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I know, I know, overused, melodramatic title. It works for now.
A disconcerting thought, considering it sat not three feet away, scolding him furiously. Slowly, cautiously, he eased himself into a sitting position, freezing whenever the creature moved. This earned him a fresh burst of chatter, the squirrel pouncing towards him.
“Look, you inconsiderate furball,” he said. “I’m getting up. I’m not coming near you, or your damn nuts.” Further words died on his tongue.
Did I just say what I thought I said…? And, come to think of it, am I sore
Indeed, a dull ache pulsed throughout his body, causing even the slightest motion to be reconsidered. Unnerved, he took stock of his surroundings, noting the hard soil packed beneath him. He appeared to be in a small copse, which explained the squirrel. Before him stretched miles of sun-browned grassland, dotted here and there with clumps of blackberry. Far to the west, clustered like rubble, hunched a mountain range. Scraggly trees lined what he assumed was a roadway, winding its way along under a sky colored slate with rain clouds.
… under the sky…?
A sinking feeling filled his gut, and he mustered the first eloquent phrase his mind could concoct.
“Oh… fuck.”
As if on cue, the skies opened, sending a pelting, icy rain down to pound across his naked skin. The squirrel fled, chattering. He swore loudly, scooting backwards under the shelter of a thick evergreen tree. The motion dragged his wings across the ground, tangling bits of bark and dead leaves in the dusty gray feathers. Something pricked his exposed rear and he shot to his feet, scraping more sensitive areas on the hard ground.
“What the hell!” he shouted, turning his face to the sky. “What the hell! What’s with this! Did I do something! Come on!”
Predictably, there was no answer from Heaven.
The rain was colder than he remembered it being—though perhaps being naked had something to do with it. He folded his wings closer to his body, and the feathers helped somewhat. A superstitious glance above his head showed that he did not, in fact, have a halo. That was comforting, at least. It meant he was still human, albeit a human long-since dead.
Has to have been… what? Long time since I’ve been here…
There was no concept of time in Heaven. Measuring the passage of days in paradise was a worthless pursuit that interested no one. He had no way of knowing, truly, how many years had passed since his death. It could have even been mere days.
However, there were far more pressing questions than whether he’d been in Heaven a few hours or a few centuries. The most important being how to get back. It had only been raining a short time, and he was already soaked. There would be no flying back up there in this weather—if Heaven truly was up in the sky, as he’d always been taught. He couldn’t remember. All those questions had seemed so unimportant once confronted by the bliss up there. Even the person he’d been while alive had fallen away, lost in his soul’s rejoicing.
Which brought him to problem number two.
Who am I…?
He couldn’t even remember what he looked like—save for his hair, which was currently far too long, and had plastered itself to his face in dark brown ribbons. A glance downward showed tanned skin and well-muscled limbs, a few scars criss-crossing them like veins. They all appeared fairly minor, save for a thick knot of scar tissue wrapping its way around his left shoulder. He twisted, trying to see if in greater detail. As far as he could tell, it completely encircled the joint, as if someone had drawn it on. Experimentally, he rolled the shoulder, but could find nothing amiss, save for the faint pop of tendons sliding back into place.
With a sigh, he looked back out across the landscape. There was nothing to suggest shelter, or anything resembling human habitation, which would be preferable to camping naked in a cave until the storm passed. What he really wanted was, he decided, a pair of pants, a mirror and a…
A cigarette?
The force of that realization hit him, and sent him dropping to the ground like a stone. Pine needles pricked him, but he still couldn’t move as images and words—names—flashed through his brain, sizzling painfully into connections and memories. He probably shouted a few times, probably swore. His physical actions paled in comparison to the sudden rush of knowledge that filled him so abruptly.
He remembered marching with the soldiers in his unit. He remembered the blood and screams from the medical tent—being up to his elbows in some poor bastard’s chest cavity while picking out bits of shrapnel and lead as explosions shook the air around them. He remembered taking a weapon into his hands for the first time, sitting in the seat of a huge, mounted machine gun to defend the walls one last time. Most of all, he remembered the taste of nicotine in his mouth, leaning against the wall of an empty house… Waiting for her… regretting ever seeing her.
Jack… My name is Jack. Jack Taylor.
Carefully, Jack scraped himself off the ground, every muscle protesting. A groan escaped him. And now, he knew he needed to get to shelter as soon as possible. Naked human beings could catch hypothermia if they left themselves out in the rain. He needed a smoke, badly, followed by food. And if his hair didn’t stay out of his eyes, he was going to tear it out.
Setting his jaw, he stepped out from the copse, heading across the field. Sooner or later, he had to hit a road. And all roads led somewhere—hopefully to a farm, or even a town. Even if he was arrested for public indecency, at least he’d be able to get a pair of pants.
It was slow going. He had to pick his way carefully around patches of stones, and sharp, dry strands of grass burned brown by the sun. It had to be early fall, Jack decided, taking all this in. Too wet for summer, too dry for fall. At least, that was the case where he’d grown up. Who knew where he was now? He could be on the other side of the world, for all he knew. A regular litany of curses fell from his lips as he marched—muscles falling into the old routine. His head was beginning to throb. Either he needed a drink, or more than just his marching habits were catching up with him.
Things did not improve when he hit the cornfield. The stalks were drying up, shedding their sharp husks onto the ground around them. They were planted so close together that he was forced to walk sideways, and even then his wings caught more than once on the slender, prickly plants.
He considered, as he picked his way along on bleeding feet, seeing if there were any late ears of corn left in this field. Then again, knowing farms and their farmers, every available bit of crop would be taken in to market for whatever profit the landowner could scrounge up. Plus, given the state of the field, he doubted whether eating the corn from these sorry plants would be helpful. Chances were, it would only increase the nausea that was slowly making itself more and more felt as he went along.
The sight of his blood only made it worse. It brought with it a distant, faded memory, of that same blood spattered all over a wall—and pain. So much pain. That was all he could remember, and thinking about it only made his head hurt worse.
Jack stopped, staring down at the angry red lines snaking across his feet, leaking crimson. It was so… wrong. He was dead, damn it! He had been welcomed into Heaven! Suffering was supposed to be banished, pain was supposed to be nonexistent!
But you’re not there anymore, are you Jack? You’re on Earth—and pretty damn solid. Which probably means…
“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m alive?”
The weight of the realization nearly sent him back to his knees. Sharp pricks of pain from the corn husks stood him back up in a heartbeat, almost driving the despair out of him. He trudged onward, trying not to drag his feet—if he gave up now, he’d never get back Home. Suicide was a sin, after all.
He lost track of time. It was easy to, in the unchanging landscape of the cornfield. The only change came when the rain decided to beat down harder, driving wind even into the tightly clustered crops. By the time he found the road, it was growing dark. A few steps later, everything went black as his battered body gave up consciousness.
It was a long time before anyone found him. And a longer time still before anyone did anything about the unconscious body of an angel lying in the roadway.
However, running across a half-dead Inquisitor sprawled face down on the road outside the Hansen place was a new one for him. His weekly supply run to town had gone far later than expected, and there had been several people in the store just wanting a chat. Had he left any earlier, he might have missed finding the Inquisitor. And, with the dark and the rain, even with the aid of his lantern, Wilcox nearly tripped over the body. He ended up stepping on one of the splayed wings, gray pinions crunching under his work boots.
Furrowing his brow, he peered closer at what exactly he’d stepped in, holding the lantern higher for more light.
“Mother of God,” he muttered.
An Inquisitor was one thing—they tended to end up on the edge of nowhere in their line of work. A naked Inquisitor though… that spelled out foul play at the very least. As a rule, Wilcox tried to avoid trouble. That was the reason he was in his business; Samaritans were neutral parties. Even the crime syndicates left them alone. But the kind of trouble that Inquisitors dealt with was the kind that brought wars, holy ones. And wars didn’t care one whit how neutral a party was.
Still, he couldn’t just leave the guy there. That went against every oath he’d ever sworn, to country and to God. Crouching, he ran the check for vitals, for any visible injury. Everything looked fine, except the Inquisitor was clammy to the touch. Not a good sign, no matter how divine you were. Shifting his sack of supplies, Wilcox reached down, and pulled the Inquisitor to his feet, slinging the tan, limp arm over his shoulder. His free hand went around the other’s waist—standard rescue position. But the SRP never counted on rescuing an Inquisitor. The damned wings kept getting in the way, flopping around like a pair of feathered rabbit ears and smacking him in the back of the head.
It was the longest hike home he’d ever made. When he wasn’t swatting the wings out of his face, he was picking the feathers out of brambles. “Now I get why you lot have motor cars,” he grumbled. “Less to get these things tangled in.”
The Inquisitor made no response, though his eyes were doing a fine impression of REM sleep beneath their lids.
As tradition, and his contract, dictated, he eked out a living in a small cabin in the foothills, far from most other human habitation. Normally, the place was peace itself, which was part of the reason he’d chosen it—that and the fact he’d been a Hermit before the merger with the Wiseman’s Guild. With the Inquisitor as an invalid, however, he found himself wishing he had changed his profession. Maybe something nice and safe, like a doctor, in the town. No blackberry bushes to trek though there. But of course he couldn’t possibly do that—no, he had a calling. He had to be a Hermit.
Never had he been so glad to see his cabin. It really had been too long since he’d had to haul an injured person up the hill. He was out of shape. Negotiating the door was a trick in itself. Afterwards, he was never quite sure how he managed to do so without dropping either his supplies, or the Inquisitor. Normally, he found himself relaxing the moment he stepped into the single-roomed cabin, but tonight was special circumstances. The lantern cast flickering shadows around the room, illuminating the watchful eyes of a couple stray cats. They sat on the kitchen counters, tails swishing in a frightening unison. He ignored them, as he always did. Damn things gave him the creeps. He wouldn’t have them if they weren’t stipulated in his contract.
Once inside, he got the Inquisitor down on the sickbed, no more than a well-used cot in front of the stove, before moving to put away his supplies, and boot up the generator. Took him longer than expected, the trip down to the basement, combined with an unusually stubborn piston or two, and by the time he got back to the Inquisitor, his real work, Wilcox was ready to pass out himself. He settled down on the stool beside the sickbed, and pulling on his glasses, gave his patient a more thorough examination. His first aid kit was, as always, at his feet, tucked neatly up under the cot. After a moment’s consideration, he scooped it up.
There were no injuries he could see, save for some nasty lacerations on the feet. Frowning, Wilcox bent to attend them first, noting with satisfaction the involuntary jerk of muscles as he worked disinfectant into the cuts. The nerves were still intact then. He still didn’t like the gray tone the Inquisitor’s skin had taken on under its tan. Best to get the patient warmed up before he did anything else, Wilcox decided, bandaging up the injured feet.
“But how’m I supposed to do that?” he asked the air. “Bloody wings…”
In the end, he left the Inquisitor on its—no, his—stomach, tucking blankets up around the cumbersome wings, which, he noted, were crusted with mud and dirt.
“This whole thing stinks,” he informed the cats. “Inquisitor shows up in my jurisdiction, naked, beat up. And,” he added, recalling the initial observations. “Pretty definitely male. If that’s normal, I’m the goddamn Pope.”
Typically, the cats made no response, except to look imploringly towards their respective food bowls.
“Didn’t see a marking on the guy either,” Wilcox continued, struggling to unfold one of the wings. Better get them dry and cleaned up. “Just lots of scars.”
The one on the shoulder was the worst, he noted. It looked like the Hansen kid’s after the accident with the thresher. The leg had been torn clean off, and the stump bore a striking resemblance to the thick knot of shiny tissue wrapped around the Inquisitor’s shoulder. When compared to the left, the right arm was by far more heavily scarred, like bits and pieces had been torn out, and then hastily replaced. Whatever demons this Inquisitor had been dealing with lately, they were certainly the nasty kind.
“You’d think these guys had some kind of holy healing power to get rid of this kind of stuff,” he remarked. Carefully, he started brushing off the drying mud from the gray feathers. Odd too, that color. Weren’t Inquisitors supposed to be shining white? He supposed you’d have to see one to really know for sure.
When the last of the mud fell to the ground, Wilcox was ready to drop himself. He’d wanted to prepare his report once the Inquisitor was doing better, but the late hour made that impossible. No one up in the city would be awake to receive it, even if he did get it started. Besides, he thought, getting to his feet with a creak of old knees, it wasn’t as if his patient was going anywhere. The report could wait. His cats and growling stomach would not.
He folded up the wings to the best of his ability, checking the Inquisitor’s breathing and skin temperature once more. Both seemed far better than when he’d first arrived. Meaning, he could probably leave the guy alone for a while.
So he did, heading upstairs to catch some sleep before anything stranger happened to him.
But I’m still alive.
All drowsiness was banished. He tried to sit up, but only succeeded in flailing about the cot like some sort of winged fish, complete with gasping. All this accomplished was the cot turning over, landing both of them sprawled in a heap of flesh, feathers and fabric, on the ground of a very unfamiliar room. It jarred an explicative out of him.
He hadn’t made a move to get up when a bearded face thrust itself into view, blocking out the sight of the rough-hewn wooden ceiling. Surprised, Jack couldn’t quite keep himself from making a sound to illustrate how he felt about the situation.—he liked to think it was a manly, dignified sort of yelp, but it was a yelp nonetheless. After all, seeing a man that could have let birds nest in his beard and never noticed was not what one expected when he first woke up.
“You all right?” Beard-face asked.
“Peachy,” Jack replied, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the sudden onset of nausea. “This is going to sound real shit-for-brains but… who the hell are you?”
Beard-Face furrowed his expansive brow, the dark tufts of hair almost meeting in the center of his forehead. Whether it was at Jack’s language, or his appearance, the dead man didn’t know. Nevertheless, the larger man extended a hand and hauled Jack into a sitting position, braced against the overturned cot. “Pete Wilcox. Hermit,” he said, as if that last word explained everything.
Once Jack was sitting, he busied himself rearranging the cot, studiously avoiding looking at the other man. Which was fine, considering Jack was suddenly becoming aware that he was wearing nothing more than a rough wool blanket. “Uh, okay?” he muttered, pulling the cloth closer. “You got any extra pants before I ask the obvious here? Or am I just gonna sit here bare-assed while I pick your brains?”
Another scowl. “What do you need to ask, Sir?”
Now it was Jack’s turn to stare. “Maybe everything?” he suggested. “Starting with where the hell this is and how I got here. Then maybe a little more about who you are besides Pete, King of the Wildmen.”
Without another word, the alleged hermit wandered off, muttering to himself. Jack watched him go, finally taking a moment to examine the place. There were bundles of plants hanging from the ceiling, grouped in no particular order. He sat with his back to one wall, facing the rest of the dwelling. A fat iron stove sat on his right, close to an area that looked like a cross between a kitchen and a workshop. Bits and pieces of herbs and other unidentifiable items sat amidst more mundane things like pots and pans, taking up both shelf and counter space. A well-worn table and chairs stood in the middle of the clutter, currently occupied by a pile of half-full dishes and a soot-colored cat. To the right of all that mess was a ladder, disappearing up into the ceiling. Behind that was a curtained area. It unnerved him to notice that, in the whole place, there was only one window, set above a depression in the kitchen counter that could only have been a sink, judging by the hand-pump mounted at its side. The whole place smelled curious—not unpleasant, just odd—like cooking food, crushed greenery, and the sharp tang of something he just couldn’t place. He caught himself inhaling deeply, just to try and remember.
As Jack watched, the hermit clambered up the ladder, dislodging a large orange tomcat from the rungs. It yowled in response, but he ignored it. He returned moments later, carrying a pair of patched and faded jeans. They looked stiff with age, but at the moment, Jack couldn’t care. They were pants, and that was, frankly, all that mattered. He didn’t even mind when the hermit all but threw them at him.
Shifting, so as to not grace his disgruntled benefactor with a full view of his manhood, Jack struggled to his feet, hissing through his teeth.
“You might want to watch those feet,” said the hermit, dryly. A chair creaked—he’d probably sat back down at the table. “Got yourself cut up pretty bad. What’d you do anyway?”
“Got into a fight with a cornfield and lost,” Jack answered. By swapping his weight quickly from foot to foot, he managed to dress. The jeans were made for a man a few sizes too large for him—they hung off his hips at an alarming angle. Hitching them up, he turned back around, nearly tripping over the cuffs. He overbalanced once or twice, unused to the added weight of his wings, and had to catch himself on the rough, whitewashed wall.
The answer, and awkward hobbling of his patient, produced an amused snort from the Wilcox. “Fair enough,” he said. One large hand patted the table beside him. “Sit a minute. You’ve been out a long time. Must be starved.” He scanned Jack with clear, gray eyes. “You eat, then explain to me what kind of Inquisitor doesn’t know about Hermits.”
Sitting in the chair was a task in itself. Once again, his wings fouled everything up, refusing to fold enough to allow him to sit fully in the seat. He couldn’t even lean back, without pressing them awkwardly, and painfully, against his spine. “Never heard of an Inquisitor, never heard of a Hermit,” Jack said, perching on the edge of the seat. He reached for a proffered plate, but stopped, seeing the look in Wilcox’s face. “Uh, what’d I say?”
“What’s an Inquisitor?” Wilcox repeated, gaping. He was staring at Jack as if he’d grown another head. “How… could you not know…?”
“Humor me,” Jack grumbled, stealing a piece of bacon. It tasted heavenly, if he were any one to judge.
Wilcox leaned back, still staring. Mechanically, he reached out and filled the extra mug with steaming coffee. He slid it over to his guest before he spoke again. When he did, Jack nearly choked on the beverage. “Inquisitors are angels of God,” he said, slowly. “Sent by Him to judge and watch over humanity. They keep the peace between the countries… They’re our leaders, our judges and juries. They root out the sinful, and bring them to justice.” He jabbed a beefy finger in Jack’s direction. “You, in short.”
In retrospect, Jack rather wished he’d had a mirror to see the expression on his face. He imagined it was nothing short of hysterical. It took him several minutes to realize the coffee mug was frozen halfway to his lips, and that his jaw was dangling slack. “You’re… kidding me,” he managed. “I’m… You mean, me? I…”
“You didn’t know?”
“No shit, I didn’t know!” he snapped. “All I know is, I wake up naked in the middle of a fucking cornfield feeling like I just fell off a goddamn building!” He slammed the mug down on the table, sloshing the liquid inside. “The next thing I know, I’m sitting here in some shack with a Wildman who says I’m mother-fucking Gabriel!”
“Not with language like that, you’re not,” Wilcox answered dryly. He still looked wary, not that Jack could blame him. After a moment, his expression turned considering. “What’s your name?” At Jack’s confused glance, he elaborated. “If I knew your name, I could tell you where you’re from. That’s how it works. Then maybe we could start figuring out why in Heaven’s name you don’t remember what you are—or why you turned up out in that field.”
Jack blew a few strands of hair out of his eyes before answering. The single bit of bacon suddenly felt like a lead weight in his stomach. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to go back home, not play mediator to a bunch of squabbling hicks. Weren’t there cops for that? Sheriffs at least? Why was God suddenly doling out angels like party favors?
Start small, he told himself. This guy wants to help. Work with what he’s giving you. First, you have to convince him you’re not some sort of Holy Detective.
“It’s Jack,” he said finally. “Jack Taylor.”
Wilcox shook his shaggy head. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “Not your human name. YourName.” He spread his hands, as if to demonstrate the importance of the word. “You know.”
“No, I don’t…”
He felt himself jerk backwards in the chair before the thought could be completed. It was like back in the field. Back when the memories had hit. Dimly, he was aware of his hands clutching the table, scrabbling over dishes in an effort to keep himself upright. Flashes of another time, another place, washed over him, and he was helpless to keep them away.
“Taylor! Hey! Hey, Jericho!”
“The fuck’re you callin’ me?”
“Chaplain calls you that. Y’know? Something about you and patients and that time you shot a bastard in the face.”
“He wouldn’t let me treat the guy. His guts were comin’ out for Chrissake. Had to do something.”
“And that’s where the name comes from, son. Nothing will ever come between you and the wounded. Even if you have to bring down the walls of a city itself.”
“Uh… thanks, Father. Just doing my job, really.”
“And it’s a fine job you do.”
“Hey! Wake up! What’s the matter with you!”
He came to, gasping, finding himself half collapsed on the floor of the shack. Wilcox was kneeling before him, shaking him gently. The large fingers snapped under his nose until he waved them off, groggily. Without further comment, the hermit hauled him back up into the chair, and pushed a glass of icy water into his hands.
“Drink that. Don’t have anything stronger on hand—not that you need it. But, what the hell was that about?” Wilcox growled, standing over him like some sort of be-clothed bear come down from the mountains. “Looked like you had a seizure!”
“I heard my name. My other one.”
The room grew very still. Neither man said anything for a moment, the hermit gazing at the angel, patient as stone, while the angel never tore his gaze away from the drink in his hand. He took a long drink, finishing half the glass in one go. Only then did he look up, blue eyes hard as a winter sky.
“Jericho,” said Jack. “My name is Jericho.”
