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Chapter One
To Watch
It’s happened again.
The blast shocked both the earth beneath my feet and the people running their daily routines ahead.
The countries of the world are fighting. The people, the dogmas, the balance…all struggle to win. Humans fighting humans, fighting themselves, fighting nature, fighting brothers. They never have learned, not as a whole.
But my job lies not in the fight.
One, two, and three…I continued counting slowly as I walked through a crumbling old alleyway- old, centuries old. A body here, a body there – all within the mist of smoke and burning wooden planks where street vendors used to call out to passing potential customers. My feet gracefully avoided the debris and death, stepping where I thought best as my eyes took in the sounds of screams, of moans, of pain, and of smoldering ash.
Why? I have asked the question countless times. No one has reached a valid answer. Edgar Allen Poe tried. He came close: humans want to indulge in the luxury of sorrow, and have a natural yearning for pain. Not entirely true. I have seen love in its purest form- loyalty, sensuality, friendship. But I have also seen the dirtiest, most loathsome dregs of the earth. Why, though? Why does this species always hurt, kill, rape, maim, and torture? Why does it never learn, when countless civilizations have passed down the gory tales from generation to generation? The modern people remember The Iliad, the Hundred Years War, the Holocaust, the revolutions and civil wars. Why, then, does it continue?
History is doomed to repeat itself. Whoever it was that once said that phrase was not a prophet; they were wise.
I sensed a reverberating boom ahead. Again. One bomb was not enough? More screams, I heard, cut short by a sudden death, or too much pain to breathe the air necessary for a scream. I sighed, dodging a spree of pebbles and counting more bodies as I passed them, emerging into a broken, wide street, thickly covered in the fog of the blast.
My name is Michammed. I watch. I report. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. The humans do not notice me; they cannot. I have a library of knowledge and what these eyes of mine have seen would take more than a lifetime to recount.
Approaching the edge of a decimated wall, I saw soldiers enter the square, guns poised for any more threat. There was none. The bomber had killed himself in the explosion, his last thoughts of heaven and virgins. One language babbled to another language, a woman wailing on the ground beside her fallen child, only just old enough to walk- now, incapable of such a thing. A car nearby was black and charred, its top blown from the bomb and one door hanging on by one hinge. Like the epicenter of an earthquake, the most damage could be found at this car, a dozen or so dead bodies lying crumpled on the ground near it, while the farther out, the less damaged the people were. On the outside, at least.
“Michammed,” a voice addressed me lightly, placing a gentle hand on my arm. I turned, observing a feminine figure of the same height as me, dressed in the same linen clothes. Loose, light, they fitted her as they did me – as a comfortable shirt and pair of pants. Not that it mattered, really, as the humans cannot see our fashions or us.
“Seratemis,” I acknowledged. Like I, she is a guardian…though technically, I never guard or interfere with anything, so I am more than an exception to this term. What else are we to be called, though? Angels? Demons? Demi-gods? Some of us have been called one of these…or all. Whatever the name, we do our jobs, as we always have, and always will.
“It is sad, is it not?” she said.
I could have scoffed if I had cared to; instead, I spoke in an easy voice. “Well, it would seem that according to the humans, you could kill someone because they were rude, and it would be okay. Sad, yes, it is. Unexpected? No.” My eyes roved the scene, and with a disappointed understanding, Sera moved on. I watched her stop and kneel beside the weeping mother. She didn’t touch the woman. She only spoke…low, soft whispers of hope, as always.
Somber and busy, I turned my head away, catching sight of two others. Leaning against the wall were the linen-clad ‘twins,’ one, shorter, with fiery red hair and a permanent grin on his face, the other dark and disapproving. Carefully, I walked towards them, taking in the scene.
“What have you two done so far?” I asked.
The darker-haired one pursed her lips and flipped a bloody dagger out, wiping it clean on her partner’s clothes, already stained. “Well, he has already done his damage. Inspired the whole thing,” Ramolysandra said. Her dark eyes returned to him with a small smirk. “I barely had to punish the man. He killed himself.”
“For such an evil, he cannot be permitted to live…it was what I planned,” the shorter one, Risaden, shrugged contently.
“Is that so? Then why is that a bastard in America who rapes his daughter still alive?” I questioned. I know all that has gone on in the world, and I know that the ‘twins’ do not always do their job consistently.
“Probably because his daughter is still alive,” Risaden said with another shrug.
“Do not fret, Michammed,” Ramo said, her nonchalance similar to her partner’s and her arms folded over her chest as she propped her body against a wall. “They all get what they deserve, or at least what they need…they just never realize it.”
The twins… Why they had ever been hired was beyond my understanding. They incited and punished, as a pair, and claimed that it was necessary in varied amounts, that humans needed the pain in order to grow, in order to be humans. Oddly enough, they get along quite well with Sera. This, I have never understood either.
My eyes caught a flicker of black through the fading smoke and orderly soldiers, dipping down to each of the bodies like a shadow and disappearing before I could blink. I always anticipated it. Most of the scenes I go to require this dark visitation. We are what one might call distant partners, really.
I walked around, getting a more detailed view of the area. Fifteen chickens huddled in an alley, unimportant to the rest of the scene, but it was not as disappointing to count the birds as it was to count the bodies… I did it anyway. It was my job. I found all the humans that were wounded, all that were mangled, all that were dead, all that had run, all that had hidden at the first and the second bomb. I counted how many rocks, how many pebbles had skittered and crumbled, how far they had been flung. I counted the blood drops, the rips in the clothes…but all this didn’t matter to the event. I numbered the reasons why the people had run, learned why the blood and rocks had splattered, why they had been hurt, why the chickens had fled, why the people had died, and why the automobile’s door hung on just one hinge.
Everything…I took everything in. I saw the mother, her dead child in her arms. I saw the scattered fruit baskets of street merchants nearby. I saw the soldiers, piloting people to and from the area; I saw why.
I watched, as I always have, always do, and always will.
At long or short last, whichever time frame one goes by, I had seen it all. Ramo, Risaden, and Sera all finished their jobs, Sera lingering the longest to ensure hers, which was as inconsistent as the others. The black shadow had left, off to other regions it was needed, and in its stead, a divine presence arrived.
The new figure took down the hood of the gray robe that swathed its tall, lean body. Long eyelashes and high cheekbones framed keen eyes, silent, yet responsive, blank white and blind, yet all observant and understanding. Similar long white hair was braided over one shoulder, dipping down over its chest. Deity. It bore the calculating, analyzing nature of masculinity and also a feminine, perceptive, sympathy. Gender and time were lost on this creature, which hired and loved us all.
“Michammed,” Deity said patiently, its misty eyes facing me. “What has happened here?”
I gazed at him. This is my duty. “Azim Mu'awiyah created two car bombs to detonate in this square. The first, driven by a mundane human, unaware, and the second driven by himself. Eight are dead. Seven are severely wounded, while eleven others were close enough to be hurt in some way. A child is dead and her mother weeps. A nearby vendor has lost all this month’s savings, as a few others have nearly as well. The human authorities and soldiers are containing the incident and ensuring the survivors’ safety until it is settled.”
“Why?”
This is my least favorite…my most difficult part of the duty. Watching is one thing. Successfully picking apart the cause from the effect, however, is quite another. I sighed. “Azim felt that by killing the people here, different of his own natives and religion, he would ascend greatness in the afterlife and be purging the world of filth. He believed he was worshipping his creator by doing this.”
“They usually do,” it whispered, mostly to itself. “And the others?”
“The mother weeps for the loss of her child, whom she loved dearly as any mother should. The vendor lost money and produce because he never had much wealth to begin with, living under oppression and similar religious attacks as these. The soldiers help because they are ordered to, and partly because they are horrified by what has happened.”
Deity nodded, almost approvingly, eyes darting about the scene. “What have the others done?”
“As required,” I answered, wishing to leave the answer as such. I did not. I never did. “Risaden inspired Azim, who lived in poor conditions as well, but considered himself pious. Ramolysandra swiftly ensured the man was punished.”
“Seratemis?”
“Yes, she too is here. She gives hope to the mother, who is still rather young and can bear more children in life. The mother will probably leave this place, no matter the cost, to ensure the future children’s safety.”
“Thank you, Michammed,” Deity’s said while its hands slowly raised the hood of its robe, casting in shadow the porcelain features of its face. “Your new mission is to visit the church of St. Augustine. Take Ramolysandra with you.”
“Not Risaden as well?”
“No. He paid that visit long ago.” I watched as my employer walked slowly off with an air of importance, found here and wherever it went next. So many of these humans disregarded Deity’s presence here, on the earth. They disowned it to a mythical, faraway place and gave that place and him a fixed name. It was not meant to be like this, but then again, the humans were never meant to be perfect.
And so they weren’t.
Perhaps that was the answer to my question. Why? Well because we are not perfect and we cannot be! one of them might have answered. But I can never know, because I can never ask them. I am not human; my tawny brown hair and amber eyes are only formed like a human to aid our duties of affecting and observing, at least aware of some of the physical aspects of humanity. Not all, not by any means all of them. Sera’s honey-hued hair and feminine figure, Ramo’s frowning lips, and Risaden’s chaotic smirk do not make us human. We can only understand a little of what it is to be mortal and ignorant, and do our duty to the Deity when it comes to such a species.
“Ramo!” I calmly called, and she just as calmly strode over to me, a hungry but bored look on her face.
“Yes?”
“St. Augustine.” Those words said it all as a face-splitting smirk carved into her face and she nodded, white linen shirt rippling as her arms unfolded.
“I’ve been waiting for this one,” Ramo said, tossing her dagger up into the air and catching it by the grip. “Let’s go.”
The inside was not much different than the outside as our feet made no sound on the shining, tiled floor. A woman was wailing and screeching alternately somewhere within the building. Candles flickered as we passed them, the only sign of our arrival as I watched Ramo dully stroke each pew she passed with her dagger. I have accompanied her before, and it was on missions like this that she enjoyed herself.
“I don’t know how you have a good time of this,” I muttered. She heard, looking over at me as we ascended the steps to the preacher’s podium. “I would grow to hate myself…or at least become bored.”
Ramolysandra laughed. “I never get bored, and I could never hate myself for punishing the dolts who are arrogant enough to do evil and think they will not find justice’s knife at their throat.”
I know she is right. It is why she was hired for her job, and I for mine.
The woman we had heard wailing was sitting on the front pew, and now she had stifled her cries, standing slowly. She wore a dark outfit of black heels and a matching jacket and skirt. The little make-up she wore was smeared from her tears, which she promptly wiped away, tarnishing her blotchy cheeks even more. I wondered why Deity had not instructed Sera to come as well.
“Madam McNair,” a voice said, and Ramo and I turned. An older man, in his fifties, with large glasses had stepped out from a confession box, his simple black robes sucking the light from the room and turning them into shadows as he approached her. “What can I do for you today?” His voice was sickeningly kind, but I saw the belief he held within. It favored only the strong, and his religion, which had survived for centuries, was brutal.
“Please, Priest Smith,” she said, choking back tears. “My son…he…”
“Kyle, yes. I am so sorry, my dear, for your loss.” He was withholding the scorn of his tongue, which was not sorry at all, for the son had committed abomination. He had committed suicide.
“You say you’re sorry…but if you truly felt empathy you would…you would let him be buried in the grounds!” Mrs. McNair let out, her voice breaking.
“Your son’s suicide denies him the right into the cemetery, Connie, and you know this. There is nothing I can or will do about it.”
Beside me, Ramo shifted her weight anxiously. It was almost time for her.
“Please,” the woman screeched, “let him in! He was such a good child, and he was only…only trying to help me. He did what he thought was right!”
“Are you saying that you condone your son’s self-slaughter?” the priest asked, taking on a dangerous tone that hinted her blasphemy. His aged face took on a whole new set of creases through a scowl as he leaned forward a bit in disbelief.
“No!” Her voice seemed to flounder more than before. “No! I love my son! I didn’t want him to die! But he …you know how much he went through…”
“Our lord Jesus did as well, Connie, and he remained steadfast his whole life. Forty nights in the desert, with no food or drink, constantly bothered by the devil-”
“But Kyle had cancer!” she screamed, and the few other churchgoers looked incredulously at her. Mrs. McNair, however, did not notice them or the loud echo of her voice throughout St. Augustine’s cathedral.
I watched the tears burn in her eyes, piling and collecting as a watery shield, inciting red veins before spilling forward in an instant, dribbling down her nose and jaw. The man of the cloth straightened with a look of pity. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly, “we cannot understand the Lord’s plan or purpose, but know that these things happen for a reason. It is a tragic event, as I have said, but your child knew well before what consequences result from-”
More tears and more howls from the mother drowned out the priest’s words as she broke down onto the pew, her fist braced against her forehead as she shook her head.
“It’s my turn now,” Ramo said beside me, flicking the dagger up into the air as she often did and catching it deftly, following the priest around as he visited the churchgoers, explaining the situation for the woman’s demise and apologizing for the interruption of divine reverence. Before he could return, Connie McNair picked up her purse and ran down the aisle, slamming her way out of the doors.
Catching movement, I turned just in time to see Ramo raise the knife and bring it quickly down onto the man’s back. Any human assaulted as such by another of its kind would surely have fallen, arch-backed and terrified as it gasped its way to the floor in a froth of blood. Minister Smith did none of these things. He did not flinch or react at all, but the blade stuck for a few moments and when the punisher pulled it out, crimson soaked the weapon in glowing light. Ramo let her arms swing at her side as she returned to me, climbing the few stairs up to the podium. “For all that the humans fear the results of sin, for all that they believe it will be horrific or gory and fiery, I honestly wish that I could see these criminals faces contort into some sort of pain beforehand, you know?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Well look at him!” she exclaimed, pointing with her dagger at him, flicking a few spats of the blood-like light across my linen in the process. The color dissolved without a trace. “He is still walking around, unhindered by anything, really…for now. I will not get to see his fate. You might.” Then I understood. We each did our job, and though I had not thought so before, they intersected one another quite rudely. I cannot touch, and she cannot watch. We each have our barriers, limiting from ever truly being a human or ever truly controlling them. “Michammed…” Ramo said, nodding behind me. I turned away from her and away from the sight of the priest.
There stood Deity, solemn as ever, its eyes shining like a divine beacon in a room shadowed by corruption and cowardice. “What has happened here?” its low voice spoke, and the flames around the room grew brighter as it calmly watched me, waiting for the answer.
“Priest Jacob Smith, fifty-two years of age, has denied Connie McNair from burying her son in the church’s funeral grounds.”
“Why?”
I wistfully looked at the doors she had run out of, away from this place that had likely once been a solace and inspiration to her. Now, it was the embodiment of betrayal. “Because her son, Kyle, terminally ill of leukemia, killed himself. He did this to save his family from financial debt in caring for his cancer and to induce what was inevitable with his own hands.”
“I see,” Deity said. Together, we all looked at the plain crucifix erected nearby, a tribute to the humans’ dead savior. It was disgusting. No one, not a single one of these humans really know what these monuments used to look like: two thick wooden posts nailed together, splinters pinning into the bodies raised upon them, punished in the most humiliating way. Those bodies were raised up for the world to see, hundreds of them, to die slowly and painfully on the cross. And now…that was supposed to be a symbol of inspiration to these people? I have watched this species long enough to know that they want to remember a martyr, not a man who was great, and not his ideals or values. Jesus never wanted to be worshipped; he wanted to teach. Humans want drama and power and money and lies.
Many, at least.
Connie McNair, I could see, wanted her son to be buried with his family. Bari’ah Umayma, the mother who wept at the loss of her child in a bombing massacre, had only wanted to live out her life in peace, raising her young in the same way.
I have realized, many times before, that humans confused me. I know that they still do.
“You have both done your job well, Ramolysandra and Michammed,” Deity finally said. “Return to your usual partner, Ramolysandra,” it added, and she left accordingly, turning and quickly descending the steps, silently crossing the church’s tiled floor and exiting the building. “Michammed, you should follow a man named Peter Kentsworth, who runs a political campaign to secure his position. Risaden may meet up with you sometime on this mission. Seratemis shall not.”
It was our employer’s way of saying there was no hope for this man, this Peter Kentsworth, who even sounded like a waste of human flesh. I looked forward to this mission no more than I did my others as Deity pondered the crucifix a moment longer. Then, it descended the stairs as Ramo had earlier, folding its hands into their opposite gray sleeves and moving like a phantom between the two columns of pews. I watched as Deity turned before the doors, looking over the building and its occupants, over all its gaudy décor, and then raised the hood of the gray robe. I knew it was gone to somewhere else, but really…still present as I too looked back at the looming white crucifix.
Some humans understood. But those few could never sway the rest. They never have. Perhaps that is precisely why, though. Humans…are not meant to be perfect. Although I am eternally disappointed at how the species so easily, so selfishly forgets what matters and changes what does not for their desires, Deity is content. The entity has rarely interfered with these proceedings in all my time as a watcher, and I do not think that will ever change.
So I walked…down the aisle, gazing around at the generous motifs and stained glass, at the polished wooden pews and well-furnished lobby. How much money had gone into the making of this? How much of that money could have gone instead to the homeless man down the street, to raise him a shelter? Where had all this money come from? Did the donors prefer to pay their faith than to be charitable and in so doing, strengthen their faith?
And once again…why?
Why was that mother not granted her son’s burial rights, when only faith stands in the way? Why did it matter, to either her or the priest? Why did Kyle, her son, not think it was better to remain on earth and give as much time and love to his family as he could? Why did this priest’s religion stay so rigid in the past when millennia had elapsed since those rules had been put in place? Why do these humans not focus on the reason and importance of such rules, rather than the words?
When will I see a decent human do a decent thing in a decent world? When will all in the wake of their terrible tragedies grant people like Kyle’s mother and Bari’ah Umayma kindness? It doesn’t occur often…but somehow often enough to keep the attention of Deity, devoted, loving, understanding, and all encompassing. This is why I do my job. For Deity, who is the only one that understands these things.
Peter Kentsworth. I knew that he was the man sitting behind a large, mahogany desk neatly organized with office tools, a nice computer, a filing cabinet, and intriguing paperweights. His office said that either he had impeccable taste or that he had the money and resources to make someone else decorate for him. This room matched the others with a soft, urban style of renaissance, just barely hinting at the presence of tradition and intellect. A few posters of political figures covered the wall, blatantly disagreeing with the antique paintings of still life and past kings. The same fern plants from the hallway were placed in vases around the wall, adding to the floral look of mock Renaissance.
I was here to watch Peter Kentsworth. And so I did.
…It was one of the most boring missions I had ever been on, aside from having to witness the century-long war so many years ago in Europe. In time, all the blood and gore meshed together into one dismal scene and I wasn’t even able to find amusement in the politics of the day. Now, however, I watched a man who did nothing. Secretaries outside answered phone calls and took messages, but at his order, sent none of them to this telephone on the desk.
A black and white suit choked his old, overweight body, blue tie creasing into the roll that one might find to be a neck. Peter’s face seemed flustered and shook with each noisy breath he took, twisting the barrel of his pen for no apparent reason with fat, short fingers. Old, gray hair wisped around a receding bald spot on his forehead, which shined in the luminescent lamplight, also casting a glint on the cuff links and showy thumb ring.
Nothing exciting happened. Nothing interesting happened. A few foolish things, however, took place, such as Peter Kentsworth muttering to himself and at times rising to deliver self-entertaining speeches into a crowd of dust mites. Sometimes, the orations were modest.
“If you elect me, ladies and gentlemen, I will nurture our community as if it were my own child, as if it were the very spawn of my loins…no, no, that sounds too chauvinistic,” he said, and he was right. No one wants to hear of anything having to do with this man’s loins. “Like the great Mother Theresa who cared for so many orphans and needy, I will take care of you all, whether you need it or not…no, too pushy.” He was correct there as well.
Sometimes the speeches were falsely modest…and flattering. “Thank you, thank you all! I am so honored to be here at this lovely banquet. No, no, don’t believe them, I’m really not that great at piano. No! I couldn’t play for you; really, I assure you I’m not that good. Oh, well…if you insist…but only if the bar stays open all night! Hahaha!” and he laughed as if there really were people applauding him to play and entertain, as if there really were people who thought him so charming.
And some, yet, were just plain arrogant. “Well, darling, if you ask me, George has absolutely no chance of winning this year with me in the run. Really, if you think about it, just listen to his speeches! Dull, boring, and pointless. It’s clear he’s got no good goals, or at least none that anyone will like. Me, on the other hand…well, what do you think of me Miss Doherty? Oh, call you Sherry, hmm? I’m rather fond of Sherry, you know…” and he laughed some more, as if there really was a lady flirting with him, as if George really was a tadpole beside his lumping greatness.
It was pathetic. I leaned against the far wall, sighing occasionally at the fat, old man’s dull speeches (because those weren’t the only ones he gave) and grimacing when one of the secretaries brought in his lunch. Peter Kentsworth was a waste of human flesh, sitting there that entire day, dreaming, eating, pretending, and essentially moping. Not outwardly, no, but I believe he mourned at his own loneliness and wondered why he was this way, drinking it away at parties and pretending it was natural charm and buoyancy.
A few more hours passed by after his sloppy, rich meal. A few more speeches were given, and a few more twists of the pen. “Why don’t you do anything, you human!” I growled after a while. My job is to watch, and watching this man was like watching the black and white medley of ‘fuzz’ on what this species calls a television all day long-so dismal and static and monotone to a near unbearable level. It wasn’t that the man didn’t do anything, per se, he did plenty of things – huff, mutter, fidget, twist in his chair, nap, stare at the ceiling, and give orations – but he did nothing that mattered, nothing of importance. And why did no one tell him this? Why did no one tell him that life is short and what he was doing was not making anything out of the time he had?
There were large windows against one wall, revealing a great deal of the sun setting over the city. Purples and indigo blue dotted the sky, clouds lined in orange and shadows lengthening from the dipping star. The day was ending.
“Michammed,” a voice said behind me. It was Deity, I felt, and I turned, taking in the sight of radiance and sighing sharply this time. My eyes darted to the fat lump in the corner, who took note of the sinking sun and stood. “What do you have to report?”
“Peter Kentsworth,” I replied, “who is fifty three years of age and out of a healthy state for him to live too much longer. He wastes his time every day, orating to no one and in no realistic way, eating, and doing so many pointless things it’s a wonder he has the money he does. Most of it was inherited from a wealthy family background.”
“Why?”
I laughed harshly. “I’m not too sure, actually. One would think that humans would be more aware of how truly mortal they are. Apparently, either this one does not or he does not care. Perhaps his self-esteem is so low, he sees no room for improvement, no reason, and no incentive. That is why he sits in one spot so long as to become a lump of nothingness.”
“And the money?”
“Simply tradition…he is the only son of parents with old heritage and plenty of money. It was not given to him because they loved him. It was given because that is how it has gone for generations.”
“Did Risaden arrive?” Risaden…I remembered Deity mentioning the redhead might meet up with me. It was a pity he had not…things would have been livelier.
“No,” I answered.
“I understand,” it said, watching Peter Kentsworth as he packed up his suitcase with important files he had not once looked at, gripping it loosely as he walked toward the door. “This will help you on your next mission.” Peter Kentsworth left the room.
“Which is what?” I asked.
“To observe Edward Little, a man of the militia,” Deity answered, his white eyes glowing, as the sun became an orange band on the horizon, casting a dying pinkish haze into the room. It made the white strands of my employer’s long hair seem to burn like embers. “Seratemis will meet you for this mission in time.”
As I nodded, Deity moved to the window, watching the sky turn into a mottled blanket of royal blue that darkened into black as the minutes passed, threadbare enough to reveal the stars behind. My muscles were stiff from a long day of near-fruitless observation as I left the room, past the fern vases and political propaganda posters, past the Greek colonnades and renaissance paintings until I was out of the building, away from the false-faced secretaries, minions to an empty man.
The sand did not shift beneath my feet, still warm from the sun’s rays and red in the firelight as I approached the dip of a dune. Downwards I descended, hearing the jokes and hidden alertness of the soldiers below.
"Let's vote. And the one's that don't vote get shot. Now that's Democracy."
I walked into laughter among men. They jested about their home country, which faced elections…and I wondered if they knew of Peter Kentsworth, the pathetic politician. They probably did not, knowing most of these men had been away from home for years in a war that they only thought was theirs.
“Eddie, how’s your girl doin’?” I heard one of them say to a tall man. I smiled faintly at the paradox – a man named Edward Little with a height and shape rivaling the others. I moved forward, staying at the edge of shadow and firelight to watch their exchanges.
“She’s good, she’s good,” the soldier answered, his camouflage outfit shifting as he rested his elbows on his knees. His head was shaved short and any beard of facial hair had been carefully shaved away. “The little one, too. I can’t wait to get back, kiss my woman, and finally see that baby of mine. Crazy huh? Me, a father.” They all laughed and nodded their heads.
“These enemy bastards…” one said. “I want to get home too, you know? And Ray… God, Ray…”
“Damn,” a few of the others muttered. None of them would say it, but none of them needed to. A week ago one of their comrades, Ray Sleighton, had been killed by enemy fire in an ambush. It was evidently an emotional topic for them all.
“Yeah…” Eddie said. “How long has it been since we were sent out here?”
“Three years and two months, man,” one answered, shaking his head. “Same troop, though, and brigand warriors to the end, remember that. We’ve lasted this long, can’t be picked off now.”
“No, no we can’t,” Eddie answered, clapping his friend’s back. “Tomorrow we head north to kick some enemy ass, and we’ll be untouchable!”
“From the Halls of Montezuma,” one of them bellowed in song. “To the shores of Tripoli; we fight our country’s battles in the air, on land and sea!”
With more laughter and grins they stood, swigging their warm water drinks in tin cups and joining in the cheer of their military branch. I watched with the same faint smile I had walked down there with, my arms folded over my chest as I saw them prance and dance around in mockery of their woes, in mockery of death, destruction, war, cowardly politicians, and the enemies.
“We are proud to claim the title of United States Marine!”
“Hey, did you hear that?” one interrupted the song to say. I did. A short click, and just as Eddie spoke, a series of shots fired down into the dune’s vale. “DOWN!” he shouted and the all dropped to the sand, scurrying with their weapons in hand to find cover. There was little aside from the canvas tents now punctured with bullet holes.
Defiant Eddie continued shouting out the song as he shot up at the top of the dune. “Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze…” he yelled, and a yell responded to his gunshot, “from dawn to setting sun!” The others joined in when more shots came down at them. From the corner of my eye I saw one soldier shot in the arm, blood splattering the sand from the fresh wound as he cursed and dropped his rifle. “Robert!” Edward shouted and hustled to the man’s side.
“You will find us always on the job…Damn it Eddie, forget me and shoot back at them!” Robert Lyons growled through gritted teeth from the ground. “THE UNITED STATES MARINES!”
Eddie listened, not looking at his friend as he reloaded his weapon from behind the tent. One of the other soldiers stomped out the fire, extinguishing it and revealing just how dark the desert was at night. The gunfire ceased…until Edward shouted out, “Here’s health to you and to our Corps,” from one side of the dune as he quickly ran from the spot. I knew this man was smart and skilled in his profession. The enemy fired where he had previously stood, missing him by only a hair. “Whichweareproudtoserve!” another friend yelled quickly as he moved from his spot as well, firing his gun once he had moved up the dune, satisfied at hearing a cry when he stopped. Another gun shot downwards in the dark, hoping for a target…and hitting one-Robert, who cursed out again.
I kept my eyes on Edward, who hissed, “Shit,” quietly.
“In many a strife… we've fought for life… and never lost our nerve,” rowdy Robert sang between breaths. Then he was silent, and I saw a shadow kneel over him, the same I had seen in the streets of the bombings. He was dead. Everything happened quickly, and remembering my purpose, my duty, I looked back to Edward, whose breath was caught in his throat.
“Griffon to Base, we’ve been ambushed,” he said clearly into a radio on his jacket and he moved before the attackers could place a bullet in his area. Another shout, another friend down. “Fuck… If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven's scenes…” Edward chorused, rolling to the ground and cocking his rifle. He stayed down and the shots went clear over his body laying flat in the sand. Click. His bullets were ready to blast in rapid succession from the barrel. “They will find the streets are guarded…” and I saw Edward close his eyes, making no difference with the night already pitch black as he pulled the trigger and held it, “BY THE UNITED STATES MARINES!” could be heard when he unleashed a round of deadly ammunition into the vicinity of the enemy, of which there were only two more. I suddenly remembered that Sera had to have been near, as both of the attackers dropped to the ground, one screeching, and the other silent. One more shot silenced the first.
I saw Sera approach, descending the dune in her white linen like a seraph of the sands. Her eyes followed Edward as he searched the ground for a flashlight with a lighter as his guide. She smiled proudly making her way to me. “This is a good evening,” she said.
“For us,” I answered, watching Eddie find a large flashlight, click it on, and shine its beam around the area. Spotting another body dressed in camouflage on the ground, he ran to the figure.
“Mike! Mike!” he shouted, shaking the body. “Mike…Robert…” Eddie wiped his eyes, standing to his full stature as the other two remaining soldiers moved to his side.
“C’mon Eddie, we’ve gotta call base and let them know,” one said, not quite reaching the man’s eyes. Sera moved now beside him, gazing solely at Edward with a faint smile, wordless. This was her job. She did it well, sometimes. This was one of those times, I knew, as the grieved soldier turned with the living to his radio.
“Griffon to Base,” he almost whispered, his voice was so soft and low. “Griffon to Base, we are two men down and have eliminated the ambushers. Please come. Griffon out.”
Edward sat on the ground as one of his comrades rebuilt the fire, the other scouting the top of the dune for more possible attackers and to inspect those who had already. I watched him until I knew I needed to no longer, looking last at Sera before turning to see Deity standing behind me, his eyes taking in the scene, the blood, the bodies, weapons, and soldiers.
“Michammed,” my master addressed me, “tell me what has happened here.”
“Edward Little, age twenty-three, sat with his friends, on duty but self-entertaining and light-hearted, when they were ambushed by their home nation’s enemy. They sang their military’s song as they fought brazenly. Two, Robert Lyons and Michael Polke, were shot and killed.”
“And why does all this occur?”
I looked Sera, who was only half turned to us, the growing flame’s light casting a warm glow on her skin. “Because these men fight for freedom, for their country, their loved ones, and citizens they have never met. They are required to defend it because there are those in this world that would oppose it and those, Edward’s leaders, which would become bull-headed about seeking them out. Politics is why these soldiers are here.”
“I see Seratemis is here as well.”
“Yes, she is,” I said, watching her turn to face them calmly. “The men here will grow from this experience even more than they did from their last friend’s death the other week. She has done her job well tonight. The men will be hopeful when they think of home.”
“Thank you, Michammed, and thank you Seratemis,” Deity said to us. He took his time watching the men sit around the fire, waiting for their Base soldiers to arrive. “Continue to observe Edward Little until the morning after he arrives home.”
“That’s a long time, Deity,” I admitted. Most visitations, unless they were important, globally effecting events, were no more than a few days. This man would not return home within days.
“I am aware of this, but I thought that perhaps there are some things concerning human beings that this person could show you.” Mysterious, mysterious Deity…
“Very well. I shall do it. Will Sera be with me?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
I too watched the soldiers mill about in contemplation. Death had visited them today, and it is just as mysterious as Deity; Death is always confusing, despite its shaded simplicity. For a little while, the men wept, silently and openly before the fire.
Then Deity left, seeing and learning all that was needed with a calculating nod. “Sera,” I said quietly. She looked at me, still a warm seraph of the sands, a rose of the desert, and walked beside me as I exited the vale, climbing gradually upwards to watch from above. This would be a long time of watching, I knew, as we both sat on the brink of the dune in observation.
Edward stood on the Welcome-mat, somehow looking prim and proper in his camouflage. He rang the doorbell as we stood next to a carefully tended rosebush. When the door opened, he saluted the woman and child inside. His hand did not remain for long at his forehead as she leaped the short distance into his arms.
“Eddie!” she cried, and tears of joy bubbled from her eyes. “Eddie…” The happiness and past misery released together in one flow of speech as he held her tightly, the little girl near-forgotten as they kissed as only a couple held too long at bay from each other could. Beside me, Sera smiled. She had smiled for most of the time I watched this man, a significant thing, in comparison to the rest of the world.
When they parted it was with blissful looks, and he crouched down to the level of the child. “Your name is Emily Little, isn’t it?” Eddie said to her, and she nodded her head shyly, looking to be no more than three years of age. She had the same wheat-brown hair as her mother, who knelt as well to make the child feel more comfortable.
“Well, you should know,” Eddie said, flicking a smile at his wife, “that my name is Edward Little. You, however, can just call me ‘Dad.’” The little one’s eyes widened rapidly, her mouth opening a little in pause. Then her arms spread and a grin covered her face as she shrieked, wrapping her little arms around his large neck in a tight embrace, little tears dripping hesitantly from her eyes.
“Daddy!” Emily uttered out, and he lifted her, hugging her close and spinning a bit.
“Edward has never met her before,” I told Sera. “He left for war while his wife was still pregnant.” She nodded, beaming quietly with her eyes trained on the three humans, happy and joyful to their hearts’ bursting contentment. It was a rapturous sight to see as Eddie made his way inside the door, kissing his wife once more and then the little girl, his own eyes spilling with tears that had been held in for far too long. We followed them.
The Little’s home was a comfortable and rather feminine home, with all the right touches of love as would benefit a family and the smell of cinnamon and apples subtly floating in the air. Toys were orderly tucked into a trunk in the living room, which was just big enough for the people present. Edward refused to let go of the child in his arms, his child, his daughter, as he walked through the home, noting many differences since he had last been there. New furniture, new china, and a new window (Emily’s Frisbee had broken one) were all pointed out.
“Jennifer,” he would murmur sometimes, gazing simply between the daughter in his arms and the wife at his side, and then around the home he had been away from for so long. They moved into the kitchen, where Jennifer made sandwiches and poured her husband and daughter some juice beforehand.
“Finn finally got the commission,” she said in small talk. Like a wise lover, she didn’t ask him about the war, about the friends he had lost to death, or about the desert. She spoke of her brother, an architect striving for success and who had apparently made some.
“Good, good…about time, too,” he answered her. We watched them as this fell into a peaceful moment shared over drink and food in the sunny kitchen. Conversation flowed easily, happily, and once in a while little Emily would interject to the resulting smiles and laughter of her parents.
He stayed home all that day, although Jennifer offered to take him out some place to dine, he remarked, “I’d rather stay here, with you and Emily, eat your food, and repay you in kind.” It made Jennifer blush and the little girl giggle.
Dinner that night was of the same, blissful note – a happy affair with candles and Italian food and a dessert of creams, sweets, and fruits. Beside me, Sera glowed in delight. Of course, this was one of her best missions, I would admit, and it was not all too disappointing for myself. They all ate around the small, square table, talking little but enjoying much more than just the food. Finally, at Emily’s tired yawn, Eddie scooped her up in his arms and carted her out into a small bedroom. Surprisingly, she did nott complain, and Jennifer helped tuck the child in with her husband. They stood watching from the doorway until Emily’s eyelids closed in sleep, and left the hall quietly.
It was an interesting thing to watch them move slowly to their own bedroom, to watch them shut the door behind Sera and I, and to watch Eddie take his wife into his arms. I was not often assigned to missions like this, this long, this simple, or this intimate, but like Sera, I found myself intrigued nonetheless. I carefully watched Edward kiss the woman, hold the woman, undress the woman as she did to him.
“This almost makes me wish to be human,” Seratemis whispered. She was riveted, her eyes not leaving the picture once.
“Why?” I asked honestly. The couple told one another of their love, of their missing of the other, of the worries, and of the happiness as they moved closer to the bed.
“Look at them, Michammed,” she replied. “We have never been capable of opening ourselves so implicitly. We have never had an intimacy like that with one of our own. It is beautiful.”
“It is doomed,” I answered, though perhaps all my years of experience had given me a spark of judgment.
“How can you say that? I wish to experience it, as a bonding, a moment when there is nothing existing but a connection, pure and whole and lovely,” the guardian declared.
“Only few in the whole world’s population experience that connection when it happens, and the others pretend or fall into a trap. More often then not, these humans fool themselves with it,” I said.
“This is perfection, Michammed, and you can see it better than I probably can.”
I observed the couple. The light was like fire to their skins, inciting them to all the things that could not be done during a three-year absence. He pleased her unrestrained and unbidden and she welcomed it unabashed. “It is the only form of perfection they ever obtain,” I told her, and in so doing, half-agreeing with all her statements. We looked at each other for one long moment, her skin as warm looking as ever in this light and her hair an earthy tone of the fields. From then on, we silently watched the lovers on the bed, taking their time now that they finally had it to enjoy one another to the fullest.
“I love you,” he said to her when he lay beside her, one brawny arm keeping her close. She looked up with eyes washed in bliss, the same sort of eyes he had at the moment, and kissed him softly.
“I love you,” she repeated with similar affection, and so they leaned against each other, unequivocally ecstatic and peaceful in the wake of love’s embodied motions and in the promise of many more, of many different sorts.
Deity came then, appearing in the doorway behind us. Its eyes found the couple immediately and a soft but delighted smile lit its face. “Michammed, tell me what you have observed here.” It did not sound like a command, but rather a request for any interesting news as Deity laced its hands together, white eyes finally reaching mine.
“After my last report, Edward remained on duty for three more months. In that time, two more of his close comrades were killed. He received a promotion and finally returned home today. He met his daughter, Emily, for the first time, and saw his wife for the first time in three years,” I told him.
“And what more?” Deity asked patiently, always knowing what went unsaid.
I grinned. “Edward has felt more happiness in this day than in most, or any, of the other days in his life. He welcomed and showed affection unbidden to his daughter, and made love to his wife, Jennifer, as a faithful and strong husband.”
“Seratemis has been with you this whole time?”
She turned her head from the couple, which she had refused to take her eyes from for a very long time. “Yes,” I replied, “she has, and has done her job better than I have seen her do in a very, very long time.” Sera smiled giddily at me, a subtle wisdom in her playful eyes.
“Tell me, Michammed, why these things have happened.” Three months of pursuing Edward Little might have given me more preparation to answer this question, but in that moment, it seemed to only make it harder to put the experience into words.
“Edward’s friends died because they believed they should fight a war politicians had assigned them to and because the enemy fought back. He was promoted because he went on bravely and patriotically, and has returned home because he served out his time as such. He loves Emily because she is his daughter, and it is an innate connection that he feels, and he made love to his wife because he does indeed love her.”
“Not to mention the fact that it looks rather fun,” Sera added with a sly grin I never knew she was capable of. I rose my eyebrows in open surprise, but it amused me as it did Deity. Immensely.
With a smile, the entity turned to me. “And what have you learned today?”
It was a question I had rarely been asked before. What had I learned? I know that I had certainly learned something, but what? Could it be put into words, this new perspective, this new way of seeing things, if only a slightly altered window? I didn’t think that I could. I tried anyway. “That once again, humans can sometimes be surprisingly simple and surprisingly good. Sometimes, though rare, humans can be rather perfect in their imperfection, and this is usually achieved through flawless love, pure and honest, like what this family has.”
Deity looked back at Edward and Jennifer, who spoke lightly to one another. “Very good. You have probably learned much more, but do not know it yet.” It puzzled me a little, but then again, Deity always was just that - mysterious. I never knew all of that which one could know, despite my duty as a watcher, ward of the world and all that occupy it.
“What is my next mission?” I asked after the silence prolonged, knowing I was not quite dismissed yet. And still, Deity was silent for moments more. I simply waited, Sera seeming to be my only company in waiting because the humans could not see or understand me. She, however, had taken some new affection for everything in the room.
“I want you to simply wait. Watch what you like and do what you like within your boundaries. It is not punishment. Consider it an undertaking. I will inform you of your next mission when I believe it is time,” Deity finally said calmly, in a voice of respectful authority and supremacy, like a wise teacher instructing a student.
Deity left, then, slowly, and almost reluctantly. The atmosphere of the room was a beautiful, untainted thing that was too rare to pass up. There were, however, many other matters to attend to, and it was doubtful that Deity would either forget this scene or neglect those other matters. When Sera and I were alone with the couple, we gazed for a long time at their naked bodies wrapped together on the simple white sheets of inexpensive cotton. Once, we glanced at each other and held the stare for a time, sharing our own type of kinsmanship, friendship, and intimacy.
Then, Jennifer spread herself out and reached over her husband’s chest, clicking the lamp off and dipping the room in a comfortable darkness.
