Guardian (13 page)

Rough hands grabbed me under the armpits and dragged me upright. I suppose it's inevitable that such people never major on consideration. At any rate, I remember groaning as the blood flowed reluctantly back into my cramped limbs, forced as they were to respond to unexpected movement. Swiftly and with a total lack of ceremony, they dragged me out into the passageway and propped me against yet another wall. Then in broken English, a guttural voice ordered me to stand upright and move my legs, but like it or not, self-help was out of the question. I could summon neither compliance nor rebellion.

Slowly, involuntarily, I simply slid down the wall, unable and unwilling to command my legs or, for that matter, any other limb. Even when they began to slap me around, I was unable to react. For some reason far beyond the abilities of my addled mind to determine, I could sense the faintest stirrings of concern in their attitude towards me, but in my dream-like state any explanation merely stood tantalisingly out of reach. With no desire to influence matters, there seemed little point in staying awake and I duly let myself slide back into oblivion. Later, I have no idea how much later, the first weak warnings of distant pain reached out to me, thin tendrils of discomfort edging their way under the layers of indifference that isolated me from reality. At the same time, even my ears switched back on and although initially I remained totally indifferent, I did eventually become aware of individual sounds. In particular, that of distant slapping and pummelling, which ultimately turned into an explicit awareness that the unwanted intrusion was growing ever closer.

Then the pain hit me. It gathered in my feet first, before setting out swiftly, all too swiftly, to traverse the length of my legs, running this way and that, ferreting around in obscure parts of my torso, malevolent in its intensity, recruiting my arms in passing, intensifying yet again as it narrowed to drive up through my neck and spill into my face, before exploding at the centre of my brain, the seat of all pain supervision. There it delivered its message in one long, loud and uncompromising scream. And I know I accompanied it, because I could hear the rich tenor that my voice had but recently attained, as it rose in counterpoint to the full orchestra playing along my nerves. Which meant it wasn't long before someone forced a gag into my mouth and, despite my weakness, my whole body tuned itself to producing a physical answer to the mauling, leaving me to bite down helplessly in a supreme effort to contain the waves of nausea and pain thrusting barbed and lacerating hands into every part of my body.

Believe me, returning circulation can vault its way through every last capillary when you've been abused as I had. And yet the very pain that threatened to drown me was probably my salvation, because it galvanised me as nothing else could. In short order, the layers of indifference that had cocooned and shrouded my wavering mind were stripped away, dissolved as though they had never been. And in an experience that you might liken to birth, I shot back into reality, kicking and choking somewhat more lustily than had probably been the case on that first journey into the world. All of which left me trembling with exhaustion and the guards visibly relieved. Oddly, they relaxed perceptibly from that moment and, under the glow of a single overhead bulb dangling loosely by its cloth-covered wires, they proceeded to strip my fouled clothing in favour of a kikoi, which they wound loosely round my waist. Their ministrations didn't take long and, with my hands once more tightly bound at my back (for the life of me, I couldn't see why), I was half carried, half propelled up the steps and into the night-darkened courtyard for the first breath of fresh air in a very long time.

It was the all-pervading, never-to-be-mistaken smell of drying fish that gave me the real clue. Only minutes before, I had been shoved roughly into the cramped boot of a long-nosed Daimler waiting in the courtyard that had presented me with my last external view. I remember the car was waiting with its engine ticking over. Even I managed to work out that I was the anticipated cargo. And from the moment we turned out through the high metal gates, I tried desperately to work out where we were headed. To my intense surprise, the journey was over almost before it had begun and I felt the car respond to the brakes and roll to a stop on what sounded like rough gravel. Earlier, staggering up from my cell, there had been no hint of what to expect, but on emerging from the corridor and being pulled roughly towards the car, I had become deeply aware of a hostile scrutiny from a small knot of men watching progress from a dimly lit upstairs window. Still unable to understand the import of events, but elated by my release from the suffocating confines of the boot, I now found my thoughts turning ever more to concern over my likely destination.

Clearly, I was at the old harbour; but why? I couldn't fathom it out. Just a few steps down from where I stood, a single jetty pointed its snub nose into the rapidly shelving water. Above me, the darkened Customs shed filled the horizon, its dilapidated old gates barring entry to the inner sanctum of power like a gap-toothed old crone. Around me, the night air stirred and blew fitfully across the water from the darkened dhows riding at anchor, a stone's throw from the land. The air was warm and filled with the mingled perfume of dried fish and ambergris, whilst in the velvet blackness the sea stirred quietly against the end of the worn old stone. For a few seconds I almost forgot my predicament, momentarily entranced and at the same time stimulated by the sights and sounds all around me. Which, if you knew the old harbour, would only go to show how out of it I really was, despite the reprieve from that foul cell. Phosphorescence flickered and flared intensely white in the backwash from the jetty and, watching the ebb and flow, I had a sudden longing to throw myself in and let the layers of filth wash off my emaciated body. But scarcely had the thought formed, when a shallow outrigger canoe emerged from the blackness and brought my preoccupation to an abrupt end. The craft was no more than a roughly hollowed-out tree trunk with a single outrigger, powered by a barely discernible young man sitting in the stern. Nevertheless, its arrival galvanised my guards and a hand in my back propelled me down to the end of the jetty as the canoe swept broadside to the landing stage, to bob gently, held by a thin but muscular arm reaching up to grasp a protruding piece of wood doing time as a makeshift mooring.

No words were exchanged – something I was getting used to in this bizarre new world of mine. Just about everything was done in sullen silence, made the more chilling for the indifference or resentment I saw whenever I caught an eye appraising me. Now I half fell, half stepped into the craft and it rocked dangerously, nearly pitching me over the far side. A sharp instruction was snarled at me from the stern, but I was already dropping to my knees, aware that if I went in, my bound hands would be unable to prevent a swift descent to the seabed. Kneeling awkwardly, the hard rim of the canoe digging into my emaciated hips and thighs, I felt the familiar tug of hopelessness steal back, ever ready to beguile my mind and threatening once again to overwhelm me. But I had been there before and somehow, each new menace increased my still somewhat nascent desire to fight back. A renewed determination to keep a hold on life was stirring. Well, that's what it felt like. Dimly. At any rate, whatever was about to happen, I was sure it couldn't be worse than I had already experienced.

With a sense of satisfaction, Israfel glanced at his companion, who acknowledged my change of heart with a nod of pleasure. For weeks now, Israfel, appointed as Guardian following my attempted suicide, had been concerned at my failure to fight back against the weight of trouble being loaded on my young shoulders. He had watched with some unease as I apathetically accepted the deterioration in my mind and body. Nevertheless, except for the original mandate to intervene over the suicide, his orders had been clear: “Don't interfere and don't alter the course of human events.” Except, of course, if and when Satan clearly goaded some minion or other to overstep Heaven's well-defined constraint not to kill. At which point Israfel was authorised to take any immediate action he deemed fit.

As usual in such cases, Satan had only been given permission to torment but definitely not drive me to the point of mortal danger, where life could be lost. But just when that point was reached was a matter for the Guardian to decide. And that was why the job could be so stressful. Especially since there was always some demon or other not above trying for collateral damage that might ‘inadvertently' take me out. Which was why standing back and letting me take the hits hadn't been easy for Israfel, although not for one moment did he doubt the wisdom of his orders. Like all human children, I had been assigned a Guardian Angel at conception and, like most, had been allowed to go my own way since reaching thirteen, the time-honoured and formal age of maturity. Thereafter, the presence or absence of a Guardian had depended entirely upon my general attitude. The same approach taken throughout the human race. If an individual showed a selfless interest in others, some particularly redeeming feature, perhaps some intrigue in spiritual matters, or specific angelic protection was ordered by God (which turned out to be the answer in my case), an angel might then be reassigned.

Like many, though by no means all angels, Israfel had already pulled duty as a Guardian and, having done particularly well on his first assignment, had subsequently been earmarked to undertake the Academy course for more senior and experienced angels and, in his case, this would be followed by selection for fast-track promotion. Now he had graduated and was entrusted with a second bite of the cherry – looking after me. Me, one of God's prized humans (amazing, but as I was later to discover, we're all ‘prized' by God).

But back to Israfel. Only a minority of angels were assigned a second stint as a Guardian, but those who did not only generally enjoyed the experience, but usually went on to lead glittering careers. However, as always with these difficult assignments the guiding star was ‘trust'. Total trust in Michael, the Captain of the Lord's Host, plus an ability to use one's initiative. Israfel could still remember his surprise and delight at being snatched shortly before the end of the Academy course to foil an apparently ‘important' suicide. Clearly, he was considered one of the best, capable of undertaking delicate and discrete tasks. And to cap it all, he then discovered the human in question (me) was to become his next charge. A fact confirmed at the graduation ceremony. He would never forget the thrill of anticipation as he prepared to spend perhaps the next sixty years on and around planet Earth. Anticipation tinged only by a certain apprehension at being sent once again into the front line of the fierce battle that had been raging there for several thousand years. At least this time he was a well-taught, polished and accredited warrior and expected to have a definite edge. So together, albeit unknown to me, we began an anonymous and ultimately fateful partnership (anonymous as far as I was concerned). For certain I was nothing unusual, having experienced a relatively conventional early life, except for my father and the wild life that frequented our home range. And no one could say I'd had more than the usual scrapes that any growing boy seems to attract, as if by osmosis. Nevertheless, I would have to admit that my insatiable interest in all things feral had led me and Matt into predicaments no sane human should consider. However, I'd survived without any overt help and grown the stronger for it. And now this angel Israfel was watching my progress with interest. He already knew something of why the Creator cared so much for men and women. Also, why some humans were destined for a glorious future even if, when I come to think about it, we are, by turns, both sublime and ridiculous. Anyway, here we were, embarked on an involuntary journey together.

Israfel had been briefed on the lion attack and Matt's death and why there had been no order to stop the assault. There was always great sadness in watching the end of a promising human life, even one for whom no angel had particular responsibility and Israfel knew all that lay between the atheist Matt and eternity without God was the great ‘Day of Judgement'. Although it was the same for me at this point, Israfel had been given an in-depth explanation of God's future strategy regarding my case and this had apparently proved both interesting and supremely helpful in preparing for what was to come. A briefing perforce followed by an instantaneous and precisely timed return to Earth duty, in order to foil the satanic plots still being cooked up to destroy me by my own hand. Now Israfel's supreme test lay just ahead and he knew he'd have to keep his wits about him if he was to protect me within the constraints of his orders. Together with Benjamin, an angel he had met once many years before in one of Heaven's many fabulous estates, Israfel was following me across the sea, long greaved legs keeping easy pace with the canoe. Since the last fracas, at which he'd been present with Tamar and his friends, there had been little interference from Satan or his minions. However, Israfel was a warrior at heart and he knew better than to relax his guard.

* * *

Benjamin didn't have quite the same outlook. He was on a well-earned break, having recently been stood down from guarding the fisherman Kumai, now powering his canoe towards the anchored dhow. Unfortunately, although being given a chance to get out of slaving, Kumai had made an irrevocable decision and effectively thrown in his lot with Satan. But such was the fisherman's commitment to the slaver's cause (and the nature of the ship to which I was headed), there was a good chance Benjamin would be needed by the other angels for the almost inevitable fight that loomed ahead. Hence he'd been given permission to take all the leave due to him while still remaining on Earth, rather than hotfooting it straight back to Heaven for a rest. Since his thirteenth birthday, the day even his own culture had accepted he'd attained his majority, Kumai had become entirely responsible for his own destiny, but such was God's love for His creatures, that there had remained a need to help Kumai retain at least some choice over his likely future. Enter Benjamin. However, with the die cast, the order had finally come from Heaven to pull back from the young man. He had already caused too much harm to himself and others. Sadly for Kumai this meant there was now almost certainly no going back.

Up ahead, a large sea-going boum dhow, its characteristic stern bearing the famous old navigator's name
Majid an-Najdi
, snubbed uneasily at anchor and Israfel could see from the line being taken by the canoe that this was the destination. Head up, he examined the boat with interest and his hand instinctively dropped to the pommel of his sword, but Benjamin put out a swift restraining hand. “Have no fear, friend. We're to respect a truce for the time being and they know it. This boat has long been used in the vile trade of slaving and belongs to that loathsome creature Arcturus, the one you can see lording it up there at the stern. For now we are not to dispute the matter with him.” Israfel relaxed a little, but was dismayed by what he saw. A noxious cloud that seemed to have a life of its own enveloped the cluttered deck and within its suffocating confines he could see shadowy figures hopping and crawling over the battered old planks. Up on the thick hemp mainstays supporting the heavily raked mast, there was a positive infestation of ugly, rat-like creatures clinging to every spare foothold, but the demon Benjamin had pointed out and who had caught Israfel's interest sat motionless at the very stern, behind the long steering oar. Fierce, piercing yellow eyes, made sinister by their characteristically vertical iris slits, tracked the approach of the two angels closely and the tightly compressed lips signalled the creature's obvious hatred of them. A huge body, with hulking muscles and long legs, singled him out as superior to the scowling pack around him. A suppressed, savage power, barely held in check for the moment, marked him as one to watch, whilst the sycophantic deference paid by the other demons confirmed him as their leader. Contemptuously, Arcturus turned his head away, as if to study matters of more importance. He knew the approaching angels wouldn't try anything and was enjoying his moment of authority over the wretches held captive in the bowels of the ship.

Israfel shuddered. The presence of so many demons was depressing enough, but the palpable air of human despair engulfing the ship set his teeth on edge. Below decks, he could see through the thick old timbers the curled bodies and slumped shoulders of the captives who lay chained and helpless. Standing well back, far beyond the reach of any of the malodorous monsters, he could also see a number of his fellow angels sitting and watching in a small group. Israfel hailed them, saluting with his customary courtesy, and was rewarded with a warm response from each in turn. Even so, assuming Paul was destined to remain aboard and sail with this ship, the next few weeks were not going to be much fun. And given the awfulness of what he could already see in the hold, Israfel knew he'd have real trouble holding his temper in check long enough to get through the journey without a fight. If it was to Arabia they were bound, the journey would take weeks and knowing what he already did about the noxious trade in human beings, the journey was likely to provoke his ire on an almost hourly basis, an effect that could eventually spill over into unrestrained anger. And then it only needed his battle sword to be unsheathed, and the flash and hiss of its extraordinary, almost unbelievable ten-foot blade would start something that, for all the demon's obvious power, could only end one way. With multiple deaths amongst the ugly horde in front of him.

In fact, he was beginning to fancy an encounter with Arcturus already, but even as he contemplated the scene, there was a stirring amongst the rank and file who had spotted my impending arrival. Several of the creatures scuttled to the side to get a better look at their latest victim. However, when they realised I was not only in reasonable shape, despite my earlier treatment, but under Israfel's direct protection (however loose), a wave of hissing and swearing broke out amongst them. Some of the more foolhardy even began to finger their weapons as they concentrated afresh on the approaching angels and recognised at least one of them as having recently been involved in the demise of several of their contemporaries. Rumour and fact had got mixed in the telling, and it was now a firmly held opinion that certain ‘Avenging Angels' had been seen preparing for what the Bible referred to as the final Day of Judgement, when the Enemy had promised He would come back to Earth in all His glory. Was this one of those Avengers? He was certainly impressive. And who knew what awful fate awaited any demon faced with one of them? Legend had it (well, they hoped it was only legend) there was a lake of fire even now being prepared for them and any humans they could take down with them. Certainly there was mention of this in the humans' Bible, but their hierarchy swore the place was fictitious. False or not, the princes and powers of the underworld were in a state of near panic as rumour followed rumour and no one knew what to think anymore. And now here was an angel who looked imposing enough to actually be one of the principal Avengers. So maybe, just maybe, with enough of them available, they could even the odds a little. Get ahead of the game, so to speak.