Guardian (22 page)

There were so many delightful qualities to relaxing in one of the King's dazzling gardens, but chief amongst them was the sense of utter safety and serenity. Wherever he looked, the Archangel Michael could see the most exquisitely beautiful and extraordinarily diverse flowering plants and succulently leafed trees. Whilst Heaven was remarkable for the incredible variety found in every one of its many dimensions, it was the fact that most of Heaven's citizens chose to operate in this particular dimension that captivated Michael. As one of God's Angelic princes, with a seat on the Inner Council, he was charged with assisting in the smooth running of the Universe, which in his case meant keeping Satan's hordes in check. Thus, his main responsibility revolved around the exercise of strategic and tactical deployment amongst Heaven's warriors. To his constant delight, the garden stretched away as far as the eye could distinguish and every time he looked up, his visual senses were assaulted by sensuous colour streaming towards him in every conceivable shade and tone. Exhilarating, awe-inspiring, coruscating, ever-changing pigments that were cast in hues far beyond any range the human eye could perceive or mind conceive. A soft, scent-laden breeze wafted gently through the branches of the tree under which he sat, accompanied in its passing by the sound of one of the quietly flowing streams irrigating the flamboyant grounds.

Everything bore the Maker's stamp of extravagance. As if to reinforce the point, high above him a jewel-like bird, flashing iridescent in its electric blue, green and virulent red suit, trailed into melodic silence as Michael turned to watch. The echo of its thrilling notes dropped swiftly away as it drew breath for the next exhilarating stanza, the next harmonic verse that would pour unconstrained from a heart made euphoric with love for its Creator. Like every one of the myriad creatures winging the high soaring realms of Heaven, it was an artiste of song
par excellence
, particularly when expressing itself in paeans of praise. As if to complete the picture, and some distance away, another angel quietly tended to the ripe fruit of a mature old fig tree. And everywhere a mysterious, delicate luminosity suffused the garden, picking out every detail of the exotic foliage in crisp and astonishing clarity. Heaven had no need of a sun to light it. The Glory of God Himself was its light, permeating everything.

Letting his gaze wander, Michael mused for a moment on how he had used these tranquil grounds almost as his own since the dawn of time. From that first unforgettable moment when he had sprung full grown into dazzling and astonishing existence, conscious that not only was he an extraordinary warrior straight from the hand of God, but aware that he was fashioned as the equivalent of a ‘four star' General, with the unique and vital responsibility of leading Heaven's armies. Angel troopers who were even then appearing full grown around him. From shortly after his creation, although held back from providing the outright victory he yearned to deliver against the perfidious traitor Satan (a victory that he knew to be within his grasp), Michael had revelled in his unique assignment. Whether it was dealing directly with Heaven's enemies, or serving humans, he approached each and every mission with the utmost attention and delight. Never failing to deploy his squadrons to singular and devastating effect. Almost always several steps ahead of the arch-enemy Satan. And continuing to look around, Michael recognised, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he would never grow tired of this role. Or his place in the Kingdom.

The apparent privilege of such a glorious yet solitary setting was merely to afford him the space to plan effectively. The only way to counterbalance the distraction of Heaven's happily uproarious citizens. But no matter where he was, the light of God permeated everything. Although, even as he sat considering his most recent orders, it would have seemed to the uninitiated that Michael was himself ablaze with the fire of Heaven. Light flooded out from within his flowing toga and radiated from every pore of his perfectly poised body. An intense, vibrant luminosity, which, from time to time, seemed to flash outwards as if to engulf the careless observer. A white light of holiness, which, for the unclean, came close to being unbearable in its intensity. Which was exactly Lucifer's problem. For some reason that he could never quite fathom, he and his armed forces were still allowed an almost unimpeded run of Heaven. Under certain strict conditions, he had even been allowed to retain his
entrée
to the Inner Council. But now, far from being a joy, such remaining hints of intimacy were frightening in the extreme, although he did not dare to question the arrangements. Reason told him that the moment he stepped out of line anywhere near God's throne, he would simply cease to exist. Yet it was utterly infuriating to know that every citizen of Heaven had been briefed to allow him to pass unchallenged. To be accorded the utmost, if somewhat icy, courtesy, whilst knowing that he was considered no better than dog food, was devastating. To Lucifer, such discrimination was nothing short of humiliation, utterly demeaning to an individual who had once held the highest rank bestowed by Heaven. An ignominy compounded because, what might otherwise be considered a flattering right of access, was quite clearly designed to be a two-edged sword. And every angel, every redeemed human, every animal in Heaven knew it.

Nevertheless, there had been real moments to savour when he had actually been given permission to meddle with certain humans. Right up to the instant before death. Sadly, seldom beyond that. So far. They readily killed each other, but he could normally only encourage such actions surreptitiously. He and his followers could invade minds unchecked, but they couldn't indulge themselves physically. He knew, too, that somehow he'd been ‘blinded'. He, who had been the pinnacle of creation, could now only see into a couple more dimensions than the humans he so despised. And always, rankling in the back of his mind there lurked that annoying character, Job. A source of very public embarrassment, every time he spotted the wretched man walking the highways of Heaven. How could he forget how comprehensively he'd been outsmarted on that one, although even that paled into insignificance beside his mistake at Calvary, just outside that scruffy little town of Jerusalem (why did God rate it so highly?). He really thought he'd nailed God's only Son that time. And then Jesus of Nazareth (as the humans called him) had had the temerity to walk into Hell and tell him, Lucifer, where to get off. There had followed an appalling three days of intense light (light!) lancing through the farthest reaches of his dark kingdom, causing uproar. Something from which Hell had never really recovered and, worse, aware of his extreme embarrassment, something his senior commanders never let him forget.

* * *

Lucifer growled involuntarily as he eyed Michael. One day. One day he would prevail over this angel, even if he'd shown himself to be completely helpless against God. Come to think of it, once he'd nearly stolen a march over Michael. He'd been visiting Persia at the time, organising his incompetents to oppose yet another irritant, a praying Jew named Daniel. And he'd caught a complacent Michael on the hop. Very nearly removed his head with the first swing of his blade as he stepped from what he could only describe as a devilishly cunning ambush (no pun intended, but he did rather fancy himself as a wit). Yes, one day he would succeed. Of that he was certain, despite all the obvious indications to the contrary. Had not Jesus once acknowledged that because the first human, Adam, had rebelled against God, he had essentially transferred his authority over planet Earth to himself? Effective, right up to the time he had masterminded that ill-conceived crucifixion (no disguising the fact of his involvement). And three days later his army of fools had lost the plot and let Jesus walk right back out of Death Valley (or Hell as he preferred to call his domain), totally unmolested and taking some of the supposedly condemned humans with him. Finally to reappear in front of His human followers, claiming victory over death and declaring that from then on, humans who believed in Him and were content to acknowledge this before others would be freed from Hell's grip.

Shrugging irritably, Lucifer let his hand wander to where his weapon should have been. The trouble with visiting rights was they required him to disarm and partly disrobe on arrival. Two requirements that caused him particular misery. The foremost being that, whilst exposure to Earth's sunlight was bad enough, exposure to God's unique light caused him nothing short of intense and virtually constant pain. Particularly to his eyes and the skin of his face and arms which, by decree, had to remain uncovered. He had long since assumed this to be one of Michael's arrangements, issued under the dubious pretext of security, because every angel was perfectly capable of seeing straight through any disguise he might employ. And that, of course, served perfectly to rub his nose in it. Exactly as it was designed to do. Although it wasn't all doom and gloom. At a stretch, there was a plus to any visit. An aspect that made the humiliation and pain almost worthwhile. Forays into Heaven provided a reassuring side effect when he returned to the dark corridors of Hell. An immediate and satisfying whiff of terror amongst his nightmare attendants, as they fought to retreat from the fading glow of his exposure. A ‘cause and effect' that never failed. But today was one of those occasions when it was more important to gather information than relish the idea of future pandemonium. And the only way he was likely to succeed was to crawl to his erstwhile comrade in arms, Michael. How he hated these occasions. He, Satan, the once noble Jewel of Heaven, forced to grovel to a mere Archangel. But there was little choice, given Heaven was evidently plotting something that apparently involved a certain Paul Moncton. An individual who was already beginning to prove a nuisance to Hell's executive. He knew something was happening and whilst he was pretty sure he knew what the final outcome would be, he could never quite rid himself of the urge to upset Heaven's confidence. And anyway, the matter was beginning to exasperate him. It was one of the drawbacks to an unsuccessful rebellion. You lost every last vestige of peace.

So, trying to effect a confident swagger, Lucifer marched straight towards Michael from behind, hoping to catch him unawares. Stupid, he knew. But at heart he was a brawler, a chancer, and he simply couldn't help himself. But as if to compound his frustration, Michael didn't even look behind him.

“Morning, Lucifer. I didn't think it would take you long to get here. I've noted your recent interest in the East African coast. So, let me guess. You want to know what we're planning and where Paul Moncton fits in.”

Grinding his teeth (he just couldn't help it), Lucifer stopped and drew himself to his full, repellent height. How did Michael always know? It was nauseating, but he was forced to listen as Michael continued unhurriedly.

“As I'm sure even you have realised, I cannot divulge our overall plans, but I will say that Paul's progress and life are of great importance to God. There are a number of steps young Paul must yet take before he acknowledges God's Son, Jesus, as the Supreme Being. So, God has ordered that not only is Paul to be protected from physical death, but no demon is to possess him again. Harass, yes. Possess, no. You would do well to remember that. And no. Don't even think of trying to jump me. You wouldn't get half a pace before I skewered you like the parasite you are. Look around you, Lucifer. Are you now so blind that you cannot see my companions, my guards?”

Michael's hand motioned the space around him and although Lucifer knew he would not lie, he still couldn't see. Frustrated, he waited as Michael calmly pointed out that not one of the sentries loitering in a separate dimension would hesitate to materialise and deal swiftly with such a prize, the moment he stepped out of line. The protection was discreet but no less effective for all that. And Lucifer knew it.

“But back to Paul. The Lord God has decided that you may get up to your usual devious tricks and may allocate demons to test Paul. Moreover, they may even do to him as you wish, except, I repeat, under no circumstances are they to hound him to the point of death. As for Roz Lescal, she is also given into your power for a short time, but, again, her life may only be taken by another human. Certainly not one of your sidekicks. Is that quite clear?”

Faced with the implacable and menacing nature of Michael's deceptively mild delivery, Lucifer decided to make a conscious effort to uncurl his hands and relax his tense muscles. Michael was acting unusually. Normally he was urbane charm itself, poised elegance personified. So, clearly, Paul Moncton was important and would have to be watched, which meant he'd better find out who had been assigned to meddle with him.
If anyone, given Hell's ramshackle administration
, he thought sourly.

If ever there was a saying that suited Ahmed's foul mood, heightened as it was by the irritation of lost assets, it was ‘spitting feathers'. That he'd probably lost a white slave was the height of stupidity, especially one who had apparently defied Abdel-Aziz in the process and over whom he'd clearly lost a substantial sum (even the female provided in exchange was no compensation as she'd died shortly after arrival, forcing him to modify his particular vice). But, as if that wasn't bad enough, he was now being forced to join Abdel-Aziz in the godforsaken hole they called Malindi. At least the boy had paid a certain price before escaping, having been whipped to within an inch of his life. A stark warning to any other slave who might be foolish enough to consider mutiny. Add to that the loss of three of the crew at such an early and crucial point in a transit voyage and he was looking at little less than financial catastrophe. But all else paled into insignificance besides Abdel-Aziz's failure to return with his nephew, Abdullah. That unexplained disappearance could spell disaster when it came to the continuing support of his invaluable source of ready funds, the family fortune.

Upon such infuriating events did a lifetime of investments turn. The real problem was that whilst his easy-going grandfather was the nominal head of the family and supposedly in charge of its considerable wealth, the actual power behind the throne (though never admitted in polite Arab circles) was his aunt, Buhaysah (named even from her youth for ‘walking with pride'). Not for nothing was she known for her almost homicidal, usually unreasonable and always direct response to avoidable blunders. Especially if she felt there might be a personal insult involved. Something she would assuredly believe in this case, given her favourite grandson was one of the missing. And if Abdel-Aziz didn't provide a satisfactory answer to the matter pretty soon, then his demise was unlikely to be much delayed. Captain or not. Of course he, Ahmed, had not the slightest concern for his nephew per se. It was just that he had guaranteed safe passage and so found not only his considerable reputation in possible jeopardy, but an unexpected frisson of fear pricking his mind at the thought of eventually having to face his imperious aunt. And his aide's immediate enquiries amongst the crew had determined that nobody had seen the young fool alive since they'd all turned in on the night of the raid. For which there could only be one explanation. He must have been snatched by the scum assisting the girl. Had she not displayed the sort of impudent temerity that only a white girl could, by stepping uninvited onto one of his ships? A ship that, true to Arab tradition, had never been sullied by an uninvited female foot. Invited, yes. Uninvited, no. Over many decades, the decks had no doubt hosted a far from inconsequential stream of harlots and ladies of a certain ilk, all bent on providing suitable and erotic entertainment for the crew.

But enough of such distracting thoughts. Angrily, Ahmed had had Abdel brought before him. “Aziz, you will return to your ship immediately and this time you will find Abdullah. Allow me to assure you that if you do not return with him soon, it will not be long before you join your ancestors.”

Abdel-Aziz knew this was no idle threat, but equally he understood that if Abdullah had been unable to look after himself thus far, then it was highly likely there was absolutely nothing to be done for him now. Either he was already fish food, or he was a prisoner and thus a useful hostage who would not be surrendered lightly. Whichever, right now Aziz knew he could do nothing about it. Except, of course, look as though he actually gave a toss and head north on the assumption the man had been taken prisoner. Muttering and cursing under his breath, Abdel had left to begin the task of putting to sea once more, issuing a stream of orders to set course safely through the reef gap and on out into the great Pacific rollers, before backing the dhow once again onto a northerly track to retrace the assumed route of the fleeing bandits. Finally clear of the reef, his ship had strained eagerly forward into the steepening undulation of an on-shore swell and the hiss of water gathering pace under her bluff stem was at least comforting. Not that it made any marked difference to the crew's demeanour, because they were already disgruntled enough and now knew for certain there was unlikely to be a pay day following this year's efforts. Moreover, they couldn't be less interested in Ahmed's relative, as no one really cared a hoot for anything other than the money the escaped boy and remaining slaves represented.

And sailors, unlike land-based traders, know there is nothing to be gained from trying to outsmart wind and tide. Or find missing crewmen off a shark-infested African coast. Moreover, to try fighting the wind merely to look for a missing sailor was not a matter to be taken lightly. Clearly, it was going to involve the better part of a week searching north before beating back to Malindi, always assuming they even managed to find Abdullah, or recapture the escaped slave. A state of affairs that meant at the very least they faced rampaging sickness amongst the cargo, as the old scow squandered time, bucking and rolling against the set of wind and wave. Perhaps even the death of some captives. It wasn't just Aziz who was beginning to heartily regret ever setting eyes on the white boy. It was every man-jack of the crew.