Angelica Page 6

  Gaaron glanced at Nicholas, who watched with a certain enjoyment, as if he’d have been willing to cheer the combatants on if there hadn’t been more sober company watching. But catching Gaaron’s gaze, Nicholas nodded, and they waded into the fray to separate the fighters. Gaaron hauled Zack to his feet with an almost effortless lift, and Nicholas caught the squirming Silas in his arms.

  “It’s his fault! He started it!” Silas was wailing.

  “I don’t care who started it,” Gaaron said calmly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re all equally guilty and you all deserve an equal punishment.”

  “Hey! We didn’t—”

  “Be quiet,” Gaaron snapped, and they all shut up. “I know Esther has some boxes she needs hauled from the upper levels to the storerooms. You’ll help her for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, if she needs you, and you won’t complain about it once.”

  “Oh, I’ve got lots of boxes,” Esther said.

  “And if you give her any trouble,” Gaaron said, “I’ll think of some additional chores that need to be done.”

  “It’s not fair,” Jude muttered. “Not my fault.”

  “Well, it is your fault, and would you like me to explain it to you?” Gaaron asked pleasantly. “One, you chose to associate with companions who would rather steal than request permission to use something that they would happily be allowed to borrow. Two, you didn’t inform any elder that a theft had taken place. Three, you joined in an unfair fight against opponents who are smaller than you, younger than you, and outnumbered by you and your friends. Frankly, I can’t see that your behavior has been anything but abominable.”

  “Well, I didn’t do anything,” Silas said.

  “You’re a jerk,” Zack burst out.

  “You chose to steal instead of informing an adult, and, if I guess correctly, you took the flute back not to return it to its place, but to annoy Zack. Not exactly a commendable motive. Sometimes we’re judged by our intentions as well as our actions.”

  “Yeah, but I—”

  “One more word from any of the six of you and I’ll add to your duties,” Gaaron said. “I know Enoch has some cleaning that he needs done down in the food pens. Would you like to help him?”

  They all looked mutely up at him. Jude shook his head.

  “Good,” Gaaron said briskly. “Then you all go with Esther. Except you, Zack,” he added, raising his voice slightly.

  The other five turned away, Silas with a malicious and triumphant gleam in his eyes. Zack stayed behind, chin up, defiance in every line of his body.

  “And you’ll take on an extra task,” Gaaron said. “You’ll go find Ahio, wherever he is, and tell him you need to learn a song.”

  “A—song?” Zack said, clearly caught off balance.

  Gaaron nodded. “On the flute. Tell him you’ll need to be proficient enough to perform at least once piece in public in eight months.”

  “But I—I can’t play the flute,” Zack said.

  “Well, no, I suppose you can’t right now. But you will in eight months. You’ll perform at the Gloria, after we’ve sung the mass.”

  Zack looked pale. “I haven’t—I can’t—I don’t—”

  Gaaron smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine,” he said. “You have a long time to get ready. But not today. Or tomorrow. You’ve got boxes to move.”

  So there was the morning gone; and the afternoon consisted of another bitter encounter with Miriam and the writing of a reply to Adriel. And then he had to make time to see some of the petitioners who had arrived yesterday, only to find him gone. Some required a simple adjudication of a dispute between themselves and a neighbor; others had more pressing concerns that took more time to consider and settle. The problems that involved weather imbalances were the easiest to correct. All Gaaron had to do was promise to send help and then hunt up a couple of angels to go sing the necessary prayers that would bring rain or sunshine. He felt a little envious as he watched the small cadre take off. He would have liked to have had nothing better to do than sing to Jovah and make the world right again.

  He ate a late dinner that Esther put together for him after the formal meal was over and the kitchen was more or less closed. And he rounded off the day by climbing to the cupola high above the Eyrie to join in the harmonics. He hadn’t signed up for this shift, but it had been almost two days since he had sung at all, and he felt the lack of music in his very blood and bones. Runners and other athletes described a sense of malaise if they missed a day or two of vigorous exercise; they explained that their muscles felt crampy and their moods grew black. Gaaron experienced the same symptoms, as well as something strange and constricting gathered around his chest. It was as if his lungs forgot to breathe, if they were not filled with air to be loosed in song. It was as if his ribs tightened up, shrank down, if they were not expanded by the glory of music.

  Naturally, there was already music floating down from the stage, a rather maudlin lullaby that someone must have thought suited the advanced hour. Three others were already gathered in the open room at the top of the Eyrie—Ahio, Sela, and Miriam. His sister gave him a cool glance but moved closer to Sela to make room for him. He could see the calculating look that passed between the other singers, the quick assessment of who could sing what part now that a fourth voice would be added. Ahio and Gaaron were both tenors, but Ahio had a deeper range than Gaaron and could slip into the bass part without much trouble. Sela was technically a second soprano but often sang alto parts, and Miriam had a soaring and energetic soprano that could, on her best nights, send any audience into transports. Four-part harmony—that was the best, that was what every singer really lived for. They all started smiling in anticipation.

  Gaaron hummed along with the song in progress just to get the feel for the ensemble and to be ready to segue to the new piece once it was chosen. Ahio raised his right hand, finger extended, to signal that he had a composition in mind, and the others all nodded to him. When their mournful lullaby came to a close, Ahio waited about two beats and then offered up the opening melody of the Lorelei Cantata. It was an exquisite piece of constantly shifting harmonies and lead lines, and Miriam laughed with delight when she recognized it. They let him do the opening measure as a solo, and then they all came in on their parts with utter precision.

  Gaaron felt that familiar little shiver run down his back at the resonant beauty of those perfectly realized minor harmonies. He saw Miriam close her eyes and take a step backward, putting her hand out to the wall behind her as though to keep her balance. The rest of them watched Ahio, who did casual directing, moving his finger through the air to give them the beat and to signal them to swell in a crescendo at the first key change. Gaaron’s favorite part was the section in the middle when the tenor voice was twinned with the alto line in a series of changing staccato intervals. It was a complex and demanding interlude, requiring quick sips of air and absolute confidence in your partner, and both he and Sela were grinning broadly when it came to its conclusion. Miriam’s voice swooped in to wrest the melody back, and Ahio added a rhythmic counterpoint in a resonant bass. They finished the piece in a triumphant swell of major chords that would surely have the whole compound sitting up in bed and wondering why nobody felt sleepy.

  Miriam had her hand up, requesting the next selection, and Ahio pointed at her as if to give permission. But her choice surprised everyone, most of all Gaaron. She sang the opening line of the Davinsky Alleluia, which by rights was Gaaron’s solo, as the whole piece was written to show off a tenor voice. The other two murmured their approval, for this was a beloved piece among angels at the Eyrie, and they looked expectantly at Gaaron. He was watching Miriam. She nodded and abruptly shut her mouth, and he picked up the line without missing a beat.

  It was one of his favorite selections, a sunny and hopeful composition written as part of a celebratory mass. He felt his voice pour from his mouth, warm and rich and textured with pattern. His chest filled and emptied, filled and emptie
d, but he never felt breathless or drained; swirls of silk seemed to coil in his lungs and unroll. The music sounded so effortless it almost did not feel like it was coming from him. It seemed as though it was spontaneously generated by starlight and contentment and goodwill. The voices joining his in harmony supported him with an actual physical sensation; he felt their lift and buoyancy catch him at his knees and elbows and elevate him the barest millimeter off the floor.

  They were not completely through the Alleluia when Sela was fluttering her fingers, asking for the next turn. Gaaron motioned her to add harmony to what should have been his solo “amen,” and then he dropped his voice away so that she could begin the next piece. It would be their last one for the night; other singers had already arrived at the doorway, ready to take their places. Sela motioned them in and then launched into a much quieter but very pretty choral piece that sounded better with every voice added. They all sang along happily, modulating down from the ecstatic heights of the Alleluia. It was, Gaaron thought, about the best way anyone could hope to end a day.

  When the shift was ended, Ahio and Sela lingered, though Gaaron turned to go. He had a long flight ahead of him tomorrow, and he was still a little tired from last night’s midnight journey. He was somewhat surprised when Miriam chose to exit with him. He waited till they were out of range of the singers before speaking.

  “I enjoyed that a great deal,” he said. “Thank you for choosing the Alleluia.”

  All her animosity of the afternoon seemed to have melted away. She smiled at him in the flickering gaslight that lit all the corridors and open spaces of the Eyrie. “I like you best when you are singing,” she said. “And I wanted to like you for at least part of the day.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” he said. “I, of course, always like you, even when you’re driving me to lunacy.”

  “I hear you’re flying to southern Bethel tomorrow,” she said.

  “I suppose you got that from Nicholas.” Gaaron had thought for quite some time that his volatile sister and the erratic angel were destined to fall in love, since they were so similar in temperament and so obviously the worst possible partners for each other. But although the two had always been good friends, nothing warmer had ever developed between them. “You can come, if you like. We can hand you around between us when one of us gets tired of carrying you.”

  “No, thank you,” she said prettily. “But if you hadn’t asked, I would have insisted on going.”

  He smiled in the semidark that shadowed the open plateau. “Let me know, sometime,” he remarked, “if I ever stumble upon the trick of handling you right. If I ever figure out even the smallest detail.”

  She laughed at that and slipped into the corridor ahead of him. “You’re the best brother ever,” she said over her shoulder, “which makes me have to be the worst sister ever. I don’t see why you can’t understand that.”

  “Do you want me to bring you anything back from southern Bethel?” he asked.

  She snorted. “Is there anything there worth bringing back?” she asked. “An interesting story, maybe. Bring that.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  They walked along in a rare companionable silence till they reached the fork in the hallway that led to their separate chambers. “Night,” she said, but he stopped her with one big hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re my heartache and my joy, and even if you hate me for it, I’ll watch out for you till I die,” he said quietly, and kissed her on the top of her head. She looked up at him, dark eyes shining in the gaslight, and he thought he could read the reply circling in her head. And as long as you feel you have to watch over me, I shall make your life hell.

  But she didn’t say it. “Good night, Gabriel Aaron,” she said instead. “Come see me when you get back.”

  They left shortly after breakfast, though that required Gaaron affecting deafness when a few people called his name as he left the dining room. Zibiah and Nicholas were already awaiting him on the plateau, Zibiah giggling in her foolish manner over something Nicholas had said. She was pretty in an unremarkable way, with short brown hair and lively green eyes, but it was really her animation that gave her any charm at all. She and Miriam were friends, of course; the less sober someone was, the more likely Miriam was to be drawn to that person.

  “Ready?” Gaaron asked, though they clearly were. “Let’s go.”

  The flight to southern Bethel would take longer than the flight to Mount Sinai, particularly since Nicholas and Zibiah seemed inclined to dawdle along the way. Gaaron let them set the pace, knowing that few angels could attain the speed he could generate with his massive wings. They were not in a hurry, in any case. No rush to hear earnest, thoughtful farming folk tell an incredible story.

  They stopped once for lunch, and for Zibiah and Nicholas to trade insults, and then they were on their way again. Nicholas took the lead when they got close to the site he’d visited before, since there were a number of different farming settlements in this part of the country and Gaaron was not entirely sure which one had witnessed the miracle. Finally, almost six hours after they’d set out, Nicholas folded his wings and made a precipitous descent toward a cluster of buildings that appeared to comprise a farmhouse, a silo, and a few other necessary structures. Zibiah promptly imitated him, neither of them unfurling their wings till they were so close to the ground it could have been deadly. Gaaron followed at a more sane and leisurely pace.

  Two men and a woman had already gathered in front of the farmhouse by the time Gaaron touched down. He saw both farmers tilt their heads back and try to judge his height, a thing other big men always did when they found themselves confronted with someone even bigger. They were weather-beaten and sunburned, so their ages were hard to tell, but Gaaron guessed them to be father and son by the similarity of their broad faces and ruddy hair. The woman standing beside them, smiling in a somewhat bemused fashion as if she did not often entertain angels, was probably the wife and mother.

  “Hi there, you remember me,” Nicholas said with his usual careless charm. “This is Zibiah, she’s from the Eyrie, too. And this is Gaaron.”

  The name confused them; it was not how he was formally known. “I’m Gabriel,” he corrected Nicholas, shaking the woman’s hand, then the older man’s, then the son’s. “They call me Gaaron. I hear you have an interesting story to tell.”

  And it was interesting, but there was not much more to learn than Gaaron had gleaned from Nicholas’ recital. The farm-wife insisted on serving them refreshments before they tramped out into the field to see the exact spot where the man had first appeared and then disappeared. Angels hated to walk, and Gaaron could see that both Zibiah and Nicholas were dying to say “Meet you out there!” and take off for the back acres. But Gaaron gave them a level look, and they dropped into line behind him and the farmers, and they all made their way through the muddy earth to a spot that seemed to be dead center on the property.

  The older man pointed out various sites of interest (“Here’s where we first saw him, here’s where we was, here’s where he just sorta vanished”), but Gaaron paid little attention. Nicholas had been right. The land stretched out, flat and utterly boring, for miles in all directions. They were standing in the middle of acreage planted with some low-growing crop, beans or tubers, nothing you could disappear into if the mood happened to strike. Where had the stranger come from? Where had he gone?

  “Have you seen him again?” Gaaron asked.

  “No, and we’ve kept a lookout,” the son replied.

  “Has anyone nearby seen him? Or noticed anyone unusual in the area? Where’s the nearest town? Have you inquired there?”

  “Was up there yesterday,” the older man said. “Asked around a little. Sounded like a fool, so I quit asking. But nobody else seen nothing—at least that they was admitting.”

  Gaaron nodded. “I appreciate you telling me, though. I don’t think you’re a fool. But I don’t see that there’s much I can do for you unless this—
this disappearing man comes back. I would like you to inform me if you see him again—or if anyone does.”

  “Be happy to do that,” the farmer said. “Be happier if we don’t have to.”

  Gaaron smiled at the rough humor. “Thank your wife for the delicious cakes,” he said. “Let us know if you learn anything else. Now, I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

  The farmer nodded. “ ’Preciate you coming out, Archangel.”

  Gaaron, flexed on his feet in preparation for takeoff, was startled enough to relax his stance. “I’m not Archangel yet,” he said.

  “No, but you will be soon, and we’re all glad for it,” the farmer said. “You’re a good man. We was all happy when you was chosen.”

  “Thank you,” Gaaron said gravely, trying not to look at Nicholas’ grinning face. “I’ll do my best to earn your trust.”

  And he nodded again, tensed his calves and his shoulders, drove his wings down in one forceful sweep, and took off. The temperature of the air changed rapidly across his skin as he climbed quickly through the sun-warmed air into the higher, cooler altitudes. At first he could hear Nicholas and Zibiah behind him, laughing and talking as they ascended, but within a few minutes he had left them behind. He still did not go as fast or as high as he would have had he been alone, but he did level out at an altitude he was pretty sure they would stay below. He did not particularly want to leave them behind, but there was no insistent reason to stay together. They all knew their way back to the Eyrie.

  He flew at this pace for maybe an hour, trying to shake off the vague, disturbing sense of unease he had felt as he stood in the farmer’s plowed fields, hearing a flatly impossible story. Add the mystery of disappearing men to his long list of chores to deal with, and his duties were beginning to pile up to almost unmanageable proportions. And he had not even begun to whittle away at one of them: the search for his bride-to-be.