mounted, Abraham with ease, despite the habit. Reaper more carefully. He had had only a couple of lessons back at Haven. He knew horsepower would be the future eventually. Maybe he should take more lessons. They rode at a gentle pace. Brother Mark followed behind on foot; the two guards remained behind. Reaper wondered whether they had been there for his benefit, or to restrict Brother Abraham?

  Abraham set a gentle pace to a pleasant square, with trees and a flagged centre. The monk reined in and pointed down an impossibly narrow lane, where the upper stories of old timber-framed houses butted out and overhung the cobbles, almost meeting to keep out the sunshine.

  ‘The Shambles,’ he explained. ‘Before the plague, most of the houses were cafes or gift shops. Now people use them once more as modest dwellings.’

  Reaper checked the upstairs windows in case someone might decide to empty a chamber pot, but the monk led them a different way, through an open area with empty market stalls, into a wide thoroughfare called Parliament Street, with trees and a central paved area. The city felt empty, despite Abraham’s followers, but it still looked good after a year of stagnation. But then, what was one more year on top of all the history that it carried in its stones?

  At the end of Parliament Street, they turned right past another church and then left, down Coppergate, a narrow pedestri
an way of modern red brick that opened into a wide and attractive piazza with a Starbucks on the left and the entrance to the Jorvik Viking museum on the right. Overgrown shrubs were in the centre, crowding round a solitary tree in a planted area that was surrounded by seating. On the right was another ancient church of white stone. The remnants of a burnt-out fast food kiosk, was in front of a Boots store, a Marks and Spencers and Topshop, its windows still filled with last year’s teenage fashions.

  Brother Abraham led the way up a sloping exit lane between the church and an art shop, turned left, and they emerged in front of a large car park and an open space that was dominated by a thirty foot high, turfed mound upon which stood a white stone fortification.

  ‘Clifford’s Tower,’ Abraham said.

  The imposing edifice was hundreds of years old and looked battered, as if by siege. It was defiant and impressive. The mound that raised it high had been built on an elevated position that looked down a slope to a main road and the river beyond.

  They crossed the car park that in normal times, would have been packed with the vehicles of tourists and shoppers but was now only a quarter full. As they approached the front of the tower, Reaper saw that a flight of narrow stone steps led up the grass embankment to its entrance. A woman was partway up the steps. She wore a tracksuit, like most of the others he had seen in the city, and was climbing the steps on her knees, pausing on each one to dip her head in prayer.

  Reaper looked at Abraham for an explanation.

  ‘Brother Barry,’ he said. ‘The woman is Sister Alice. Barry regressed her. He’s also a hypnotist. Do you know the history of the Tower?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Jews of York died there,” the monk said. “In the 12th century, the Tower was made of wood. The Jews took refuge there when the town’s citizens attacked them.’

  ‘Why did they attack them?’ said Reaper.

  ‘Religious fervour – King Richard was raising a crusade. Plus religious bigotry, of course, and to rid themselves of debts. The Jews had loaned silver to everybody from the King and his barons to the tradesmen of the city. The hatred was whipped up by a mad priest and they laid siege to the tower.’