Angels and Visitations Page 15

  The man began talking once more. “I don’t know how long it was that I waited, in my room. But time didn’t mean anything. Not back then. We had all the time in the world.

  “The next thing that happened to me, was when the Angel Lucifer came to my cell. He was taller than me, and his wings were imposing, his plumage perfect. He had skin the colour of sea-mist, and curly silver hair, and these wonderful grey eyes . . .

  “I say he, but you should understand that none of us had any sex, to speak of.” He gestured towards his lap. “Smooth and empty. Nothing there. You know.

  “Lucifer shone. I mean it—he glowed from inside. All angels do. They’re lit up from within, and in my cell the angel Lucifer burned like a lightning storm.

  “He looked at me. And he named me.

  “‘You are Raguel,’ he said. ‘The Vengeance of the Lord.’

  “I bowed my head, because I knew it was true. That was my name. That was my function.

  “There has been a . . . a wrong thing,’ he said. ‘The first of its kind. You are needed.’

  “He turned and pushed himself into space, and I followed him, flew behind him across the Silver City, to the outskirts, where the City stops and the Darkness begins; and it was there, under a vast silver spire, that we descended to the street, and I saw the dead angel.

  “The body lay, crumpled and broken, on the silver sidewalk. Its wings were crushed underneath it and a few loose feathers had already blown into the silver gutter.

  “The body was almost dark. Now and again a light would flash inside it, an occasional flicker of cold fire in the chest, or in the eyes, or in the sexless groin, as the last of the glow of life left it for ever.

  “Blood pooled in rubies on its chest and stained its white wing-feathers crimson. It was very beautiful, even in death.

  “It would have broken your heart.

  “Lucifer spoke to me, then. ‘You must find who was responsible for this, and how; and take the Vengeance of the Name on whomever caused this thing to happen.’

  “He really didn’t have to say anything. I knew that already. The hunt, and the retribution: it was what I was created for, in the Beginning; it was what I was.

  “‘I have work to attend to,’ said the angel Lucifer.

  “He flapped his wings, once, hard, and rose upwards; the gust of wind sent the dead angel’s loose feathers blowing across the street.

  “I leaned down to examine the body. All luminescence had by now left it. It was a dark thing; a parody of an angel. It had a perfect, sexless face, framed by silver hair. One of the eyelids was open, revealing a placid grey eye; the other was closed. There were no nipples on the chest and only smoothness between the legs.

  “I lifted the body up.

  “The back of the angel was a mess. The wings were broken and twisted; the back of the head staved in; there was a floppiness to the corpse that made me think its spine had been broken as well. The back of the angel was all blood.

  “The only blood on its front was in the chest area. I probed it with my forefinger, and it entered the body without difficulty.

  “He fell, I thought. And he was dead before he fell.

  “And I looked up at the windows that ranked the street. I stared across the Silver City. You did this, I thought. I will find you, whoever you are. And I will take the Lord’s vengeance upon you.”

  The man took the cigarette stub from behind his ear, lit it with a match. Briefly I smelled the ashtray smell of a dead cigarette, acrid and harsh; then he pulled down to the unburnt tobacco, exhaled blue smoke into the night air.

  “The angel who had first discovered the body was called Phanuel.

  “I spoke to him in the Hall of Being. That was the spire beside which the dead angel lay. In the Hall hung the . . . the blueprints, maybe, for what was going to be . . . all this.” He gestured with the hand that held the stubby cigarette, pointing to the night sky and the parked cars and the world. “You know. The universe.”

  “Phanuel was the senior designer; working under him were a multitude of angels labouring on the details of the Creation. I watched him from the floor of the hall. He hung in the air below the Plan, and angels flew down to him, waiting politely in turn as they asked him questions, checked things with him, invited comment on their work. Eventually he left them, and descended to the floor.

  “‘You are Raguel,’ he said. His voice was high, and fussy. ‘What need have you of me?’

  ‘“You found the body?’

  “‘Poor Carasel? Indeed I did. I was leaving the hall—there are a number of concepts we are currently constructing, and I wished to ponder one of them,—Regret by name. I was planning to get a little distance from the City—to fly above it, I mean, not to go into the Dark outside, I wouldn’t do that, although there has been a some loose talk amongst . . . but, yes. I was going to rise, and contemplate.

  “‘I left the Hall, and . . . ,’ he broke off. He was small, for an angel. His light was muted, but his eyes were vivid and bright. I mean really bright. ‘Poor Carasel. How could he do that to himself? How?’

  ‘“You think his destruction was self-inflicted?’

  “He seemed puzzled—surprised that there could be any other explanation. ‘But of course. Carasel was working under me, developing a number of concepts that shall be intrinsic to the Universe, when its Name shall be spoken. His group did a remarkable job on some of the real basics—Dimension was one, and Sleep another. There were others.

  ‘“Wonderful work. Some of his suggestions regarding the use of individual viewpoints to define dimensions were truly ingenious.

  “‘Anyway. He had begun work on a new project. It’s one of the really major ones—the ones that I would usually handle, or possibly even Zephkiel’ He glanced upward. ‘But Carasel had done such sterling work. And his last project was so remarkable. Something apparently quite trivial, that he and Saraquael elevated into . . .’ He shrugged. ‘But that is unimportant. It was this project that forced him into non-being. But none of us could ever have foreseen . . .’

  “‘What was his current project?’

  “Phanuel stared at me. ‘I’m not sure I ought to tell you. All the new concepts are considered sensitive, until we get them into the final form in which they will be Spoken.’

  “I felt myself transforming. I am not sure how I can explain it to you, but suddenly I wasn’t me—I was something larger. I was transfigured: I was my function.

  “Phanuel was unable to meet my gaze.

  “‘I am Raguel, who is the Vengeance of the Lord,’ I told him. ‘I serve the Name directly. It is my mission to discover the nature of this deed, and to take the Name’s vengeance on those responsible. My questions are to be answered.’

  “The little angel trembled, and he spoke fast.

  ‘“Carasel and his partner were researching Death. Cessation of life. An end to physical, animated existence. They were putting it all together. But Carasel always went too far into his work—we had a terrible time with him when he was designing Agitation. That was when he was working on Emotions . . .’

  ‘“You think Carasel died to—to research the phenomenon?’

  “‘Or because it intrigued him. Or because he followed his research just too far. Yes.’ Phanuel flexed his fingers, stared at me with those brightly shining eyes. T trust that you will repeat none of this to any unauthorised persons, Raguel.’

  ‘“What did you do when you found the body?’

  “‘I came out of the Hall, as I said, and there was Carasel on the sidewalk, staring up. I asked him what he was doing and he did not reply. Then I noticed the inner fluid, and that Carasel seemed unable, rather than unwilling, to talk to me.

  “‘I was scared. I did not know what to do.

  “‘The Angel Lucifer came up behind me. He asked me if there was some kind of problem. I told him. I showed him the body. And then . . . then his Aspect came upon him, and he communed with the Name. He burned so bright.

  “‘Then he sa
id he had to fetch the one whose function embraced events like this, and he left—to seek you, I imagine.

  “‘As Carasel’s death was now being dealt with, and his fate was no real concern of mine, I returned to work, having gained a new—and I suspect, quite valuable—perspective on the mechanics of Regret.

  ‘“I am considering taking Death away from the Carasel and Saraquael partnership. I may reassign it to Zephkiel, my senior partner, if he is willing to take it on. He excels on contemplative projects.’

  “By now there was a line of angels waiting to talk to Phanuel. I felt I had almost all I was going to get from him.

  “‘Who did Carasel work with? Who would have been the last to see him alive?’

  ‘“You could talk to Saraquael, I suppose—he was his partner, after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  “He returned to his swarm of aides: advising, correcting, suggesting, forbidding.”

  The man paused.

  The street was quiet, now; I remember the low whisper of his voice, the buzz of a cricket somewhere. A small animal—a cat perhaps, or something more exotic, a raccoon, or even a jackal—darted from shadow to shadow among the parked cars on the opposite side of the street.

  “Saraquael was in the highest of the mezzanine galleries that ringed the Hall of Being. As I said, the Universe was in the middle of the Hall, and it glinted and sparkled and shone. Went up quite a way, too . . .”

  “The Universe you mention, it was, what, a diagram?” I asked, interrupting for the first time.

  “Not really. Kind of. Sorta. It was a blueprint; but it was full-sized, and it hung in the Hall, and all these angels went around and fiddled with it all the time. Doing stuff with Gravity, and Music and Klar and whatever. It wasn’t really the universe, not yet. It would be, when it was finished, and it was time for it to be properly Named.”

  “But . . .” I grasped for words to express my confusion. The man interrupted me.

  “Don’t worry about it. Think of it as a model, if that makes it easier for you. Or a map. Or a—what’s the word? Prototype. Yeah. A Model-T Ford universe.” He grinned. “You got to understand, a lot of the stuff I’m telling you, I’m translating already; putting it in a form you can understand. Otherwise I couldn’t tell the story at all. You want to hear it?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t care if it was true or not; it was a story I needed to hear all the way through to the end.

  “Good. So shut up and listen.

  “So I met Saraquael, in the topmost gallery. There was no one else about—just him, and some papers, and some small, glowing models.

  “‘I’ve come about Carasel,’ I told him.

  “He looked at me. ‘Carasel isn’t here at this time,’ he said. ‘I expect him to return shortly.’

  “I shook my head.

  “‘Carasel won’t be coming back. He’s stopped existing as a spiritual entity,’ I said.

  “His light paled, and his eyes opened very wide. ‘He’s dead?’

  “‘That’s what I said. Do you have any ideas about how it happened?’

  “‘I . . . this is so sudden. I mean, he’d been talking about . . . but I had no idea that he would . . .’

  “‘Take it slowly.’

  “Saraquael nodded.

  “He stood up and walked to the window. There was no view of the Silver City from his window—just a reflected glow from the City and the sky behind us, hanging in the air, and beyond that, the Dark. The wind from the Dark gently caressed Saraquael’s hair as he spoke. I stared at his back.

  “‘Carasel is . . . no, was. That’s right, isn’t it? Was. He was always so involved. And so creative. But it was never enough for him. He always wanted to understand everything—to experience what he was working on. He was never content to just create it—to understand it intellectually. He wanted all of it.

  “‘That wasn’t a problem before, when we were working on properties of matter. But when we began to design some of the Named emotions . . . he got too involved with his work.

  “‘And our latest project was Death. It’s one of the hard ones—one of the big ones, too, I suspect. Possibly it may even become the attribute that’s going to define the Creation for the Created: if not for Death, they’d be content to simply exist, but with Death, well, their lives will have meaning—a boundary beyond which the living cannot cross . . .’

  “‘So you think he killed himself?’

  “‘I know he did,’ said Saraquael. I walked to the window, and looked out. Far below, a long way, I could see a tiny white dot. That was Carasel’s body. I’d have to arrange for someone to take care of it. I wondered what we would do with it; but there would be someone who would know, whose function was the removal of unwanted things. It was not my function. I knew that.

  “‘How?’

  “He shrugged. ‘I know. Recently he’d begun asking questions—questions about Death. How we could know whether or not it was right to make this thing, to set the rules, if we were not going to experience it ourselves. He kept talking about it.’

  ‘“Didn’t you wonder about this?’

  “Saraquael turned, for the first time, to look at me. ‘No. That is our function—to discuss, to improvise, to aid the Creation and the Created. We sort it out now, so that when it all Begins, it’ll run like clockwork. Right now we’re working on Death. So obviously that’s what we look at. The physical aspect; the emotional aspect; the philosophical aspect . . .

  “‘And the patterns. Carasel had the notion that what we do here in the Hall of Being creates patterns. That there are structures and shapes appropriate to beings and events that, once begun, must continue until they reach their end. For us, perhaps, as well as for them. Conceivably he felt this was one of his patterns.’

  “‘Did you know Carasel well?’

  “‘As well as any of us know each other. We saw each other here; we worked side by side. At certain times I would retire to my cell, across the city. Sometimes he would do the same.’

  ‘“Tell me about Phanuel.’

  “His mouth crooked into a smile. ‘He’s officious. Doesn’t do much—farms everything out, and takes all the credit.’ He lowered his voice, although there was no other soul in the gallery. ‘To hear him talk, you’d think that Love was all his own work. But to his credit, he does make sure the work gets done. Zephkiel’s the real thinker of the two senior designers, but he doesn’t come here. He stays back in his cell in the City, and contemplates; resolves problems from a distance. If you need to speak to Zephkiel, you go to Phanuel, and Phanuel relays your questions to Zephkiel . . .’

  “I cut him short. ‘How about Lucifer? Tell me about him.’

  “‘Lucifer? The Captain of the Host? He doesn’t work here . . . He has visited the Hall a couple of times, though—inspecting the Creation. They say he reports directly to the Name. I have never spoken to him.’

  “‘Did he know Carasel?’

  “‘I doubt it. As I said, he has only been here twice. I have seen him on other occasions, though. Through here.’ He flicked a wingtip, indicating the world outside the window. ‘In flight.’

  “‘Where to?’

  “Saraquael seemed to be about to say something; then he changed his mind. ‘I don’t know.’

  “I looked out of the window, at the Darkness outside the Silver City.

  “‘I may want to talk with you some more, later,’ I told Saraquael.

  “‘Very good.’ I turned to go.

  “‘Sir? Do you know if they will be assigning me another partner? For Death?’

  ‘“No,’ I told him. ‘I’ m afraid I don’t.’

  “In the centre of the Silver City was a park—a place of recreation and rest. I found the Angel Lucifer there, beside a river. He was just standing, watching the water flow.

  “‘Lucifer?’

  “He inclined his head. ‘Raguel. Are you making progress?’

  “‘I don’t know. Maybe. I need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?�
��

  “‘Not at all.’

  ‘“How did you come upon the body?’

  “‘I didn’t. Not exactly. I saw Phanuel, standing in the street. He looked distressed. I enquired whether there was something wrong, and he showed me the dead angel. And I fetched you.’

  “‘I see.’

  “He leaned down, let one hand enter the cold water of the river. The water splashed and rilled around it. ‘Is that all?’

  “‘Not quite. What were you doing in that part of the City?’

  “‘I don’t see what business that is of yours.’

  “‘It is my business, Lucifer. What were you doing there?’

  ‘“I was . . . walking. I do that sometimes. Just walk, and think. And try to understand’ He shrugged.

  “‘You walk on the edge of the City?’

  “A beat, then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘“That’s all I want to know. For now.’

  “‘Who else have you talked to?’

  ‘“Carasel’s boss, and his partner. They both feel that he killed himself—ended his own life.’

  “‘Who else are you going to talk to?’

  “I looked up. The spires of the City of the Angels towered above us. ‘Maybe everyone.’

  “‘All of them?’

  “‘If I need to. It’s my function. I cannot rest until I understand what happened, and until the vengeance of the Name has been taken on whomever was responsible. But I’ll tell you something I do know.’

  “‘What would that be?’ Drops of water fell like diamonds from the angel Lucifer’s perfect fingers.

  ‘“Carasel did not kill himself.’

  ‘“How do you know that?’

  “‘I am Vengeance. If Carasel had died by his own hand,’ I explained to the Captain of the Heavenly Host, ‘there would have been no call for me. Would there?’

  “He did not reply.

  “I flew upwards, into the light of the eternal morning.

  “You got another cigarette on you?”

  I fumbled out the red and white packet, handed him a cigarette.

  “Obliged.

  “Zephkiel’s cell was larger than mine.

  “It wasn’t a place for waiting. It was a place to live, and work, and be. It was lined with books, and scrolls, and papers, and there were images and representations on the walls: pictures. I’d never seen a picture before.