Almost immediately, the driver began a cheerful monologue that seemed somehow out of place on a day that had suddenly turned so gloomy. “Good afternoon,” he said in his delightful Scottish brogue. “Welcome to Bowman’s coach service. We’ll be motoring today through Glenmore, along the shores of Loch Scridain, to finally arrive at Fionnphort on the western tip of the island.”
The driver continued with a rapid patter describing the scenic details of Mull, apparently using a memorized script. “On the right, weather permitting, you might catch a glimpse of Ben More, which in Gaelic means ‘Tall Hill.’ At 3169 feet high it’s the tallest mountain on the island, but it was once much taller. Ben More was the last active volcano in northern Europe. Geologists tell us Ben was 10,000 feet tall before it blew.”
As the driver droned on, Patrick leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. The driver’s voice was soon lost in the sounds of wind-driven rain. The bus traveled a winding, one-lane road across the island, stopping at times to let sheep cross, and pulling over frequently to allow cars traveling the opposite direction to pass. When most of his passengers appeared to be dozing, the driver abandoned his efforts as tour guide, leaving them to travel the rest of the route in relative peace.
Patrick gazed out at a lonely landscape of desolate moorland and steep, heather-clad hills. Ancient brooding castles flashed past the coach window. Deep lochs, impassible bogs, and deserted glens appeared and were quickly lost in the driving rain. Patrick had never imagined a place so desolate, yet so beautiful.
It was raining harder now. Dozens of waterfalls cascaded down every hill, turning small streams into rushing torrents.
Watching the fog-shrouded hillsides gliding past the window, Patrick felt he was being transported to a different world. Time itself seemed to have ceased. The whole island was brooding with a gloomy, other-worldly charm.
He leaned his seat further back and listened to the rain thundering on the roof of the bus. Perhaps it was the surreal setting, but Patrick suddenly had a great fascination to learn more about Michael.
Noticing that Michael was still awake, Patrick began, “Michael, how did you decide to become an angelologist?”
“Well…” Michael responded, smiling slightly, “you might say I was chosen.
“It began with an experience I had as a child. I still remember every detail. I was nine years old and was in bed on a rainy night about to go to sleep. As I lay there, listening to the rain outside my room, I heard a strange noise and opened my eyes. Standing at the foot of my bed was a figure, glowing in bright light. His hair was as white as snow, but he didn’t look like an old man. He was dressed in a white robe, too bright to make out any details.
“At first I was terrified. I tried to lie still, but my whole body was shaking. Then a sense of incredible peace settled over me. I felt completely secure. My mind couldn’t process what was happening, but I knew I wasn’t in danger.
“Finally, the man saw I was watching him. In a smooth motion he unfurled huge white wings that hadn’t been visible a moment before. He extended his wings horizontally, rose quickly from the floor, and disappeared up through the ceiling of my room.
“I closed my eyes, rolled over and tried not to breathe. Finally I fell asleep.
“For years I searched for an explanation of what I saw. I knew I wasn't dreaming, and I wasn't hallucinating either.
“I attempted to put the experience behind me, but then, in college, I made the mistake of majoring in history. The more I studied the ancient world, the more I found that many, many others have had experiences like mine.
“Did you know that students of pre-historic cultures have found pictures of winged humanoids scrawled on the walls of caves in every part of the earth? Creatures like these are described in the writings of Plutarch and carved in the monuments of Egypt, Babylon and Persia. All of these ancient peoples, in all parts of the world, had seen the same thing.
“They’ve been known by many names. The Hebrews called them the benai Elohim, or the ‘sons of God.’ The Jews also called them watchers. The Christians called them the angelloi, or angels. Pagan Greeks called them horae. The Vikings knew them as valkyries, and in Persia they were fereshta. To Hindus, they’re devas, the "shining ones." In primitive Shamanism they’re simply called the bird people, or the bird tribe.
“Reports of these creatures have continued throughout history. George Washington spoke of his guardian angel and credited his success at Valley Forge to ‘a visit from a heavenly being.’”
“One of the most famous accounts in modern times is the legend of the Angels of Mons. The Battle of Mons took place in Belgium in August of 1914 during World War One. Within weeks of the battle, the story was already legendary.
“Soldiers returning from the battle reported seeing an army of angels led by a towering, winged figure that spurred on the English forces during their assault on the German trenches. These beings were observed by many soldiers and supposedly corroborated by German prisoners.
“Of course, angel sightings can’t be proven,” Michael admitted. “Some are certainly hoaxes. But the persistence of these accounts throughout history, along with the amazing similarity of the reports, tells me we’re dealing with something very real.”
Patrick was genuinely fascinated now. “Tell me more about angels.”
“To begin with,” Michael said, “most of them look just like us. They usually appear to be normal human beings. Sometimes they have wings—but often no wings are seen. And they come in all varieties; male and female, young and old, all different races.
“A common misconception about angels and demons,” Michael continued, “is the idea that they don’t have physical bodies. Some people picture angels as wispy spirits, ‘beings of light’ and nonsense like that.
“The records show just the opposite. When these creatures enter our dimension, they’re as real and solid as you and I. They eat and drink. They use weapons, cook food, and play musical instruments. And they’re highly intelligent.
“Most traditions teach that angels and demons frequently walk among us unnoticed. Your Catholic Bible warns you to always treat strangers kindly, because you never know when a stranger might be an angel.
“There are even accounts of angels—presumably of the ‘fallen’ variety—having sex with humans. The Hebrew Bible tells of a time when males of the benai Elohim bred with human women and produced a fearsome race of hybrids called the Nephilim. What’s interesting is that the Greeks record the same story in pagan terms. For the Greeks, it was the Greek gods having sex with human women, producing a race of demigods.”
“That definitely sounds like they have physical bodies.” Patrick agreed. “So where did we get the idea that angels are just spirits?”
“That comes from their ability to move in and out of our dimension,” Michael replied. “Angels have the unsettling ability to fade in and out. They can also shift slightly out of our plane and pass through walls.
“Sometimes they don’t appear visibly at all,” he added. “Many traditions describe a shadow realm on the edge of our dimension where trans-dimensional beings can interact with us without becoming visible… So you can be visited by an angel without ever seeing one.”
“How would you know an angel is visiting if you can’t see it?”
“One way is through dreams,” Michael explained. “Angels appear to have telepathic ability. They can communicate directly into our minds, and that most frequently happens in our dreams. So if you have an unusually vivid dream, particularly if it’s a recurring dream, it could be a message from an angel.”
Hearing Michael’s comment, a chill shot down Patrick’s spine, but he wasn’t yet ready to tell Michael about the Hill.
Attempting to shift the conversation, Patrick ventured, “And you also believe in demons?”
“Absolutely!” Michael said. “That’s one of the most important things you can know about these creatures. Some have the misguided idea that all angels are friendly, bu
t the eyewitness accounts tell a different story.
“The truth is that some angels are benevolent and try to protect us, but there are also dark or ‘fallen’ angels that intend great harm for mankind. These dark angels are often called devils or demons.”
Sensing Patrick’s skepticism, Michael added, “I’ve interviewed many people who’ve had encounters with demons, Patrick, and believe me, they’re quite real. Some of the accounts I’ve heard would make your skin crawl.”
“What are demons like?” Patrick asked.
“They’re cold malignant creatures… totally without compassion,” Michael said. “They come into our world to kill and destroy, and they’re sadists at heart. They love to inflict pain. They sometimes seem to make a game of it—tormenting their victims for months or even years, prolonging pain to the point of madness. The victim’s death can be almost anticlimactic.”
“What kinds of things do they do?”
“Demons appear to choose their victims randomly—any age, any sex, any walk of life—and they’ve a variety of tactics… Sometimes they target the victim’s body. The unsuspecting victim is suddenly bombarded by a bizarre series of painful and debilitating symptoms. There’s never a medical explanation and never a cure. Doctors sometimes label these people as hypochondriacs, but the agony they experience is quite real.
“At other times, demons attack by amplifying or distorting our natural desires. The victim is seduced into destructive behavior or overwhelmed by uncontrollable urges for violence.
“On occasion, dark angels even work by affecting our circumstances. We’ve all known cases where it’s happened. A normal, well-adjusted individual suddenly finds everything in his life falling apart. He loses his job and every employer slams the door in his face. As he struggles to pay the bills, he finds himself inundated by an avalanche of bad luck. His kids get sick. Appliances break, computers crash, his car is totaled in a freak collision. He plunges into deep depression. His marriage falls apart. Helpless to resist, he endures one disaster after another, becoming more and more despondent.”
“And you would attribute something like that to a demon?” Patrick asked.
“You can always tell when a demon is at work,” Michael said, “because a demon always overplays his hand. When someone is targeted by a demon, their loss goes far beyond a normal run of bad luck.”
“That sounds like a recipe for paranoia to me,” Patrick chided. “If you talk like that, you’ll end up with people running around crying, ‘Help, the demons are after me.’ …blaming all their problems on demons.”
“Patrick, it’s not paranoia if something really is after you. And this is real. The demons don’t always show themselves openly, but in many cases the victims are haunted by a shadowy presence. The same dark figures show up, over and over again, at odd times and places.
“And since their lifespan is incredibly long, it’s not unusual for a dark angel to torture his victim for years, or even decades, before destroying him.
“Demons have even been known to attach themselves to a family line and torment its members for generations. In some families, oppressive poverty, incurable disease, and just plain ‘bad luck’ are passed from generation to generation and no amount of effort can break them free. I’ve interviewed families where no one has survived past the age of forty in six generations. And always the demon is present. Sometimes you see the same dark figure in the background of family photographs, generation after generation.”
Patrick was feeling overwhelmed. He’d never met anyone like Michael and wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. The rational part of his brain wanted to reject everything Michael said. Yet Michael spoke so confidently, there was something in Patrick that wanted very much to believe him.
He glanced out the window. The bus had pulled off to the side of the road to allow a car traveling in the opposite direction to pass. The rain was letting up a little, but ghostly tendrils of mist still haunted the desolate moor.
As the bus pulled onto the road again, Patrick turned back to Michael, “You mentioned on the ferry that something unusual is happening in the angelic realm. What do you see?”
“I see two trends,” Michael answered. “In the last few years I’ve documented a remarkable increase in the activity of angels. I’ve investigated more than five hundred reports of angel encounters in the last decade, and close to a third of them have been in the last twelve months.
“What I’ve noticed is that angels are openly revealing themselves, speaking to people and intervening in human events to a degree never before seen.”
“That’s fascinating,” Patrick said.
“It is,” Michael agreed, “but the other trend is quite alarming. While reports of angels are dramatically increasing, the reports of demons are increasing even faster. In fact, they’ve gone off the scale. Demonic encounters now outnumber the angelic ones by more than four to one.”
“What does that mean?” Patrick asked, genuinely intrigued.
“It means,” Michael said, suddenly dead serious, “that in recent years, the balance of power between angels and demons appears to have shifted.
“Angels have always protected the human race. Because of the presence of angels, demons have been afraid to show themselves openly. They’ve been forced to operate covertly, working behind the scenes in the shadow realm. But all that’s now changed. The powers of darkness are moving among us with a new boldness. They seem to have lost their fear of angels.”
“So what does that mean?” Patrick prodded, truly curious.
“It means,” Michael said, leaning closer, “that in the age-old battle between good and evil, the forces of evil are now winning. And their goal, I believe, is to destroy us all!”
The rain had finally stopped, though the sky remained dark and overcast. As they followed the road on a long curve to the left, all conversation on the bus suddenly ended. For coming into view was the windswept strip of water called the Sound of Iona. And there, across the water, less than two miles away, was their destination. The home of Patrick O’Neill’s ancestors. The burial place of kings. The legendary dwelling of angels and faeries. The Island of Iona.
Chapter Seven: Sylvia’s Story
THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF TREMONT POINT, NEW YORK CITY
Sylvia Romano no longer questioned the existence of demons. She knew one. And if there is a hell on earth, Sylvia had found it.
Sylvia sat hunched on the edge of a filthy mattress in the middle of a dark, litter-strewn floor. She was naked, and the tangle of unwashed walnut-brown hair tumbling down her back did little to conceal the protruding ribs of her gaunt body. Her pale, emaciated limbs—marred by overlapping bruises and streaked with grime—gave her the ghostly appearance of a death-camp survivor.
Tears still trickled down Sylvia’s cheeks, but her concentration was fixed on the familiar ritual before her. Opening the crumpled, brown paper bag she kept beside the mattress, her trembling fingers carefully removed its contents, placing each item on the floor between her feet. Beside the packet of white powder bequeathed by her latest visitor, she placed a blood-smeared syringe and needle, a spoon with a bent handle, a cigarette lighter, a half-empty plastic bottle of water, a wad of cotton, and a length of electrical cord.
As she set the items neatly in place, the voice in her mind began to speak again. The voice had been speaking to her off and on for several days, growing more and more insistent… warning her, telling her to get away. She knew it had something to do with the dream.
The last few nights Sylvia had had the same dream. A nightmare. In the dream something terrible was happening to her. She was being ripped apart. There was blood and smoke and fire and death. People were crying in pain. All around her little children lay on the ground screaming… and dying. The dream made no sense to her, but she knew what it meant. She knew if she didn’t escape, she was going to die.
She emptied the packet of white powder into the spoon. With the syringe she drew water from the plastic bottle, a
nd carefully squirted it into the spoon around the heroin.
The voice in her head was speaking more urgently now: Get up, Sylvia. Run. You must get away… now!
But an escape attempt would take so much effort. Her body hurt all over. The pain was constant now. And they would beat her again. And besides, it just didn’t matter. Hardly anything mattered anymore.
Sylvia had just been raped, and even that didn’t matter. Over the past six months she’d grown used to that. The only thing that mattered was that she’d been paid.
That was an unwritten rule in the house. They called Sylvia the freak… the freak in the back room. She was there for anyone to use, at any time. But when they used her, she had to be paid. And they paid her in the only currency that mattered … heroin. She needed heroin at least four times a day.
She flicked the lighter a few times and held the flame under the spoon, steadying her trembling hand against her knee.
Waiting for the mixture to boil, Sylvia looked down at her body. She hardly recognized herself. She’d always been proud of her body. She had liked the way people looked at her. Her senior year in high school some friends talked her into entering a beauty pageant, and she’d won second place. But she never really wanted to be a beauty queen. Her dream was to be a teacher. She loved kids.
And she’d been smart. She graduated from high school near the top of her class and was accepted at NYU. Her first two years in college she studied hard and earned a 3.5 average… but her third year she met Botis.
She was at a party at a friend’s apartment when Botis tapped her on the shoulder. That night she smoked her first joint with him. “Come on, Syl,” he smiled, “You’ll like it!”
After that she saw Botis more and more frequently. They would sit and talk for hours, and he always brought drugs, all kinds of drugs. She hadn’t known there were so many. Over the next few months a whole new world opened up to her. And she thought she was in love.
Iona Portal (The Synaxis Chronicles) Page 5
