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  Piercing the Veil

  Charles the Charming, Master of Fate, ignored the sound of his office door closing. Though he’d oiled the hinges himself, it still squeaked enough to alert him to an intruder, but he didn’t take his attention away from his scrolls. He was restoring an illumination on a copy of Beowulf using gold and indigo inks with a fine-tipped nib, and needed just a second more to complete a delicate line of the birdcage that dangled from the ornate “B”. The line had to be drawn in one motion, with a continuous pressure that prevented the ink from bleeding into the parchment. There could be no blobs in an eight hundred year old manuscript.

  He completed the line, marveling at his own artistry, put down his pen and looked into the scowling face of one of his Messengers. “I can tell by the look on your face, you’re fuming about something, Raphael," he said to the red-cloaked figure standing in front of him. “But you’ll have to wait, because I’m very busy.”

  “Your hobby, noble as it is, can wait,” Raphael insisted. He let the robe fall from his shoulders, gathered it in his hand, and threw it over the back of a gold brocade upholstered chair. He let his battered brown briefcase drop to the floor. “I’ve been seen.”

  Charles removed the nib from his pen, and placed it carefully in its slot on the tray. “Are you sure?” he said calmly. “You’re getting long in the fang, my friend, maybe you’re confused.” He moved to the center of the room, and laid the scroll on a worktable to dry, placing framer beanbags at each corner. “Come see this, Raphael. You’ll appreciate the care I’ve given this little piece of history.”

  “I tell you, I’ve been seen. You know what that means.”

  “Sit down. Stay calm. We'll work this out.” Charles returned to his desk, and offered Raphael a demitasse of coffee.

  Accepting that Charles was not going to give into alarm, Raphael took the cup and lowered himself into the chair with a painful sigh. “How am I supposed to cope? First it was wine. Then beer. Then the heavy opiates. Laudanum. Now mesmerism. Don’t these people understand? I have messages for them, and they keep running away from their dreams so I can’t deliver them. The stress is making me old before my time.”

  "Understanding is a transient commodity." Charles was tempted to refer him to the Biblical Division at the mention of old age. He’d heard the same complaints from every Messenger he’d sent to Earth for ten thousand years. “No one sees anything in a drug induced sleep, Raphael. Once the nerves are shot through and through with poison, barriers go up and people enter the black hole of anesthesia, so how could anyone have seen you?"

  Raphael smoothed his gold-white hair, his gnarled fingers sifting through it like a comb made of twigs. “I remember a time when the only thing that kept a man from hearing me was a troubled conscience, an inner voice that wouldn’t allow him to sleep. Now, the seeds of guilt have grown into monsters so terrible a man has to hide in oblivion just to keep his body going.”

  “More’s the pity for his spirit too,” Charles said. “What dreams you artists can paint for him. And you’re one of the best, Raphael. The Sybils. The School of Athens. Woman With a Veil.” Charles reached across the desk, enclosed Raphael’s hands in his, and examined them. “Mystical. That’s what your hands are.”

  Raphael softened at the reminder of why he’d been chosen to be a Messenger. He'd been commissioned to paint dreams—his idea of heaven—giving him an eternal palette on which to perfect an infinite talent.

  “Now that you’re calm, tell me why you think he’s seen you. We are talking about Bram Stoker, right?”

  “Of course.” Raphael opened the briefcase.

  “Twelve years old, and caught in the grip of Romanticism,” Charles lamented.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a reason.” Raphael nudged a sheet of writing paper towards him.

  Charles took it gingerly and scanned the document. “If he’d pressed harder, he’d have torn the paper,” he said, running his fingers over the deep grooves as he read:

  His face was a strong–a very strong aquiline face, with high bridge of the thin nose, and peculiarly arched nostrils; with a lofty domed forehead, and hairs growing scantily round the temples, but profusely elsewhere.

  Charles looked at Raphael and winced. “It describes you alright.” His hand went to his mouth and he massaged his lips with his thumb and forefinger. “Is this all, just this fragment?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “He could be referring to someone else. I mean, he goes on to say, whoever it is, was pale and had nauseating breath. You have a walnut complexion—the Tuscan sun no doubt, and you didn’t zephyr near the garlic fields?”

  “No. No. Though I love garlic.”

  Charles handed the paper back to Raphael, sank back into his chair and went deep into thought. “You’ll have to go back, preferably before he goes to sleep.”

  “And risk being seen again? You know it’s dangerous for a Messenger to appear before sleep. I could be mistaken for Death.”

  “You know it’s dangerous to take something from the Earth World and bring it to the Spirit World too, but you did it anyway. You have to return this writing to Stoker, Raphael. He’s not going to forget he wrote it. Hide yourself in the shadows. Shun the moonlight. When he’s asleep, paint him a dream of someone who looks like you. He’ll forget seeing you, if it’s you he saw.” Charles saw Raphael clench his jaw. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of a child?”

  “No. It’s just that Messengers have been delivering for thousands of years. Pharaohs sought their counsel. Kings listened to their warnings. Joseph hastened to Egypt to save the life of Jesus at their instruction. They told Magdalene to go to the tomb on Resurrection Sunday. Life was meaningful then. Now … ”

  Charles stood up and came round his desk. He placed a supportive hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “I have a message for you. Life is still meaningful. Science and sleeping drafts and all. Don’t trouble Trouble, untill Trouble troubles you. It’s good advice wrapped up in seven little words. This Stoker child’s been a handful for years. Maybe he’s a writer. So what? We’ve had plenty of people who remember their dreams, take them right through the door of imagination, and jot them down. Some write stories. Some plays. Some become famous. Some are forgotten. Some even become Messengers, Raphael, like you.”

  “I was no Writer.”

  “Oh yes, you were. Only you wrote with oil. The canvas was your paper. St. Michael himself told you about his fight with Satan so you could tell the world–1518, Raphael, remember? We don’t quibble over medium or content as long as people get the message. Michael’s message was to struggle with demons, and you told it to all who laid eyes on that panting.”

  “But, if Stoker is seeing spirits…”

  “If he’s seeing spirits, he may be one of the Chosen. You’re right. But we won’t know until we find out what’s going on.” Charles removed his glasses, studied the lenses and grabbed a tissue to wipe them. “I’m certainly not going to trouble Death with this until I have all the facts. You want to trouble Mr.Trouble himself?”

  “No.”

  “Then compose yourself and pay another visit to our problem child.”

  It was the first time Raphael had lied to Charles. He was afraid. He just didn’t know of what. He cou
ld deal with Stoker being one of the Chosen. The Muses would take over, and he would be reassigned. But if Stoker was periodically crossing over into the Spirit World, instead of just visiting it in dreams, it meant Death was already involved.

  Raphael drew his cloak tightly around his six-foot frame. He was astride his favorite night mare, a black stallion named Credo, who would carry him to Death’s door if need be. Death was the source of ultimate truth. Yet he prayed it would not come to that. Death was hospitable but impersonal. Not like Charles the Charming, who always understood his impact on the lives of men–and children. Yes, there were times when his message was one of sorrow or pain, but Fate always had a way of sending a nugget of hope with the worst tragedy. Dum spiro, spero.

  On the other hand, a man may win a battle with Death, but can never defeat him. George Washington survived small pox and revolutionary bullets only to be pulled under by a chill. Babies survive birth, but mothers die. Death just sweeps them all, heroes and mothers, into the dustbin of Time. And then waits on battlefields and in hospitals for the next in line. If life wasn’t so entertaining, living it would be the ultimate stupidity.

  This Raphael pondered as the afternoon waned. He could see Stoker coming in from his lessons, his shoulders bent and achy from hours at his books. The boy should play, Raphael often thought. He shouldn’t let seven years of bring an invalid rob him of the physical joys of childhood. Raphael made up his mind to tell the boy to run, and jump, and feel the strength of his body, to know that Fate had finally granted him health for him to be happy after all. Quickly, Raphael composed his message to the lonely boy, penning every word of encouragement to whisper in his ear, forgetting all fear of discovery if his notes be left behind.

  I will tell him to pick up his own pen, tell his own truth, and set to paper whatever words free him to become himself before Death comes. Live before death comes. That is the most important message, Raphael concluded with a doleful smile. Charles would appreciate the brevity. He beat the “not troubling Trouble” adage by four words.

  Raphael spurred Credo across the dim Stream of Forgetfulness and into the sunlit Road of Consciousness. He dismounted Credo, leaving him at the Gate of Doubt just in case he needed to make a fast getaway from reality.

  He entered the Stoker house, making his way up the winding stairs to Stoker’s room to find a suitable hiding place from which to observe the boy. He found the perfect place. Across from Stokers’ bed was a bookcase, and on the top shelf an old but unused sail boat left over from hopeful times. From behind the sail, Raphael could see the entire room, and read over the boy’s shoulder if he should sit at his desk under the window sill. Here Raphael waited till everything in the room was purple, blue, and black outside the small ring of flickering candlelight.

  Stoker lay reading, his eyes fighting off sleep. “Give in, give in,” Raphael whispered to him, and finally the lids closed and stayed closed, as the candle burned low. Raphael stretched out his arms, ready to fly to Stoker’s bedside, but drew back. The door was opening. A sliver of light briefly revealed the outline of a short, stocky man who quickly and quietly closed the door behind him.

  What manner of being was this shadow creeping towards Stoker’s bed? Raphael saw a human hand enter the dimness and reach under the bed linen that covered the young boy. Stoker’s eyes sprang open, and a dirty hand covered his mouth, stifling a scream. A grown-up body followed it, and sat on the side of the bed. How stealthily he moves, thought Raphael. He glides like fetid fog, without feet yet I can see his work boots. There are blood stains his shirt and the stench of rotting flesh fills the room. This must be the specter Stoker described.

  “Hush!” the figure commanded. And a viscous voice said, “They think they can stop me–them with their pale faces like lambs at the butchers. Well, I’m stronger than they are and stronger than you, Boy.” The man covered the boy’s body with his own. “Don’t think ‘bout tellin’ anyone ‘bout this. I’ll tell ‘em you made it all up—and then I’ll come back and slice that pretty neck of yours. Slice it clean and drain every drop of blood from your scrawny carcass.”

  In the candlelight, Raphael could see the man nibbling at the throat of the child as he stared at the ceiling, then rolling him over like a sick calf. The boy cried out in pain only once, then collapsed in resignation. All Raphael heard after that was rhythmic thuds as the bed bumped against the wall. Then, all was quiet except for the sound of flesh satisfying itself with moist and hungry lips.

  The man groaned twice, and slid back into the darkness, reached over and blew out the candle before edging his way out the door into the hall. Raphael heard Stoker gag, then vomit. The moon had risen and Raphael could now make out Stokers nightgown on the floor. He rose from the bed, wrapped the nightgown in a ball, and threw it out the window to the bushes below. Naked, Stoker lay on the bed, sobbing softly. “I hate you, Pettigrew Simms. I hate you!”

  Raphael recognized the name of the Stoker’s husbandman. No wonder the boy avoided the outdoors, and everything to do with the dark, damp shed at the edge of the garden, with its dirt floor soaked with the blood of slaughtered animals, and the rank smell of manure. How many times had the man forced himself on Stoker? Stoker was alone so much of the time. And then there was his illness. A curious malady that defied explanation but left him unable to walk. Did the assaults begin in his early childhood?

  “Next time, I’ll kill you,” Stoker vowed. “I’ll drive stake through your heart and feed you to the rats.”

  “Ghastly," Raphael told Charles. His face was aflame with rage as he shook his fist to heaven. “That monster. What he did to that boy. You must have known, Charles. You must have seen his fate. Why send me back to watch this grotesque perversion?” he demanded to know. “You’re a bastard. A charlatan. No better than the Thief Who Comes in the Night.”

  Charles rested his head on his hands, feeling them weaken with every accusation Raphael spat at him. “Yes, I knew,” Charles admitted “But such is my cross to bear. No moral judgments. What is, is. In the endlessness of eternity, Stoker’s pain is no more than a blip, not even a second. I do what I always do in these cases. Look the other way.”

  “What kind of wickedness allows this to befall an innocent boy? “

  “The kind of wickedness that calls itself freedom of choice. The words presuppose the option of evil as well as good. Man defends it, demands it in any case.”

  Raphael stopped his furious pacing and leaned over the desk, pushing his face into Charles’. “You think me the fool because I obey your commands? Why does Death wait in the corridor? Is he here for Stoker?”

  “For whom?”

  Raphael swung round and saw the black-robed giant at the door. In his presence, time stopped. Raphael clutched his heart–there was no beat. He knew it didn’t matter, but it still unnerved him. “You!” he stammered, “Are you going to let this man..."

  “Petigrew Simms …”

  “Petigrew Simms, kill Stoker?’

  Charles started to speak, but Death raised a hand to silence him. “Don’t you know part of him is already dead? Stoker has crossed over to the Spirit World many times. He is fearful of sleep, yet grows more exhausted with each day without it. He believes his visits here are hallucinations, but they are intrusions into our domain. He cannot be a guest forever.”

  “So, you’re here to claim the rest of him?” Raphael held up his hands in front of his face, and stared at them curiously. They had lost their twisted knuckles and wrinkled skin. He could feel strength surge through him with every word he spoke in advocacy of the wretched boy.

  “Would you condemn him to be the undead?” Death asked. “To live his life without a soul? Leave us, Messenger, so that Fate and I can decide what to do with young Stoker now that he has tasted evil—or more correctly, evil has tasted him.”

  “No!” Charles said. “Let the Messenger stay.”

  “You’re stepping in?” Death wagged a bony finger at Charles. “Uh, uh, uh. No can do.”
/>   “It is Raphael’s fate to stay, and be changed because of this meeting," Charles said.

  Suddenly neither Death nor Fate towered over him, and Raphael felt his body as solid as granite, and his fear of Death wilt away. “The fiend stole his innocence, not his soul," Raphael first admonished them, and then commanded, “Send him a Muse.”

  “You mean make him a writer?” Fate said.

  “Yes,” said Raphael. “Let him be a living Messenger. It's the only way to level the playing field between good and evil.”

  Death hid once again behind the blackness of his hood. “You would keep Stoker on Earth? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy, with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the winds a devouring monster in embryo? Has he not felt the vampire’s lips upon his throat?”

  “I would let him tell the world that suffering and damnation can be defeated, so he can say with his final breath, “Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! The snow is not more stainless than my soul–the curse has passed away!”