Guardian (21 page)

Josephus' eyes closed momentarily as the opening words stroked his battered psyche and provided a certain balm to the juddering waves of foreboding that, for some considerable time, had been coursing through his depraved spirit. Allowing his attention to wander, his mind fled to the ill-received tidings of particular adjustments in the Heavenly realm brought to him recently from the outer reaches of the empire. Tidings that had not, could not, remain secret for very long and that, he suspected, were even now sweeping the corridors of power, in the guise of whispered outrage. Outrage that would gain in strength with every repetition. Rumour following upon rumour, no doubt accompanied by nervous eyes darting to and fro, limbs trembling and hearts failing as the dreadful possibilities behind the gossip expanded rapidly from imagination to received fact. If things ran true to form, someone, somewhere, would yet again start putting two and two together to make five, having noted, with growing panic, the seemingly inexplicable and substantial increase in Heavenly activity.

True, such rumours were forever sweeping the satanic courts. Equally true, one day there would be real reason to panic if the Creator's special book, that odious collection of sixty-six texts they called the Bible, perversely enough brought together under one cover, was actually reaching its prophesied conclusion: utter humiliation and catastrophe for Lucifer and his kingdom. There couldn't be a single one of Lucifer's hangers-on who didn't know what those Scriptures foretold, who hadn't surreptitiously read the script, even if very few would admit to the act and even fewer to giving the writings any credence.

In official circles the Bible was only ever referred to as “that monstrous manuscript” and it was unanimously loathed and formally distrusted, if for no other reason than it had been presented as a gift to what God considered to be His foremost act of creation: His beloved humans (which left them, the ‘fallen angels', where exactly?). Humans considered it to be ‘their' Bible and those Satan had once been entitled to hold captive as his personal slaves, with no hope of remission or pardon, now claimed it set out the terms for their manumission or liberation. All tied up with Jesus, that embodiment of God, who they'd managed to crucify just outside Jerusalem. Josephus still shuddered at the memory. Until that terrifying day, every human had been Satan's by right, each one of them having forfeited their freedom by willingly and/or knowingly rejecting God as their king. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, those same humans had remained the singular and all-consuming object of God's love. The ultimate reason behind His every act of creation and preparation, as He structured the universe for its final destiny. Namely, the honouring of humans as restored members of His family, fellow heirs with Jesus to the riches of Heaven. The very person whom Satan had had killed, but whom he hadn't been able to stop rising up from the grave three days later.

And there was the nub of the problem. One which he, Josephus, had never been able to fully grasp. Despite his and Lucifer's every effort to disparage and destroy the God/man relationship, uncounted hordes of the despicable humans still put their trust and hope in His Son, Jesus. And the idiots were forever quoting the Bible. Which, many were convinced, set out history from God's point of view, together with an account of His merciful love for them. And they referred to this book as ‘His Written Word', and to Jesus as His ‘Living Word'. And if neither he, nor Lucifer (indeed, none of the hierarchy) could fully comprehend the deal, then it was surely no coincidence that their minions, Hell's apathetic denizens, showed even less understanding. How could the prophecy that mankind would one day attain to higher rank than angels be allowed to happen? Why, it would mean they might even have authority over Satan, the greatest sentient being ever created. Sacrilege! Even God had once called him ‘the Bright Morning Star'. Which Josephus knew was still able to stiffen Satan's spine ever so slightly, whenever the subject came up. Before his mood inevitably turned, yet again, to fury over his spectacular fall from grace and his eternal exile from the real corridors of power. Annoyingly, even the humans Satan had managed to turn back from worship of God to a worship of himself, far too often acknowledged (despite themselves) that the Creator's book retained a certain life and truth of its own. No matter what Hell did to offset its influence, that ‘Book of Books' still spoke to all men everywhere about the One who had made them, and to whom they owed their true allegiance. Disgustingly, it even majored on sacrificial, romantic and all-consuming love (And how could anyone continue to believe such things in the face of all that Hell put out to the contrary?).

However, in the end they were always forced to consider the inevitable question: was this, finally, the event promised from the dawn of time (Satan would always strenuously deny it, but everyone knew he was the father of lies), when God would banish them and anything evil to the so-called ‘Hell of fire'? Permanently. Fortunately, humans didn't generally believe in such a fate either, which made them easier to control. But there wasn't a single one of Satan's minions who didn't feel he knew the truth of it (whatever they might admit to). A reality with which they were faced every time one of their own forfeited his life and was banished to the lower and definitely hotter regions. In particular, that wretched Book prophesied a time of increased activity in Heaven and on Earth just prior to the ultimate Day of Judgement, after which God would apparently fashion a new Earth and a new Heaven. Neither of which would contain anything bad or, incredibly, any of their own kind. Hence the panic.

So, all things considered, perhaps this was a time when it would be better to retain every well-tried warrior for employment on the front line. After all, they weren't just fighting on one front. No. Regular squadron detachments still had to be arranged to maintain hostilities on Heaven's rolling plains, no matter how much the rank and file might rebel against exposure to its painful light, attenuated though it was by their special armour. Absolutely no doubt about it, Arcturus deserved a suitably gruesome disembowelling, followed by banishment to the tender mercies of Abbadon. Indeed, it was true that he, Josephus, got a great deal of satisfaction out of pronouncing such fateful punishments. An immense and continuing pleasure from sending these failures, these useless and depraved spirits who had the temerity to fall short of his demands, to the hidden delights of the pit. So, yes, perhaps in this case he could kill two birds with one stone and add considerably to his overall gratification in the long term. All he had to do was let Arcturus know that his guilt was decided and his expulsion to the pit inevitable and, at the same time, delay the date of execution. Certainly until after Paul Moncton had been dealt with. Perhaps longer if the rumours persisted. That way, he not only kept a particularly experienced legate who could still be useful, but he would be able to revel in the knowledge that Arcturus would have his ultimate fate constantly in mind, with all the terror that would inspire. Machiavellian!

What's more, he could also confirm to colleagues and superiors alike just how shrewd he really was. Of course, what neither Arcturus nor any of the dolts he commanded knew was that something had finally been put right by management and reports were, at long last, filtering up to those who needed to see them. And the name of Paul Moncton had featured on a number of occasions. Which meant Heaven really was interested in him. And if Heaven wasn't soon thwarted, the boy could clearly cause trouble. So, pre-emptive action by Josephus might provide a sop to the usual seething anger and screaming frustration that accompanied encounters with Lucifer. And he could report that for some time he had been preparing to frustrate Heaven. It wasn't often he could beat Heaven to the draw, but this time he was sure he had exposed one of their favourites before any harm had been done. Reporting this with due solemnity to Lucifer would surely earn him some accolade? After all, Machiavelli might have been viewed as exceptional, but where had he learned his trade? At the hands of the supreme leader, Lucifer, of course (with perhaps a certain degree of help from his evil self). Yes, a good plan. Grunting with the effort, Josephus shifted, opened his eyes, glared at Arcturus, raised himself to his full if rather diminished height and, waving his right hand dismissively, cut Arcturus off, just as he was getting into his stride.

“Enough, fool! There is no more to be said. You will show Abbadon what a useless blemish you really are… but not quite yet.” Ah, yes. It was all in the timing and he was still a master of the art. As he spoke, his out-of-sight hand signalled with a thumb held vertically downwards, and the demons waiting for the announcement to strike merely shrugged, hid their disappointment and drew their swords with as much noise as they could generate, still happy to teach Arcturus a lesson. Unfortunately, restricted to the flat of their blades on this occasion. Which didn't stop Arcturus, who hadn't seen the thumb gesture, or worked out what had really been conveyed, from beginning to wail in abject terror. It was only much later, as he nursed his bruised body and damaged pride that he discovered the precise nature of malevolence intrinsic to an indefinitely delayed sentence of execution. Coupled with his ‘temporary' assignment to ensure Moncton didn't change allegiance, the whole bound up with orders to frustrate Heaven. A death sentence, whichever way you looked at it.

Watching me out of the corner of her eye during our first night ashore, Roz had concluded, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she loved me. Nor would her passionate nature brook any intervention in the matter. A nature which adversaries had learned to disregard at their peril (no doubt there were those who could testify to that amongst the crew of a certain dhow). Throughout the night she had stood close guard as I lay, oblivious to the world, stirring fitfully and snoring gently through slightly parted, heavily bruised lips. And during those same hours her love had not only matured, but successfully countered its own uncertainties. Hence, with the dawning of a new day and a long, sleepless night of reflection behind her, she was able, finally and fully, to acknowledge to herself that she could conceive of no desirable future that failed to contain me. So there she stood, in love with a man who had so far given her little cause for hope; a contemporary by birth, but one who might as well have been an alien for all she knew of attitudes and outlook, hopes and fears. Nevertheless, one whom she was convinced held the key to her future. The only obvious problem being whether I would be equally convinced.

* * *

And what of me during all of this? How often in those early days of liberty did a return to consciousness simply mean a resurgence of the all-consuming pain that flooded my slowly healing body? I don't suppose I ever managed to stir without reopening many of my wounds. And that first morning ashore after we'd landed definitely set the standard. Less than twelve hours after what can only be described as a miraculous rescue, everything hurt. My whole world was bound and informed by pain. But at least I was free. Slipping in and out of consciousness, every return to awareness involved a slow, careful stretching of a tentative hand towards the smiling face always ready to welcome me back. She was my first clear, radiant promise that there really was a welcoming humanity out there, and in this case, a promise intertwined with breath-taking beauty. As I continued to feast my eyes on this dazzling image, I realised there was no comparable vision upon which I could hope to focus then, or at any time in the future. Only the deep shadow of the hut in which I lay spared my considerable blushes around this time. And as the days slipped by, I came to realise that I lived for her appearances. When she was not there, I was bereft. When her light footstep sounded on the path outside, my heart leapt for the anticipation of seeing her. I could not get enough of her. Simply to hear her voice was sufficient to make my heart skip a beat.

Straddling the equator as it does, the central African coastal heat seldom, if ever, lets up. From six in the morning until six at night, day after day, the sun beats down with uncompromising strength. Glaring at the landscape out of a burning, cobalt sky, it turns already arid ground into an iron-hard, dust-smeared radiator. Raising mirages, spawning dust devils, the tropical sun simply drains the life out of virtually anything that lacks a deep root. However you dress, wherever you go during the burning day, the best you can hope for is the relief of a good shade tree, perhaps the thick leafy canopy of a cashew nut tree, or the lighter green of a mango and, if you're really fortunate, a spot that luxuriates in a fitful breeze. Perhaps a cool veranda accompanied by an ice-cold drink. But not so for me. Not in my recuperation.

Unwilling to even stir, I was firmly anchored to a fire-hardened wood and sisal cot in the back of an African fisherman's simple thatch, wattle and daub home. But, wrapped in darkness, I could at least gain some relief from the relentless glare outside; little enough, but certainly all I was likely to get before evening. And with it, courtesy of my host's trade, came the overriding stench of rotting fish, permeating everything. Something I can still smell to this day. That cloying aroma triumphed over my nostrils, trickled across my tongue and even managed to suffuse the parrot cage that, for all its foulness, passed as my mouth. A part of my anatomy that hadn't been graced with a clean-up in months. No breeze stirred in that hut to dissolve the nebulous perfume of fish and I remember the ribbons of sweat trickling like transient spiders as they ran coldly down my back and sides, before combining into small streams of moisture that gathered around and under my legs, armpits and buttocks. At least I was only wearing a kikoi, the grip of the folds wound around my waist providing my one assurance of modesty. Not that I would have minded the alternative particularly. Somewhere in the preceding days I had managed to lose so many of my childish inhibitions, or perhaps they had simply been beaten out of me.

Thus sheltered and lying quietly, covered in some nameless and presumably antiseptic ointment provided by my carers, a liniment that somehow kept septicaemia at bay, I could hear the endless, lazy rumble and hiss of waves kissing the shoreline hard by the hut. At a guess, no more than a hundred feet from the simple cloth covering at the entrance, thus remaining frustratingly out of sight beyond the foot of the bed. Closer in, the rustling of palm fronds in the ubiquitous coconut palms that stood guard around the loose scatter of mud huts provided the tiny community with an incessant but strangely comforting lullaby. Weariness kept hitting me between the eyes and every so often its inexorable and unavoidable lassitude once again stole quietly over me. Despite the passing of days, perhaps weeks since my rescue, it seemed I was still ready to drift in and out of consciousness at the drop of a hat. Always moving as carefully as I could, I would inch onto my back, from where I could glance upwards to catch the only view available, through the small hole at the roof's apex, where smoke from the perpetually burning fire drifted off into the brightness of day. Below this obligatory opening, darkly discernible poles, constituting the roof's circular skeleton, supported an equally blackened thatch, the whole rendered into one by the ubiquitous soot. Still, whilst the days themselves melded into a single, vague shadow, each and every one of them contained that refreshing, vivid spark that maintained my sanity. And had she but known it, she was all I needed, then or now.