Guardian (35 page)

By then Arcturus, the author and perpetrator of that bewildering and untimely emotion, was getting desperate. He knew exactly what would happen if he lost me to the Enemy, and it didn't matter which way he looked at it, the result wasn't going to be pretty. So, frantic to get within range and start countering whatever ideas Israfel was putting in my head, he had been forced to let caution go to the winds and accept the risks inherent in metamorphosis. His problem was that, when Israfel had assumed human form, although he'd made himself vulnerable through loss of supernatural status, he had also been forced to abandon the advantage possessed by all such beings – that of extrasensory perception. So since everything was now operating purely on human terms, Arcturus was unable to hear or even guess at what Israfel was saying. Until and unless he followed Israfel into the same configuration and then positioned himself within human audio range. Accordingly, he needed to quickly field some diversion or other, if he was to stand any hope of distracting the squad of angels looking for him. He knew full well they were determined to take him down, or at the very least make sure he stayed out of the reckoning.

Besides, being forced to adopt human form would make him vulnerable and thus easy prey. So he needed allies. And quickly, if he was to save the day and avoid the torment of an early meeting with Abbadon. But his troops, most of whom had already adopted human form (they always got such a kick out it), were all out of voice range – and ‘out of range' spelt trouble. It had been a long time since he'd been obliged to direct troops by yelling at them, but he could think of no other way to acquire their immediate attention. Other than by abandoning his strategic location long enough to reach their assembly point, which would, inevitably, expose him to unwanted attention. Frustrated, he nevertheless accepted that if he abandoned ‘Plan A' and managed to get the troops back into the supernatural realm, he couldn't thereby guarantee they'd catch, or even recognise any subliminal message anyway. That was the trouble if you were a demon. The other side had long since commandeered the pick of the telepathic frequencies and with a force of angels nearby, the place would be alive with extrasensory traffic. So there was nothing for it, but to resort to the kind of histrionics he'd long considered beneath his dignity. Ignoring, for the moment, that any call would be tantamount to shining a beacon onto his exact position. His bellow, when it came, temporarily achieved the aim and, with their attention caught, Arcturus signed his troops back into battle with urgent chopping motions of his hands.

Hoping for the best, he turned back to the task in hand. And so absorbed did he become as he once again crept carefully under the mangroves towards Israfel, that he entirely failed to keep a check on his ‘six o'clock', or developments back on the battle line. Until it was far too late. The first point at which he recognised the stupidity of this tactic was when his fate was effectively sealed by the arrival of a great silver chain dropping its loops and coils around his neck, arms and legs. What's more, he had no sooner felt its cold embrace than, disconcertingly, the chain started acting like a living entity. Draped around his extremities, this apparently living chain began to rearrange itself, drawing ever tighter, each link shrinking in upon itself, until he was held securely but comfortably in what felt like a friendly, almost discreet embrace. But one that also prevented him escaping into any other dimension. Not that he didn't immediately attempt resistance. From which point, all comparison with moderation ceased, because the more he struggled, the tighter the chain drew and nothing would persuade it to loosen. Which meant the constricting pressure around his chest soon began to leave him in despair of life itself. Supernatural or otherwise. Finally, when he'd stopped twisting and turning long enough to consider his position, he found he was not only held fast, but surrounded by the very angels he'd been trying to avoid. All of them regarding him with contempt, tempered by amused satisfaction. Which did absolutely nothing for his ego. Snarling, Arcturus tried one last despairing twist to loosen a hand sufficiently to grasp at a dagger dangling from his sword belt, but the result was inevitable. The chain simply pulled itself even tighter. Defeated, he had to content himself with spitting a stream of imprecations at the angel captain, although that gesture of defiance achieved little, as a strange sort of cover was immediately thrown over him from behind. A shroud that had the double effect of reducing his vision, much as a pair of dark sunglasses might, and silencing him, thus foiling any further hope of interfering. Neutralised, Arcturus could only rage impotently, although, had he but known it, the act was almost a kindness as the angels knew what was coming in the form of annihilating light. Seething though he might be, he'd heard of these living chains that the angels sometimes used, albeit, never having seen one, he could only guess as to its abilities. Nor had he ever been subjected to one of these humiliating masks. The devious gadgets the angels sometimes used were spoken of with awe and loathing, although not often from experience. At any rate, no one was ever known to have escaped once confined and he assumed it was now only a matter of time before he was filleted. But even as he considered this, he found himself thrust unceremoniously forward in the general direction of Israfel. At least, this was what he supposed, as he could now distinctly hear if not clearly see all that was passing between the boy and the Guardian.

* * *

“I'm sorry. What were you saying?” I couldn't grasp why, but for a moment I felt as though I was surfacing from a bad dream. One moment I'd been fascinated by the sight and sound of a young man floating effortlessly in front of me. The next, revolted. And now here I was seemingly my own man again. At any rate, the revulsion and queasiness had left and I was immediately able to concentrate on this rather appealing figment of my imagination. Only, when I thought about it, there didn't seem to be much of the ‘figment' about him. Moreover, I had to admit, he knew more than he should do about my attempt at suicide. And how could he possibly know? I'd only talked to Roz about it and she hadn't had the opportunity to pass anything on, even if she'd wanted to. So, clearly, I was faced with all the makings of a first-class dilemma.

At which point the apparition said, “Right. I'm going to leave you now, as you clearly have enough information to be getting on with. However, I won't be far away and I'd be rather grateful if you could give everything currently surging through your mind some careful thought.” Why was it that, far from being reassuring, his words and immediate departure actually meant I became even more agitated than before? I just knew he'd looked into my somewhat messy and embarrassing mind and had seen everything. Which did absolutely nothing for my composure. And not very much for my rather precarious balance, either.

Surprisingly enough, given what had just occurred, the ensuing silence found me revisiting the rather chaotic and depressing thoughts that had been filling my mind immediately before the apparition had appeared. But what to make of his claims? I really didn't know. However, what remained uppermost in my mind was a parade of my more obnoxious ideas, pretentious attitudes and regrettable actions. Leaving me less than ecstatic, as they once more marched across the landscape of my mind, clamouring for review. And the sum of their parts was unnerving, consigning me to that trio of monsters, namely: shame, embarrassment and, quite frankly, utter dismay at what my life had become. Slowly, the ever-widening range of thoughts began to crystallise into a totally unfamiliar and, to me at least, singularly alien concept of wickedness. Or sin. Where did that word come from? And then I remembered. Roz and our discussion immediately prior to her death. Which startled me, to say the least. Because I also remembered, somewhat inconveniently, the context within which she had been exploring her thoughts. And her exact appearance, her serenity, peace almost, in the moment of death. And then there was Adam. Plus all those times when hope had appeared out of nowhere, even when I was banged up in solitary. It was all rather confusing. Until, underneath it all, at the very back of my mind, there emerged the kernel of an insistent thought.
Absolution
. Some sort of ‘get out' clause. Resilient I might be, but the parade of unattractive events that now populated my thoughts was starting to convince me even I might need some sort of pardon. Essentially, some form of decontamination that would sanitise me from the overpowering sense of guilt that was eating into my psyche. Some relief from the creature that had stared back at me while looking deep into what I suppose you might call my ‘soul'. Believe me, self-examination really isn't all it's cracked up to be, even if you are recommended to undertake it by the local ‘trick cyclist'. Start the process and demoralisation can follow all too easily. One minute you're nodding along in agreement, quite happy to wander about in the past; the next you discover you're concentrating purely on the bad bits. Infinitely too aware of your ‘secret' self and, inevitably, finding yourself cast in a far from perfect light.

Coupled with which, I now found myself recalling something of what Adam had said about the God he believed in, or was it the Jewish Messiah, the one they called Jesus? At any rate, someone – presumably Jesus – had apparently taken the bad things I'd done (my sin?) and paid the penalty that I should be paying. Because this God, who was evidently good, expected us, His creatures, to build our lives around Him, on pain of being found guilty when judged, if we hadn't. In fact, I was beginning to recollect with rather too much clarity exactly what Adam had been telling me, even if I hadn't been ready to accept it. He'd actually asserted that this Jesus had put himself in harm's way, accepting death voluntarily on a Roman cross, so anyone who acknowledged this sacrifice as being offered on their behalf could benefit in life as well as in death. Well, that hardly made sense. As far as I could remember, it had all taken place around 2,000 years ago. So how could it possibly apply to me? And yet – And yet –.

Could there really be any truth in it? Adam had said it was definitely true, because it was too good not to be. And he was certainly clear about the matter. Since the moment he'd decided to respond to this strange invitation and actually asked this Jesus person to meet him, he'd apparently been astounded by the life changes he'd experienced. But what he remembered first and foremost, was the way he'd been made to feel completely clean, inside and out, the moment he'd accepted this one-way offer. Apparently the guilt he'd often felt and the shame regarding some of his less savoury habits all went at the same time. Taken clean away, by all accounts. A result that made him particularly glad when it came to remembering the way he'd sometimes treated his long-suffering foster parents, amongst many others. Moreover, as the months had passed, he'd discovered certain other aspects had also been cleaned up. Not that he'd experienced amnesia exactly, but unless he deliberately revisited bygone affairs, or made a particular effort to recall them, they no longer bothered him in quite the same way as before. He somehow knew he'd been forgiven, discovering he'd also acquired a new friend who, at some subliminal level, had promised never to leave him, no matter what happened. Which was weird, but he claimed it had changed his whole outlook for the better and given him purpose. Particularly after he'd been taken captive.

As far as Israfel was concerned, this was definitely one of his better days. In fact, things seldom came any better. He'd carried out his orders to the letter, made himself known to me, pointed out that if I was at all interested, I'd have to take the next step myself and imparted just sufficient of the bare facts for me to make a decision. Which apparently meant expressing regret for the bad things I'd done (he'd stressed I was actually required to mean it) and inviting Jesus to take over where I'd singularly failed. Job done, he'd stepped away for now, back into more familiar dimensions. But not without checking to make sure Arcturus was firmly secured, with his minions out of the picture. That scabrous bunch had departed the fix the moment they'd seen Arcturus captured. Which had come as no surprise to the angel team, although it didn't stop them keeping a weather eye out for further violence. So now Israfel could content himself with watching from the side-lines, knowing I was protected, temporarily at least, from further attack.

***

As for me, things weren't quite that good. In fact, I was well on the way to feeling thoroughly miserable. I think the enormity of what I'd gone through and done was really beginning to bite. I'd been here before, of course, but this time it all seemed rather different. The problem was, on this occasion it looked like I had to make a choice. I could either carry on as before and try to work my own way out of this mess, or I could grasp at the lifeline I was evidently being offered. Well, that is if I actually believed what I was rapidly beginning to consider a figment of my overwrought imagination. And, had I but known it, this was exactly why Israfel had withdrawn. I had to work out my own salvation (although I certainly wouldn't have called it that), in pretty much the same way as any other human. It was one thing to have an apparition standing in front of you claiming he knew all about you and offering a ‘get out of gaol free' card. It was quite another to balance on a precarious branch in a mangrove swamp, endure the stultifying heat of a windless coastal day and examine your own belief system whilst unconstrained by said alien. I don't know how long I struggled with this dilemma, but I do recall finally deciding to at least give his suggestion a go. In any case, it fitted with something that had been bothering me for some time. Sometime after listening to Roz on the beach, watching her serenity in the face of death and returning again to the hard evidence of Adam's clear conviction, I'd drifted towards a readiness to investigate their claims for myself. And clearly, this not only presented an obvious opportunity, but the angel had delivered a rational explanation for my friends' confidence. Besides, no one else would know if it all turned out to be a mistake. So I promised myself, if nothing came of it, I would simply forget the whole issue and get on my way, not quite rejoicing, but at least content that I'd given it my best shot. It was as woolly, but as resolute as that. The only problem being, I hadn't yet met the One who really cared about me and knew nothing about His determination to rescue me, and issue an invitation to become a fully paid-up member of His kingdom.

***

Israfel was beginning to realise that, actually, his day could get a whole lot better. He'd been concentrating on watching and evaluating my thought processes, trying to guess the likely outcome (even he wasn't privy to the exact timeline concerning my future) and had noted with considerable satisfaction that I was at last getting around to making some sort of a decision. Influenced, he noticed, not so much by his recent appearance, as by the sum of my experiences with other humans. A little snippet to be borne in mind for the future. Slightly crestfallen, he was just considering his next move, when a stentorian voice like the sound of some immense waterfall announced from immediately behind him. “Angels! Behold, your King!” And with that, all thought of my dilemma passed from his mind as he snapped to attention, wheeled around and started looking for the source of the commotion. Which, given the awe-inducing glare of intense white light that had suddenly burst around him, wasn't difficult. And Israfel knew there was only one source of such a light and thus it could only mean one thing. The imminent arrival of the Son of God and, since he stood directly in the path of the radiance, the Supreme Commander was obviously coming his way and from no great distance, either. Electrified, he hastily genuflected, snatching at his sword in an effort to pay the proper respects.

And as he did so, a rich, compassionate yet gentle voice reverberated in his ear; “Rise, Israfel, and come with me. We are here to welcome your charge into our Kingdom.”

Hardly daring to believe that he was actually being invited by Royalty to witness first-hand an act of redemption that would set all Heaven rejoicing, Israfel rose quickly to his feet, hurriedly sheathed his sword and swung in behind Jesus, adjusting deftly to the measured pace of the Praetorian Guard. Proudly, he looked at me, his ward, still balanced in the tree, just beyond the King, who was now almost dancing as he hastened forward with outstretched arms, as if to both support and encourage my first hesitant steps of faith. Truly, this was love on display, and by now the penetrating, mysterious light was even spilling into Earth's sphere, bathing me in a pure, if unearthly, radiance. It was no wonder the King of Kings was always trying to communicate the power of love to his children, Israfel thought. It was the coinage of the Realm, the one supreme, irresistible and enduring force in the universe. No other emotion was powerful enough to overcome it, as disconcerted citizens of Hell were forever discovering for themselves. Swiftly now, the King leaned forward to wrap His arms around me and to whisper in my ear. Words that I can never repeat, although Israfel was also privileged to be within earshot. Tears of joy spilled from us both as we listened. King Jesus welcomed me home as only He could. Pouring overwhelming love into me, a destitute and arid soul positioned awkwardly in front of the King of kings.

I didn't fully appreciate it at the time, but my earnest prayer (despite myself, that's what my first tentative enquiry had become) was fully answered. To my astonishment I knew, intuitively, that Jesus was there. I heard subliminally, but saw no one and couldn't have articulated, or described what was happening. But at an instinctive level I recognised, suddenly and beyond any shadow of a doubt, that not only was the past forgiven, but I had been cleaned up and welcomed into my rightful inheritance. So real was the feeling that, for a moment, I truly felt as though I had come home. I felt safe. And, at the same time, something within me wanted to prostrate myself and acknowledge my insignificance, my utter inadequacy before this Jesus, the very one Adam had described. Only the precariousness of my location prevented the gesture.