by Nana Malone
“The lights are with us tonight.” Papa winked as he took his foot off the brake and allowed the car to glide through the intersection.
Through the window beside him, Elisabeth saw the headlights speeding straight at them, not slowing down.
She screamed.
Pain crushed her chest as Papa got shoved into her, and then the both of them shoved Mama into the passenger side door, right into the truck waiting patiently at the other side of the red light. Her head rammed against the roof as the car folded in half lengthwise like a tent.
“My wings…” Elisabeth lamented as she lost consciousness.
* * * * *
Chapter 13
Abraham asked …"O Angel of Death!
What do you do if one man dies in the east
And another in the west?
Or if a land is stricken by the plague?
Or if two armies meet in the field?"
The angel said: "O Messenger of God!
The names of these people
Are inscribed on the lawh al-mahfuz:
It is the 'Preserved Tablet'
On which all human destinies are engraved.
I gaze at it incessantly.”
Naqshbandi Sufi Tale
Earth - AD December, 1992
Chicago, Illinois
‘The ringing of the bell has a jarring effect upon the human psyche,’ Azrael wrote. ‘The bell ringer stands at a public place, in this instance the exit to a busy public transportation station, and rings the bell, summoning the attention of his quarry to the small, red kettle he bears suspended from a tripod.’
He noted a tally mark as a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple mass-produced coat smiled and tucked what appeared to be a dollar bill into the red kettle.
“Merry Christmas,” the woman said.
“Thank you,” the bell-ringer replied. “Merry Christmas to you, too!”
While this was occurring, a well-dressed woman wearing high heels and a mink coat exited the subway, avoided contact with the bell ringer, and haughtily made her way across the street.
‘It never ceases to amaze me how humans who appear to have the least,’ Azrael scribbled, ‘are often the ones who give the most. Several theories have been propounded to explain this paradox. Those who’ve lived closest to the line between having enough, and not enough, appear to feel greater empathy for those less fortunate.’
It pleased him that humans celebrated the birthday of the research subject who’d provided the catalyst to stamp out Moloch-worship once and for all. Azrael liked Christmas, especially in Chicago where people had emigrated from all over the world, bringing their traditions with them. For ten years now, he’d had been inexplicably drawn to this city, spending his spare time easing cancer victims and the critically ill into the Dreamtime. Christmas provided an opportunity to observe the positive side of human nature and restore his faith in what he did.
The humans ignored him sitting on the second-story ledge of a department store, an even darker shadow against the early winter dusk. People rarely saw him unless he wanted them to see him. Who wanted to see Death except the dying and the already dead? Or those too innocent to understand what Azrael had come to represent. A little African-American boy pulled against his mother's hand, pointing up to where Azrael sat collecting data.
“Look Mommy,” the boy said. “An angel.”
“There’s angels all over the place today,” the frazzled mother groused, juggling far more packages than was sensible. “Pasty-faced honky angels to sell pasty-faced honky dolls to pasty-faced white people. They come out earlier and earlier each year. Next thing you know, they’ll be taking out Christmas decorations for the Fourth of July.”
The little boy waved to Azrael.
Azrael waved back. He enjoyed watching all humans, at least the ones who weren’t evil, but he liked children most of all. They reminded him of a time when he had still been innocent enough to believe he might change this world for the better instead of shoveling excrement against the tide of Moloch’s malevolence. Watchman? More like Trashman! Azrael accepted his unenviable job as Ki’s garbage disposal, but he still needed days like today to remind him why the mysterious goddess felt it necessary to protect her realms rather than let her former husband destroy them.
“But this angel is black,” the little boy said. “Just like me. See?”
“Humpf!” Packages slipped out of the mother's hand as she glanced in the general direction her son pointed and saw nothing. “Now look! I hope nothing didn’t break!”
The bell ringer stepped forward to help pick up the dropped packages, leaving his kettle unattended. Azrael put a tally mark in the plus side of his checklist and started to write once more. A rough-looking man stepped out of the shadows and edged towards the kettle. Azrael watched the exchange intently, suppressing the urge to pop in front of the thief and shout ‘boo.’
‘Overall incidents of good will increase this time of year,’ Azrael scribbled. ‘But those who prey on the weak never seem to go away.’ He made a tally mark in the negative column of his checklist.
“Hey!” the African-American woman spied the thief trying to take the bell ringer’s kettle. “Get outta there, you hoodlum! I know who you are!” She threw one of her packages, whacking the thief off the head. Azrael heard the sound of breaking glass.
Would throwing the package be considered a positive act? Or a negative one? Azrael weighed the matter carefully, then put a tally in the positive column along with a scribbled note. ‘Defense of another is generally a positive trait.’
Snowflakes began to tumble out of the sky like miniature fallen angels. One by one, the shops beneath the ledge where Azrael sat with his legs dangling over the edge like a lanky boy began to close. Pedestrian traffic became so light that finally even the bell ringer packed up his kettle and left. A few last commuters made their way through the streets to get to wherever they would spend Christmas Eve. Even the ever-present traffic died down. Chicago became almost … peaceful.
Azrael closed his eyes and tilted his face up towards the enormous falling snowflakes, imagining the graceful crystalline structures were melting upon his flesh instead of simply ceasing to exist. He couldn’t feel them, of course. Only living tissue held any real sensation; but to touch anything alive meant to instantly kill it. He flared his nostrils, inhaling the scent of cold, icy moisture, and listened for the crackle of the icy crystals as tiny changes in temperature caused them to contract and expand. It wasn’t the touch he craved, but compensating for his inability to touch by using his other senses kept him from going insane.
Mama. Gazardiel. Elissar. For thousands of years he’d visited hospitals and the scenes of car accidents, hoping one of the consciousnesses he eased into the Dreamtime would recognize him upon leaving their mortal shell, and for thousands of years he’d been disappointed. He was sure the goddess had sent them back into physical form many times by now, but it was unlikely they were sent to Earth. Christmas … a day to spend with family. He’d never been able to fill the aching void left by the loss of his family and friend.
A crash disturbed his musings, followed immediately by a second crash and the sound of breaking glass.
A horn blaring, nonstop.
A car accident, about six blocks from here. Azrael leaped off the ledge and was immediately airborne, flying to his destination instead of teleporting there as he wasn’t sure exactly where he was going.
“Watch wherf yurf goin, jerk…” a man in a souped-up vintage Chevelle slurred, opening the door to his smashed car and instantly slipping and falling upon the snow. Beer bottles dropped out onto the street, the snow muffling the sound of falling glass so they only made a dull thud.
The car he’d hit broadside had been rammed all the way across the intersection into an oncoming delivery truck. It didn’t look good. Azrael clenched his fists and reminded himself he was only here to reap the souls of the truly evil, not stupid drunks like the idiot struggling to his feet and stagg
ering away from the wrecked cars, attempting to flee the scene. Humans had their own laws to deal with situations such as this. It was not his place to judge.
The elderly Dodge Dart which had been hit looked bad. The V8 engine of the muscle car had taken the brunt of the impact, sparing its driver. The smaller car, on the other hand, had been shoved up into a tent-shape between the two larger, heavier vehicles. Azrael doubted there would be any survivors.
It was time to go to work.
The driver of the delivery truck slumped over his steering wheel, unconscious. Azrael listened, using senses beyond the normal five to scan for injury. The driver had been stopped at the red light when the Dodge was rammed into the front of his truck by the Chevelle. He suffered whiplash and a broken clavicle, but would live.
The occupants of the car … he got nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a heartbeat.
“Senseless!” Azrael hissed, glancing down the street where the drunk had staggered. It was not his place to interfere in the affairs of mortals. All he could do was make sure these people safely found their way into the Dreamtime so they could be reunited as a family there.
He reached in the window to the back seat. A bloodied elderly man sat crushed in his seatbelt, his mouth twisted in a scream, eyes open. His consciousness was already gone. Azrael closed the man’s eyes. He scanned the other three adults in the car. Also gone. They’d instinctively made their way where they needed to go. The consciousness of the young boy in the center, however, still lingered. His body had been shoved upwards towards the roof when the car had folded like a tent. He was just a teenager. Not sure what to do.
“Come with me,” Azrael reached out his hand. “I’ll escort you where you need to go.”
“But we’ll be late,” Franz said. “Everyone is expecting us.”
“I think they’ll understand,” Azrael said. He double-checked to verify the boy’s skull had shattered on the ceiling of the car before touching his mortal shell to complete the process of severance. The advancing state of human medicine meant Azrael had to be certain death was inevitable before he rendered assistance, but not even the Eternal Emperor could have healed such a wound.
The boy’s consciousness reached out to take his hand. In an instant, Azrael teleported the boy to the gateway to the Dreamtime. He could sense the boy's parents and grandparents were already there, anxiously milling about, looking for him. The boy stepped through the threshold. Azrael turned to leave. Franz then did something Azrael had never seen before.
He stepped back out again!
“Where is Elisabeth?” Franz stood with one foot inside the threshold of the Dreamtime.
“That was all I sensed in the car,” Azrael said, not certain he’d just seen what he’d just seen. “Perhaps she is already inside the Dreamtime?”
“Mama and Papa say Elisabeth is not there,” Franz said. “She didn’t make it. Please! You must take me back to find her. I promised I’d watch out for her.”
“Your mortal shell is damaged beyond repair,” Azrael said with a feeling of dread. “I can’t bring you back. Your injuries were too severe to survive. If you go back, you risk your consciousness becoming lost.” A strong one, this human. The boy tugged at his hand with surprising strength. Yes … Azrael had seen the boy do something impossible.
“Please!” Franz looked much older than his fourteen years. “I promised my parents I would always look out for her.”
Azrael scanned the boy, searching for signs the young man had evolved enough for his consciousness to pull his mortal shell into the upper realms and reconstitute it. The boy's will was formidable, but already Azrael could see the edges beginning to fray, early signs of dissipation. Although close, the boy had not quite reached perfection. If he lingered, not only would his life be lost, but also his soul.
“I’ll go back and find her,” Azrael said. “If she still lives, I’ll make sure she gets into the hands of those who will protect her in your stead. If she’s left her mortal shell and become lost, I will find her and bring her to you. Alright?”
Franz looked at his hand which had begun to lose its shape.
“What’s happening to me?"
“You must get to the other side or you’ll be lost, too.” Azrael used the voice of reason he’d heard so many parents successfully use to coax their offspring into making wise choices over the centuries. “Your parents will be distraught if they lose the both of you. I’ll find her. You have my word.”
Franz hesitated, and then nodded.
“I’ll hold you to that promise,” Franz said, surprisingly adult for one so young. A recycled consciousness. Azrael was certain of it.
He could almost see the echo of past-life memories returning as She-who-is’s veil of memory loss began to slip away, restoring the knowledge accumulated over countless lifetimes. The boy stepped through the veil into the Dreamtime, leaving Azrael standing at the gateway he visited several times per day, but could never cross.
In a flash, he teleported back to the car accident, searching for the missing girl. The driver of the delivery truck was now conscious, calling into his two-way radio for help. Several people had come out of apartments on either side of the intersection, not sure what to do. Azrael softened the edges of his physical form so he couldn’t be seen and scanned the area around the car wreck for signs of a disembodied consciousness.
Nothing.
He’d only detected five bodies in the car. Was it possible he’d missed something? The driver of the truck, his forehead bloody, screamed at the bystanders standing idly by wringing their hands to call 9-1-1. At last, one moved forward and got into the driver's seat of the truck, backing far enough from the mangled car to get at the other door. It was stuck.
The truck driver looked in the smashed window and saw the ground meat that had once been Franz’s mother. He fell to the ground and vomited.
“I’m so sorry,” the truck driver wept as he clutched at the snow as though it were a child’s blanket. “I couldn’t get out of the way.”
“Dude,” the young man who’d moved the truck said. “This wasn’t your fault. That other guy blew the red light and rammed them right into you.”
A tiny moan came from the center of the car, so quiet that only Azrael could hear it. Someone was still alive.
“They’re all dead,” the truck driver wept.
No. They weren’t. Someone was still alive. The sister, he presumed. How had he missed the sixth consciousness?
Sirens became audible in the distance. Police cars. Slow! Too slow! Now that he knew it was there, he could sense the child’s life force fading by the second. So weak. He could sense the jagged energy of fear. Panic. Pain. It was unlikely anyone could survive such a horrific accident, but Azrael couldn’t bear to leave a child to suffer when one touch would alleviate her pain. If he shoved past the two blocking the way, the child wouldn’t be the only person whose consciousness he’d be escorting into the Dreamtime.
‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Azrael silently screamed at them in his own mind, his wings flared, ready for action. ‘She’s suffering. Get out of the way!’
The police car arrived, blue lights reflecting off the falling snow which had become a heavy shroud of white covering the tomb of the family just killed. Two police officers got out. Azrael tucked his wings into his back, flicking his cloak around himself so he didn’t inadvertently kill anybody.
“They’re all dead!” the truck driver wailed. “It’s all my fault!”
The police officer reached in and felt the pulses of the five people visible in the car. Only Azrael knew that somewhere in the middle was a sixth. A child. Small enough to escape notice.
“Looks like there’s nothing we can do for these folks,” the police officer said to his partner. “Damn! On Christmas Eve!”
“It wasn’t his fault,” several bystanders said simultaneously. “That yellow car ran the red light and plowed them right into the delivery truck. The driver took off.”
“A drunk,” the s
econd police officer nudged one of the beer bottles nearly covered with snow with one shiny black oxford shoe.
Azrael could sense the life force panic inside the car. His sensitive ears picked up another moan, louder this time, drowned out by the sound of the approaching fire truck. An overwhelming image of someone being smothered intruded into his mind. She was fighting to live!
“Anything we can do?” the paramedic asked, rushing over to the car.
“Go ahead and try,” the first police officer said. “We couldn’t find any sign of a pulse. But maybe you can zap ‘em with a defibrillator or something.” He herded the distraught truck driver out of the way for questioning.
“He’s right,” the paramedic shouted after checking all five pulses. “I got nothing. Better send for the coroner. And the Jaws-of-Life. The front door is twisted shut.”
“I hate Christmas Eve,” the second paramedic grumbled as he trudged back to the fire truck, shoulders slumped with resignation. “Every drunk in the city decides now would be a good time to get behind a wheel and go a-wassailing.”
‘Dammit!’ Azrael whispered, leaning towards the second police officer. ‘There’s a little girl in that car. She’s still alive. And she can’t breathe!’
The police officer paused what he was doing, and then resumed putting flares around the crash scene.
Two more police cruisers arrived, as well as an ambulance. More gawkers came out of surrounding apartments and other cars. The scene got noisier and noisier. So noisy that there no one would hear a faint moan from a dying child wedged between her dead parents.
Azrael vacillated, not sure what to do. How could these people be so stupid???
They weren’t stupid. He had missed her, too, until her brother had pointed it out. He wasn’t supposed to interfere … but …
The first police officer had stepped away from the truck driver to speak to one of the police officers arriving at the scene. The man sat on the curb, distraught. Not entirely rational. Wracked with guilt. For two thousand years Azrael had studied the science of creating ‘rallying points.’ The point where an ascended being might push to facilitate an event some would term a ‘miracle,’ but others would remain skeptical enough about that neither the Armistice nor the strict rules prohibiting the use of ascended power were not violated. That was his most likely target.
