Angel Realms

by Malynn, Vivienne

  “Size?”

  “You know, the size of the attachment for the trimmer,” the barber says, showing the hair trimmer to Ashur.

  “I don’t know,” answers Ashur.

  The barber looks at his hair. “Humph. I suppose you don’t.” He pulls the hair back and lets it drape over the back of the chair. “Been a while, hasn’t it.”

  “I’ve never had a hair cut before,” he says.

  The barber looks at him curiously. “What he means,” I butt in, “is that his mother usually cuts his hair.” I glare at Ashur.

  “Yes,” he says, nodding his head, uncertain what he should do. “My mother cuts it.”

  “She hasn’t recently,” grumbles the barber.

  I laugh uneasily. “She’s…dead. Died. A while ago. Very tragic.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the barber says in an unconvincing show of sympathy. “Well, maybe we should start off with a longer adjustment and work from that.”

  “That would be quite good sir,” says Ashur. “Cut away.”

  The barber runs the trimmer along the hair, allowing it to fall away onto the floor. As it hits the floor, the barber leans over and spits on it. At first, I think nothing of it. But another clump of hair falls to the floor and he does the same thing. That certainly is odd. He sees me staring at him, but says nothing, continuing with the trimming. Several more times he repeats the ritual. Ashur does not seem bothered by the manners of the barber. But, of course, having never had a haircut before, he probably thinks it’s normal.

  Finally, I have to say something. “Why do you spit on the hair?”

  Setting the trimmer down, he picks up a pair of scissors and a comb. After wiping the comb across his apron, he holds it over Ashur’s head like a maestro readying his baton. Then with the other hand, he begins snipping. Raising his eyes above the line of his hands, he says, “Where I come from, hair is a powerful thing. It is said that people can curse you, or at least keep you from cursing them, by simply holding a lock of your hair.”

  “So why the spit?”

  “According to tradition,” he continues. “By spitting on the hair, it defiles it. Making it useless to whoever may use it for the wrong reasons.”

  A week ago, I would have thought that this guy was off his rocker. But after the past two days, nothing seems strange at all in what he says. In a lot of ways, it seems almost logical. Maybe that means I am slipping into insanity. I put my hand over my chest. My mother’s locket is hanging loosely there. After the dream last night, I felt it safer to keep it close to me. I wonder if my mother had some intention in putting the hair in it.

  “You said the hair could keep someone from cursing you,” I say. “How does that work?”

  The barber dips the comb in a jar of solution and continues cutting. “It weakens the power of the person against you. Some say it makes you invulnerable to them. I prefer to see it as more of just a protection.”

  “And you believe in this power?”

  “I don’t know how much I believe in it,” he says, after which spitting again on the hair. He wipes his lip of spittle. “But better safe than sorry.”

  I nod in agreement as I run my hand over the locket. “Better safe than sorry.”

  The barber rotates Ashur to face me and rips off the apron. “Well, what do you think,” he asks. “I suppose you should give the final say, since it’s your eyes he’ll be treating.”

  I look at Ashur’s hair. Its short, parted on the right, combed neatly to his left shoulder. I step to the counter, reaching for the gel. “May I.” The barber consents heartily and I proceed to put the gel in Ashur’s hair. I message it into his hair and as I do, I catch him watching me. I say ‘catch’, but he doesn’t look away like he is ashamed at being found staring. Instead, he continues to look as if in the act of appreciation, like one would study and appreciate a work of art. I blush and he notices, smiling.

  Self-conscious now, I focus on his hair and he breaks off his stare. Once the gel is evenly spread, I take to sculpting his hair into an organized mess of strands zigzagging back and forth, taking a form pleasing to the eye. I stand back and look him over, taking in the whole package. He sits erect, his jaw jetting out and his soft baby-blue eyes looking up at me. “So,” he says, confidently. “How do I look?”

  I take a deep breath in to recover from the overwhelming sight, trying desperately not to look…well desperate. “It will do,” I say.

  He quietly snickers to himself as if he knows I am not expressing my true feelings. In a way, this frustrates me because I cannot read how he truly feels about me. He never lets his guard down. He is always vigilant—always intense. I don’t know if he gets nervous around me or if I have any effect on him at all. For all I know, I am just another assignment to him. Even in those moments when he is watching me, I don’t know what he is thinking. Does he see something that draws him in or is it just pure curiosity. Is that all I am to him, nothing more than another novelty. Then I think of all the guys that I had known before, that is all they were to me. Why is this one so different? Why am I unnerved by him?

  The thought comes, It’s love. I quickly dismiss this thought though. It can’t be love. I won’t let it be love. I won’t let anyone get that close to me. I won’t let him hurt me. All these emotions and thoughts pour out of my head like a mixed up frenzy and I can’t seem to sort them out. Then, he takes my hand and they all fall away. He looks me in the eyes and says in that tender voice, “We should get down to business now.”

  The ground drops out from under me, but not in the good sense. More in the ‘why am I so stupid to think that this guy could be into me’ kind of sense. Again the frustration comes. I don’t know whether I’m mad at him or at me for falling for him. Maybe it’s both. No it is both. He’s an angel; he could have made himself less attractive. He could have made a few imperfections and exaggerations with that clay stuff. I mean, if all he wants to do is get down to business, it would have been much easier. But no, he has to come in the ‘material form’ of a Greek god. The nerve.

  I tip the barber and stomp outside, not giving Ashur another look. When we’re outside, I turn and face him abruptly. “So what is this business that’s so important to you,” I say, my anger seething in every word.

  “I need to find out why you are in danger,” he says. “Why someone wants you dead.”

  “Because it’s your job. Got it.”

  “Yes it’s my job, but…”

  I don’t allow him a chance to say any more. “Then let’s just get it figured out, so you can go back to whatever heavenly realm you came from.”

  He opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t.

  “So where do you want to go?” I ask abruptly.

  “I thought we should talk to the shadow people again.”

  “The shadow people? Hello! They were the ones who tried to kill me. And you want to talk to them.”

  “They aren’t a threat if I am with you,” he says. “Besides its daylight, they are weaker during this time.”

  “Somehow, I’m not convinced,” I mutter as I walk away. Ashur is still standing at the entrance to the barbershop.

  I turn back to say, “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  His expression is one of concern and with some reluctance he sets out after me. I know he never meant me to fall in love with him. It’s not his fault, but right now I can’t convince my emotions of that. I can’t help but hate the fact that he is here. I just want him to leave, so I don’t have to feel so mixed up all the time. I want my sanity back. And yet, even as I think of him going, a weight presses on my chest, making it hard to breath. The only clear thought is that I am falling in love with him and I will be hurt.

  Chapter 12

  As we approach the edge of town, there is a little apprehension in me. Holding at my throat, I recall the unseen hands around them, a sensation I do not soon wish to repeat. I lean against the lamp post. Looking up the line of the post, I notice that the lamp i
s still lit even though it is light outside. Someone must have forgotten to extinguish it.

  Ashur continues to walk ahead of me. He hasn’t noticed I have stopped because we haven’t talked during the entire trip here. When he does realize that I am not with him, he stops and waits. “Is everything alright,” he says.

  “I’m just not sure about this,” I answer back. “I don’t think it’s the best idea.”

  “You can go back,” he says. “I think you will be safe at home.”

  “You think? That’s not very reassuring.”

  “The only way I can be sure you are safe, is if you are with me. You need to trust me.”

  “Let’s just say, I have issues with trust.”

  “I’m an angel,” he says, “what’s not to trust.”

  I laugh, though I try not to. Then with some hesitation, I walk toward him. When we are side by side, I say, “I have trouble trusting God. Never mind, one of his lower ranking cronies.”

  His mouth drops in an exaggerated offense. “That really hurts,” he says. “I happen to be a high ranking crony.”

  “Can’t be that high if you’re stuck babysitting me.”

  He laughs and I allow myself to laugh too. Again he watches me in that way, like he sees something remarkable. I am uncomfortable when he does that. I don’t know what he could possibly see when he watches me. I walk fast ahead of him. But the closer we get to the gate of the graveyard, the slower I walk, allowing him to catch up.

  “You’re sure this is a good idea?” I ask again.

  “The shadows can’t cross into the light,” he says.

  “Then where will we find them?”

  “Someplace dark, I suppose.”

  We walk up the path off the main road, crossing over moss covered tree roots and toppled markers. He takes me by the hand and helps me over the more precarious spots. The ground is soft in the more shaded areas, still wet from the morning dew. A cool breeze brushes past, causing me to shiver, a contrast from the lighter patches where the sun beats down, intensely hot.

  Ashur surveys the landscape. “I don’t see any good places for them around here. There must be a cave or something nearby. Is there anything you can recall from that night?”

  I think for a moment, not really wanting to drudge those memories back up. “I remember a clearing. That’s where Liv stopped, said she couldn’t go any further.”

  “Good. Now think about that spot in your mind. Are there any markers, rocks, anything that can possibly hide a shadow?”

  In my mind, I see the clearing with Liv lying on the ground, exhausted. Just as it was that night. Concentrating, I try to see details that I might have missed, but all I see are trees. “It was so dark,” I say. “I don’t know that I could see it if there was anything to see.”

  “You have to try,” he says. “The mind sees more than you are aware of.”

  I continue to focus on the image of the clearing, holding Liv, the force knocking me back, my struggling to see Liv and then I see it. “There were rocks. A whole surface of rocks. Maybe even an opening in them.”

  “A cave,” Ashur says. “That might be where they dwell.” He looks over the path, studying it. “It looks like this is where you left the path and climbed up the hill. We can follow this and maybe find our way back to where you were last night.”

  He helps me up the hill and we make our way through the trees. As we walk, the way seems vaguely familiar, although it is different in the daylight. It’s almost serene. I find it hard to imagine that this was the scene of so much horror just the night before. Still the thoughts of the previous night bring with them apprehension. “What about the dogs?” I ask.

  “The dogs may have been possessed,” he says, “in which case we shouldn’t have a problem with them now. Besides, I’m here. What could go wrong?”

  I know he is saying that to ease my nerves, but I am not so easily reassured. Trust has always been an issue with me. It kind of comes with being abandoned by both parents. While other girls were being comforted when the boogie man under the bed invades their dreams, my mother was ranting about real boogie men coming after her. After my father left, I had no one of stability. I couldn’t go to my mother; she couldn’t deal with her own problems. Even then, I still had this naïve sense that my mother would always be there for me. That is until the day she dropped me off at the family services.

  In the heat of the day, and the serenity of the graveyard, my mind flashes back to that moment. My mother dresses me up nicely in my best dress, at least it is the best we could afford. She kneels down next to me and wipes away my tears with her trembling hands. They were always trembling at that point. Then she presses her face up to mine and whispers something in my ear. Something that I cannot recall. I often imagine what those words are that she whispered. Probably words of encouragement. Maybe an apology for what she was about to do. Most likely a lie, “I’ll come back for you soon.” Whatever the words are, they left no lasting impression that I know of.

  After her words, she kisses me on the cheek and then stands. She places my hand in that of Mr. Hammonds. I still remember his face smiling down at me. It was gentle enough and strangely just as ageless as it is today. They converse and my mother gives him something, as if she is entrusting it to him. I think it is the key to the deposit box. It’s strange that I cannot recall the conversation. All I see in my memory is the actions. Even now, I see it as though I am watching it from the outside.

  I see as Mr. Hammond ushers her away. My mother is crying, but there are no tears in my eyes. Why are there no tears? Is it confusion or perhaps hope that my mother will come for me again. I can’t remember. Maybe I was just dead inside. Simply going through another motion, not allowing it to sink in, the way I have done since that day. I am angry at the mother in the vision, but seeing her there in a crumpled mess of emotion, I can’t bring myself to hate her. She is my mother and being so young I can never hate her. That is why I don’t cry. I remember now. I did not want her to be sad. Such a stupid child I was. After being cast away by her, all I could think is that I didn’t want her to feel bad. Why couldn’t I be angry then, when it mattered? Why do I have to be angry now? Now that she is gone.

  I notice that despite there being no tears in the girl’s eyes there is a deep sense of sadness in her face. It overwhelms me and my heart aches for her as if she is some other little girl and I am only a spectator. But I guess that is the way we are, just spectators of the past, anticipating the future, never satisfied with what is. I see another pain in her face, a feeling I know far too well—rejection. The feeling that I do not belong to anyone or anyplace like a ship lost in an unending loneliness with no place to harbor. I am alone in the world and everyone is a stranger to me. I have no sure ground, only the constant movements of uncertain waves, some more menacing than others. All the while, I wonder how long I can stay afloat like this.

  Then I look at Ashur as he is now, walking steady and without fear. How calm and permanent he seems, like a child who still feels that the world has its wonders, who fears nothing, and forsakes all opposition. He could be a harbor in my storm, but only a temporary one. Eventually, he will leave me too. But shouldn’t I at least spend this time with him to find some relief. Why must I live in that uncertain future of what will be? Why must I stay the course of the past as if it were a set of fixed stars guiding my unwavering fate? Why can’t I just trust what is now and forsake all the rest? But that is him, that is Ashur, the angel. That is not me. He fell from heaven and I—I was born in Hell.

  He looks back at me, trailing behind him. I know he is wondering what I am thinking about. He thinks that he knows me, just like everyone else does, but he doesn’t know me anymore than the rest of the world. If he did, he wouldn’t look at me the way he does. If he knew my thoughts or felt what I feel, he would never think it remarkable. My heart is a Pandora’s Box of all that is horrible in this world and I am the poor girl who must carry it, never opening it for fear of what it would unleash.
No, he will never know me. And it is better that way. Let him see what he wants to see and then let him pass on, back to the heaven from where he came. It’s all anyone really wants when they see me. They want to see what they see, so in the end they can return to that same tranquil vision of reality, undisturbed. And so I let them.