Dark Rising

by Monica McGurk

  I laid out the pieces of the puzzle in my mind. We knew we were looking for the rock with which Cain had slain Abel. The last time Michael saw it, it was here, in Istanbul.

  Constantinople, Henri sniffed. Only the nouveau arrivistes call it Istanbul.

  Fine, I thought, with an inward sigh. Constantinople. Which seemed to be the seat of some sort of … cult of Michael, if the number of shrines and holy places dedicated to him were any indication.

  But why was he so popular here?

  Honestly? You don’t know? Henri interrupted again.

  “I’m sorry, they didn’t offer Byzantine history at my high school,” I snapped, irritated at his continuous prodding.

  Henri pointedly ignored me, giving me a moment to weave through the crowds of tourists as I cut across another monumental square. I looked both ways quickly before dashing across traffic, continuing to run away from the Westerners into a quieter part of town.

  As I got out of the crowds, Henri continued.

  Michael told you that Constantine founded that church you were searching for?

  I nodded. Michael said as much earlier. I waited for Henri to continue.

  Well, originally, it was a temple to Zeus that the Argonauts had built.

  He must have noticed my jaw drop for he continued on, smugly, Yes, those Argonauts. Not everything you read as mythology is untrue.

  Yes, after Constantine won his great battle he gave the credit to Michael and rededicated the temple of Zeus to Michael, in thanksgiving. Michael’s fame spread from here, through what you now know as the Middle East, and back up through the old Western Roman Empire. There are no churches built to Gabriel, or Raphael, or any of the other angels, unless they are lumped together in a group. But Michael? Michael has cathedrals and monasteries and churches the world over. He has captured the imagination of the faithful, and so they build to him.

  And here is where it all began. All because Michael chose to defend and bless one human. Mankind blesses him, because he has always chosen to bless mankind. Their stories are inseparable.

  Henri spoke without bitterness, his characteristic sarcasm gone. I let his story roll around in the back of my mind, accompanied by the steady bass of the music being pumped out by my iPod.

  “Henri, do the other angels really hate him for his fame?”

  No. They hate him, because he loves man. And because those of confused faith say he is God or Christ himself.

  You really should turn back, now, Henri prompted.

  I’d been so engrossed in Henri’s storytelling that I’d lost track of time. I pulled up short on the sidewalk and checked my watch. With a sinking feeling, I saw that I had been running for quite some time. If I were to keep the privilege of going out of the house, I’d have to return now.

  I took in my surroundings. I was halfway up a hill, on a cozy square that had opened before me from the warren of winding cobblestoned streets. Narrow shops crowded up to the curb, several of their doors marked with the telltale talisman of the blue eye. Nestled in among them was what I took to be a church. It was set back from the street within a tiny courtyard, Greek lettering splayed above its doorway. In the courtyard stood a gnarled tree, glass amulets of blue and white trailing from its budding branches, repulsing the wayward gaze of any evil eye. Next to it, one of the shops beckoned, its dusty windowfront stuffed with what looked like knickknacks and objets d’art. Something seemed to click in the back of my brain.

  Intrigued, I began to cross the street when I felt a slight tug at my shoulder. I turned around to find myself alone on the sidewalk.

  No time for that now, Henri admonished. You need to get back.

  “Maybe just a minute in that shop?” I bargained, its promised secrets proving nearly irresistible.

  Go ahead. I’m sure Michael will be happy to tether himself to you like a watchdog when he finds you snuck out without his permission. That should be fun for all of us.

  Silently I took inventory of the street scene and the dilapidated store, promising myself I’d find a way back. Then I turned and began jogging back down the hill, hoping I’d be home before Michael realized I’d been gone.

  My run had exactly the effect I’d wanted. I felt refreshed, my anxiety about our situation relegated to the back of my mind, so I could give my full attention to the dilemma at hand.

  Our evening was quiet. We spread out throughout the house, like boxers sent to our own corners to prepare for the next round in our bout. We were all being so careful, now, I thought with a pang of sadness, watchful of our words, of our looks, of the very way we intersected one another’s space lest we cause another outburst. We weren’t a team, looking for the Key together. No, we were a band of misfits forced upon one another by the uncomfortable truth that everything we cherished might be destroyed if we did not work together. But that didn’t change the fact that Michael’s feelings toward me could veer from longing to overbearing protectiveness to resentment in the space of time it took for me to catch my breath; that my own feelings toward him were complicated, at best, spurring me on to confront him at the least opportune moments; nor that he and Raph were caught in a deadlock grip of mutual disgust that was more ancient than the city in which we found ourselves.

  Our fragile alliance threatened to crumble under the weight of it all—something none of us wanted. The consequences were too dire. We would need to at least tolerate one another until we got what we had come for. So, mindful not to draw too much attention to myself, I claimed the coziest corner I could get, right next to the fire, and laid out in my mind all I had learned about Michael and the rock since we’d been in Istanbul.

  Michael was beloved by the people of Istanbul—or Constantinople, I corrected myself, hearing Henri’s chiding voice—because it was believed he’d intervened to save their ruler and bring him victory on the battlefield. His followers had spread from here throughout Christendom, bringing him acclaim that had not come to any other Archangel. Some people, Henri had said, even thought he was God or Jesus in another form. The weird juxtaposition of him with Mary and Jesus in the mosaics at Ayasofya, along with his association with martyrdom at his chapel at the Pantocrator, seemed to underscore this false conflation.

  Pure jealousy—or anger at the audacity of it all—would certainly pit angels like Raph against him. That and his decision to protect Cain so long ago. That decision, which Michael saw simply as the fulfillment of his role as mankind’s protector, permanently split the angels into two camps. The camp we were fighting resented their de facto demotion when God elevated humankind in his image and thought our sinfulness an abomination deserving of extinction.

  It all came back to the rock and to Michael’s reputation as a lover of humanity. I tried not to think about the way our complicated relationship might be affecting that reputation. It was hard to believe so many angels wanted mankind wiped off the Earth, but the facts were there. I shuddered, knowing that is exactly what would happen if the Fallen were to find the rock before we did.

  Was it as simple as that? I wondered. Or was there something more about Michael? Something was niggling at the back of my mind, spurring me to think harder.

  I sighed and stretched in my chair, the pleasant ache of my muscles a reminder of my run. As I did, I looked up to find Enoch watching me. His face was impassive, the mirror of his sunglasses blinking back like soulless eyes.

  I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for him to look away. When he didn’t, I huddled myself back into the chair and closed my eyes, pretending I didn’t see him, that I didn’t know that all things rested on me and my ability to unravel the mystery before us.

  My dreams were filled with free-floating images of the blue and white talismans that hung from the tree in the church courtyard. I woke up feeling invincible and filled with a sense of urgency—compelled to go back and explore the entire Greek neighborhood and, especially, the dusty shop. I knew there was something special about that place, something that would clarify our path.

  I hurried
ly dressed in my running clothes, shoving my feet into my shoes. I looked about the great room. Raph and Enoch were in the same places they sat the night before. Raph appeared engrossed in yet another book, while Enoch, cross-legged, appeared to be meditating, his fat body somehow folded into lotus position, his hands stretched out in front of him as if in supplication. Istanbul was bringing out his new-agey side again. I wondered idly if he ever smoked pot or tried his hand at yoga.

  “Where’s Michael?” I demanded.

  “He left. Needed some time outside of his human form, I imagine, to recharge his batteries,” Enoch answered without changing his pose.

  “Human weakness,” Raph muttered under his breath, never lifting his head from the book.

  “So it’s okay for me to run again?”

  Raph arched a brow. “Why not? You’ve already broken the rules once. Why stop now?”

  I didn’t wait for them; I knew they would find and follow me as they must. Instead, I ran down the stairs, noticing only fleetingly how my joints seemed easier, how my skin felt more my own, as I launched myself into another run.

  I retraced my path from yesterday, winding my way back to the little Greek enclave. With my attention all focused on what was going on around me, I noticed the mouthwatering smells of baklava and souvlaki drifting out of the shops; the telltale amulets on stoops, warding off the evil eye; the domes and crucifixes scratching against the gray sky, marking the neighborhood as one of the sole Christian holdouts in this city claimed by Islam.

  Breathlessly, I pulled myself to a stop at the top of a hill. I’d reached my destination.

  The blue and white talismans dangling from the churchyard tree tinkled in the breeze that drifted in from the water and glinted in the weak sunlight. But they were not what commanded my attention. Instead, I slipped across the street and walked to the window of the shop that was once again beckoning to me.

  It was covered in a layer of grime and dust so thick it seemed almost deliberately put there to disguise the treasures that lay inside. As I wiped the glass, I could make out the delicate paper and ink tracings of maps; the gilt-edged calligraphy, spread out for admiration; the dull paint of a phalanx of tin soldiers, their uniforms topped by jaunty fezzes, lined up and brandishing bayonets as if ready for battle. Some fantastical mosaic lamps with intricate patterns of green, gold, pink, and yellow floated like jellyfish above the case. The inside of the shop was dim, the lamps unlit, making me wonder if the shop was actually open. I leaned up against the glass, my breath making a little cloud of steam against the window. I wiped a bare finger against it, etching a little smiley face into the condensation as I peered more closely into the darkness.

  A rumble of incriminating Turkish or Greek—it was coming too fast for me to be able to tell which—interrupted me. I jumped back from the window to find a severe-looking man standing over me, poised on the steps that led into the store, his finger wagging as he continued to berate me. He looked like I’d interrupted him at some sort of task—he was wrapped in an apron and with something that looked for all the world like a monocle hanging from his neck.

  I looked up at him, completely confused.

  He frowned, his heavy brows forming a deep V. Sighing heavily to show the imposition, he switched into English. “This is not the kind of shop for young girls. Especially tourists. Nothing here for you. Now go away.”

  “But I—”

  “The store is closed,” he declared firmly. Turning on his heel, he went back into his shop, pulling the door behind him. In a flash, a sign appeared in the glass. I couldn’t read it, but I was pretty sure its red letters spelled out the Turkish equivalent of “gone for lunch.”

  I waited, thinking perhaps he would grow tired of me hanging about or worry that he was driving away valuable customers by closing up early. But nobody else came by, the bustle of the streets seeming to completely bypass this little corner of the neighborhood.

  Resigned, I began walking down the hill, wondering what was inside the shop he was so adamant was not for me.

  It’s probably nothing, Henri sniffed. He’s probably just an angry ethnic leftover, still counting up all the impositions his people suffered under Ottoman rule. Hate and resentment only intensify when passed down over generations.

  I wondered at how easily Henri dismissed the strange man and his store, and whether he was right about him hoarding the complaints of his forbears, bitterly reliving them even now. My intuition suggested otherwise. It seemed to be on red alert, drawing me to the shop, but I couldn’t figure out why. But, then again, I had to admit my intuition hadn’t actually been that helpful to date.

  “You’re probably right,” I murmured, more to give myself time to mull it over than anything else as I moved into an easy jog, mindful that my babysitters were somewhere, watching and waiting for my return.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the little shop, but I knew it was useless trying to wheedle my way in. The shopkeeper had been resolute. If I were going to get in, I needed to have adult supervision. So first thing the next morning, I tried to convince my angel companions to come with me to the shop.

  Enoch seemed excited by the prospect. “You sense something, then? What exactly do you feel?” he probed, peering at me through his dark lenses.

  “It’s nothing specific,” I confided, “but it is the strongest feeling I have had since we’ve been in Istanbul. We need to check it out. We can go this morning. Just think how happy Michael would be if he returned to find us with a clue, or maybe even the Key itself!”

  “No,” Raph interjected, his hooded eyes solemn. “You need to slow down, Hope. If it is as you say, it could be dangerous. We need to wait for Michael. Besides, I, for one, would like to avoid having to explain to him how you came to know of this shop. I don’t want to have to confess that someone—” he shot a poisonous look at his blind companion, “thought it was a good idea to let you roam the city unattended. You’ll have to wait for Michael to come back, and then lead us all to the shop. But find a more subtle way to do it.”

  I flushed an angry red. “But we’re wasting time! And I wasn’t unattended! You know that. You were with me the whole time,” I asserted, brushing aside the facts of my secret run our first morning here. “And he won’t care—not if we manage to find the Key. Nothing matters to him more than that.”

  Raph gave me a funny look. “You misunderstand his priorities. This is not up for debate. Michael has left us in charge of you. The answer is no.”

  Enoch began to argue, “But Raph, she has a point. We can scarcely afford to wait, not with the Fallen on our tail.”

  Raph cut him off. “The Fallen, you will have noticed, have been conspicuously absent. Perhaps without Lucas at their head, they struggle to organize themselves and await his return. Who knows? They are likely even more confused than we are at this point. Unless they have been trailing Hope all along—which I’m sure they haven’t, for surely we would have noticed them—we can take the time to build our safety in numbers. No; we wait for Michael to return.”

  “It’s not fair!” I shouted. I knew we needed to get to that shop. I didn’t want to wait for Michael. I wanted to do it now.

  “The discussion is over,” Raph snapped, turning on his heel. “Now find something else to do.” He stalked off, swinging the doors to the patio wide open behind him.

  “Enoch?” I pleaded. He looked deep in thought.

  “Let me see what I can do,” he murmured. He thumped across the floor with his cane and drew the door closed behind him as he went after Raph.

  I could hear them arguing about me, their voices getting ever louder.

  “She has no insight, Enoch. She is simply throwing darts at a board, hoping in vain for a bull’s eye. I don’t believe for a minute that she knows what she is doing. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to confess we’ve let her run rampant, just so she can drag us all to that shop.”

  “You don’t give her enough credit,” Enoch countered.

  “Cr
edit? For what?”

  I didn’t need to hear anymore. Frustrated, knowing that I was just on the edge of figuring something out, I decided to try one more time on my own. In my running gear once more, the rising sounds of their argument behind me, I propelled myself down the stairs and out the door. The cat lurking at the steps stared at me, accusing.

  “What?” I demanded, looking fixedly back.

  With a flick of its tail and a lazy stretch, it turned and disappeared around the corner. I shrugged and looked down the street.

  The city was shrouded in a fine mist, the clash of warm and cold air above the Bosphorus throwing off rolls of fog that blanketed the streets. I shivered inside my layers of clothing, wondering briefly if I would be able to find my way. I felt a vague sense of guilt, leaving without telling my angel jailers. Should I have asked their permission once again?

  No, Henri’s sarcastic voice cut into my thoughts. You wouldn’t want to do something responsible and mature so they don’t worry, would you? After all, you’ve done such a good job of causing trouble—why start behaving now?

  In my mind’s eye, I envisioned him rolling his nonexistent eyes at me.

  “I’ll be back before they even know I’m gone,” I pledged, turning into the mist. Even though I couldn’t see much, the sounds around me confirmed that I’d awakened early. I could hear the rumble of garbage collection trucks roaming the narrow streets and the shouts of delivery men as they unloaded their wares into the waiting shops. Nobody else seemed to be out. I realized that the shop would not be open at this hour. I had some time to meander a bit before I began my campaign to enter.

  I turned an unfamiliar corner, watching carefully lest I run into some unsuspecting pedestrian. As I took the curve, I worried briefly about my ability to find my way back, but rationalized that the fog would burn off soon. I had some cash in my pocket. In the worst-case scenario, I could hire a cab and get back to the Blue Mosque or Ayasofya and find my way home from there.