Raphael Redcloak Read online

  “Oh, the Girlfriend. I was told she begged him to destroy the canvass.”

  Raphael had felt another pair of eyes observing the woman's reaction to Rector's painting, but dismissed the eerie feeling and cold air when her distaste turned to solicitous attention.“She's a counterweight to his over-confidence,” he said.

  Charles yawned. “Death's taken a special interest in Rector, given the painting chronicles the sins of Stoker’s predator.” Raphael hadn’t considered Death might assume a proprietary interest in all things related to Stoker. As though he could read his thoughts, Charles added. “Our dark friend often gets involved with individuals when they survive meetings with him, the way Stoker and Simms survived.”

  “Simms visited Death before his demise?” Raphael said.

  “He had a nasty go-round under the wheels of a previous employer’s landau. Made his way from Ireland to England and the Stokers on the money he was paid as accident compensation. It was a scam. And I think Death regrets not detaining him at the time. He doesn’t like ingratitude. When people become worse after a reprieve, it’s a slap in the face.” Charles sneezed. “Excuse me. Dust from the Dead Sea Scrolls I’m translating into Urdu.”

  Raphael suspected snuff. “You’re a man of many talents, Charles,” he said honestly. There was much to admire in a man who tended the artifacts of Time so carefully in spite of his many earthly predilections.

  “So many things are buried by capricious Time—the bitch. Fossils, buildings, stories, tragedies. Once in a while, she’ll be undone by an intrepid archeologist who’ll dig up skeletal remains of a long forgotten human, but all human understanding of the past is conjecture. Thank goodness for me.” Charles waved a hand, and the bookcases behind him opened up to a museum of shards, shields, structures, scripts, and skeletons that seemed infinite. “On the whole, Time's as successful at hiding the past and the future from the present as she hides…well, that’s a whole other dimension.”

  Raphael made no comment. The divorce of Time and Fate had been a galactic cataclysm wrought by the Great Complacency of 1759, when James Watt, invented the steam engine. Yes, they’d both heard rumblings of the quake to come when Newcomer designed a nine inch model of a broiler, but when Watt, wholly without assistance from the Spirits of the Greeks or Romans, made an engine that could produce acceleration, it was too late. It had taken thousands of years for man to graduate from foot to saddle to chariot. Then, without warning, he went from Kitty Hawk to the moon in sixty-six years; from giant computers to wireless internet on cell phones in twenty. Change, once ruled by Time, now ruled her. Time could keep up, but only if she left Fate behind.

  Her desertion was almost a mortal wound. Death, the only Spirit men could not conquer, spared Charles’ annihilation. But the relevance of Fate to the cosmos was something Charles would have to rebuild himself. So it was that he carved his niche in the ethereal world between matter and heaven by taking charge of the Messengers and the Muses. Yet his oversight was marred by his own foibles—foibles few Spirits spoke of unless they'd had too many spirits—and foibles that threatened his desire to mentor Rector.

  “That doesn’t look like a scroll you’re working on,” Raphael said, avoiding any reference to Charles’ ex-spouse.

  “No, I had to take a breather from the scrolls to breathe. These are political cartoons.” The political realm was fair game for twists of Fate. “But we digress. You were asking about a promotion, as I remember. It can’t be done now, much as I see the idea’s given you a renewed sense of purpose.”

  “I want to feel useful.” Raphael had kept his fiery cloak wrapped loosely around himself so Charles could not see the changes in his frame. Only a finger holding the clasp was visible, but that one finger was no longer a bony protrusion. Neither were his arms nothing but sagging flesh, and his face wrinkled.

  “Wretched do-goodism! But prevaricating is just as bad. You lust after vicarious excitement through the likes of Rector. That means you’re intoxicated by the prospect of power, Raphael. I recognize that desire when I see it. Like a man in love with a woman, a man in love with power proclaims his true self the more he tries to hide it,” Charles said. Like a serpent, he entwined around his Hitchcock armchair.

  Raphael tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Am I fated to live out my days as a Messenger? Tell me so that I can prepare myself for the boredom that lays ahead.”

  "Patience, friend Raphael," Charles purred as he withdrew a ledger from his desk and perused its pages. “I’ll not tell you your fate. To do so would deprive you of discovery, and I would be no friend to you if I robbed you of whatever pleasure you can wrest from our utopian prison. But, I will tell you that you are fated to do good, still.” Raphael heard disappointment in Charles’ discovery. “When I need you, I will call you." Fate replaced the ledger and reached for his cartoon pen, a thin reed of ebony with wire barbs for nibs. "You're dismissed, Messenger."

  Humbled ungraciously, Raphael returned to his quarters. Time's cruelty had made Fate bitter. It was understandable. Outside the bedroom, men desire certainty and women variety. Inside the bedroom, passion reverses those desires—and Fate calls Time capricious! But when Charles directed his cruelty toward his Messengers, it was dangerous. More than one Messenger had not withstood the temptation to pass the bitterness on to humans in the form of cynicism, and cynicism made humans cruel.

  Before men knew the world was round, they took comfort in knowing the heavens contained Heaven and slept unafraid of Death. Only fears of hell nagged his slumber. Once enlightened, men were corrupted by the cynicism of the Messengers, and charlatans and prophets alike preyed on their desire to cheat Death.

  “I’ll not leave you, Albion Rector,” Raphael silently promised as he gazed out at the planets in their silent, endless ablutions to the Master. “If I must be only a Messenger, I guarantee my messages will be true. Death is not your enemy. There are far more terrifying threats around you."

  The Challenge

  “It’s kind of you to invite me here, Charles,” Raphael said as he tossed the blue envelope into the trashcan. “Such lovely calligraphy could only have been done by a master. But, why the formality? Have you reconsidered my request to become a Muse?”

  Fate winced. It was difficult to be addressed so familiarly by one so young. Impertinence called for business seating. He snapped his fingers and the two gold velvet slipper chairs turned into black leather fauteuil a la reines. “Unworthy as you are, Death can be more tiresome. I turn to you for levity. Please sit down. Please,” Fate said as he sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Raphael to join him, but Raphael’s eyes were focused on the on a yellowed skull that rested on the desk in front of them. “You might not have come if you knew the invitation was from an old bore like Death.”

  “You’re pretending we’re allies, but it won't work. Who’s skull is this?” Raphael said

  “A gift from the Dark One. He’s says it belonged to Einstein—I ask you. Death imagines himself a jokester and me an imbecile. Would a man like Einstein have such a small forehead?”

  “I don’t know. It looks much like others I’ve seen.”

  Charles sighed. “Yes, well, I’m measuring its bumps to discover whether it belonged to a genius.”

  “You can do that?” Raphael ran his finger over the bony artifact.

  “Oh, good grief, no.” Charles took hold of it and placed it on a shelf to the right of his desk. “Personalities aside, Death believes you have the wherewithal to save Francesca Grasinski from a tragic mistake.” He turned and smiled. “I believe otherwise, of course."

  "Do I know her?"

  "Do any of us ever really know someone?”

  Raphael felt himself grow cold as he took his seat. “What about her?”

  “Death let it slip that she's been asking him to deliver her. I followed her name-thread through the Channels of Eternity and she’s fated to suicide unless…” Charles the Charming went to the sideboard and brought back a tray of glasse
s and a decanter of brandy. He offered Raphael a drink, and the graceful fingers wrapped themselves around the snifter.

  “Death wants her rescued? Why?” Rafael said.

  “Who wouldn’t want to rescue a Pole who survived the Great Patriotic War?”

  “True enough.” Raphael sipped the warm liqueur, feeling it glide over his tongue. Yet, he remained apprehensive. Though Fate often tossed sarcasm in with fact, the fact was embattled and betrayed Poland was the first country to resist Hitler, the only country that produced no Quisling, and the nation that paid most dearly for fighting fascism. “I haven’t the talent or the fortitude to paint dreams for the survivors of that war. You’ve assigned Blessed Angelico to them.”

  “Don’t trifle with me, Raphael. You’ve been shadowing Francesca for years.”

  Also true. He'd accidentally stumbled into Francesca’s dreamscape one night and found it beautiful as only a desert can be, vast and intense, whether hot or cold. While other women her age were dreaming of cottages and gardens full of laughing grandchildren, Francesca was dreaming of a wasteland littered with the rotting corpses of murdered friends and family, burying and reburying their savaged flesh in the torment of survivor’s guilt. She’d fought the good fight and now, at eighty-one, desired to be left alone. Quickly ejected from her dream, he’d moved on.

  Yet, he followed her in her daydreams, completely ethical because Reality was in control. At any time, she could banish a Messenger simply by refocusing her attention, as all who seek to avoid self-reflection do. Not one to languish in her internal world, she always did so, piquing his curiosity even more. “You’ll forgive my incredulity at Death’s concern for one aging war survivor, Charles. Where was his mercy for the millions she mourns?”

  Charles shook his head is mock disbelief. “Yes, yes. A questions of mortals he’s never answered. Still, he had me write you an invitation, didn’t he?” Charles fished the invitation from the wastebasket and handed it to Raphael who opened it and was instantly where his wondering took him—the great stone Fortress of Forever where Death stood waiting.

  ****

  “Those who suffer consider me merciful and curse me when I tarry, Raphael. You only see me as the thief in the night, they see me as a welcomes guest.” Death removed his black hood and Raphael was suddenly staring into a beautiful face and kindly eyes. A workman’s hand reached out to him, and Raphael shook the warm flesh that now covered those awful bones. “Hell is full. I have no room for Grasinski,” Death said, and ushered Raphael through a twenty-foot redwood door.

  Raphael snickered. “Death has a storage problem?” He looked down an endless hallway of grey cell doors. He heard no sound, and turned to Death for an explanation only to find the Dark One had returned to his dreaded form. Death raised a skeletal finger to where his lips should have been and slowly swayed his head back and forth in admonishment. This was the silence of the grave. Endless. Empty.

  The noiselessness rested heavy on Raphael's shoulders. Walking miles through the maze of somber corridors, he began to lose the memory of sound. He cleared his throat to remind him he was still present, fearing he would lose even the memory of his own self if he did not produce some evidence of something.

  Death stopped only once, dropping to his knees and tugging Raphael to the floor. Raphael was grateful for the rest, and curious too about the brilliant glowing crimson that adorned the doorway of the cell before them. It was the first color he had seen in hours and a sign of life delighted his eyes. Who's in there? he wanted to ask.

  Sensing his hunger to know, Death leaned close to Raphael, took his hand, and with a chip of charcoal drew a fish in his palm. Recognizing the ancient symbol for Christ, Raphael understood: The burning red was the Blood the Lamb. Death rose and directed Raphael’s attention to a name carved above the door: JUDAS.

  The reality of where he was broke through to his consciousness. This was the Corridor of the Suicides. Here there was no fire and brimstone, no screaming or gnashing of teeth. No demons. No pain. No agony. Here there was nothing. Nothing because pain and agony were the tortures reserved for those who believed their god-given lives were more important than anything in the universe, reserved for those who were angry when their life was stolen by murder or lost by accident. But the suicide believed his life belonged to him alone, his to throw away, and that life was, in the end, worthless.

  Here was Vergil’s horror and silences of hell. And insanity, Raphael added as they moved on, turning from one long hall to another, walking. Walking, exhausted from the monochromatic monotony, Raphael pulled at Death’s sleeve and motioned he was thirsty. Death ignored his complaint, pointed to a cell, and directed Raphael to peer inside through a narrow window. Inside was an emaciated naked man sitting rigid on a stone slab, staring at the wall.

  “Reveal this to Grasinski, Raphael,” Death instructed as Raphael felt himself traveling in the wind. “Tell her, she needn’t come. He whom she seeks is here forever.” Instantly, they were back in the Fortress’ great room before a blue-flamed fire raging in a steel and granite framed hearth. And on a long stone table, a pitcher of clear water.

  “You mock me,” Raphael replied, approaching the ewer with feigned indifference. “Messengers only deliver information. To persuade her of the truth of your message, I would need to inspire her. Charles says I’m not able.” Once his hand gripped the handle, he could not restrain himself and drank it dry with earthly thirst.

  “You quiver before the task, afraid to attempt the impossible. Why? Grasinski isn’t worth your efforts because she is, what, too old? Or are you in need of inspiration yourself, you who aspire to be a Muse. You believe transformation is as simple as desiring it? Ha! A fine goal you’ve set for yourself. Now achieve it.” Death waved him off like a mosquito.

  ****

  As though awakened from a trance, Raphael was back in Charles’ office, pondering both the enormity of the task Death set before him like Eurystheus’ labors for Hercules, and the sweet reward for fulfilling it. “How long before Grasinski takes her life, Charles?”

  “A year.”

  “How am I to reach her when she has long ago given up the dreams of the living?” Raphael wondered aloud. Charles put down the skull he was examining, sidled up to him, and leaned his head towards Raphael’s ear.

  “Look into her soul,” Charles said so softly Raphael barely heard.

  Raphael wrenched himself away. “I will not. I cannot.”

  “You invade dreams, read minds, and search hearts—why not mine souls? That’s where Truth resides.” Charles’ voice was like a knife spreading honey.

  “It is forbidden.” Raphael said. The Spirit World was not immune from hellish pretensions or heavenly sanctions. “Souls have no trespassing signs because they are God’s creation. ”

  “Three’s a crowd, eh, Messenger?”

  “Every world lives by rules—they’re the price we pay for existence.”

  Charles returned to his skull. He held it above his head, the sunlight shining forth through its eye sockets like a lit lantern, and directed the beams to Raphael’s chest—a man destined to do good who had no heart. A man not made of flesh and blood, nor tin or steel. A Renaissance Superhero. The thought made Charles laugh. “As long as you know what the rules are. Good Luck to you, Messenger.”

  ****

  Francesca was fussing in her pocketbook for her change purse. With its broken clasp, she kept her change in a zippered side pocket that’s material always snagged when she tried to retrieve it. She handed the florist a dollar and he handed her a white rose wrapped in green paper, and tied with a white ribbon. Again in the humid San Diego air, she held it close to her chest as she haltingly made her way to the steep stairs leading to the Ocean Beach shores, too absorbed in her trek to shift her mind away from her biography.

  She’s tired, and rightly so. She’s a million light years away from Warsaw of 1944, Raphael observed. She dropped to her knees in the sand, leaned back on her heels, and watched the sunse
t. She’s remembering the chateau outside the city, where her parents brought their five children every summer. She’s remembering how they hid in the wine cellar, while she, by some quirk of Fate known only to him, was closer to the root cellar. She’d crawled in among the potatoes and onions, and waited, listened as the soldiers dragged the family into the garden, raped her mother and sisters before their screams turned to moans, and the moans to gunshots, and gunshots to the roar of invading mortars.

  The noise grew faint as the column moved into Warsaw, but Francesca had waited until the thin shafts of light, slicing through the wooden slats, disappeared completely before emerging from her dirt cocoon. Perhaps someone had still been alive. Perhaps she could have saved even one if she had gone to them instead of cowering in the dank, dark hole.

  “See sunsets for them. Live a happy life for them. Know joy for them,” Father Butkiewicz had told her in the confessional. “They forgive you. Your parents wanted you to live else they wouldn't have tried to hide their children.” She left the priest two potatoes. They hadn’t kept him alive. When she returned the next Friday, she found his bullet-ridden body rotting in the church. Nazis were particularly harsh towards the priests. Polish resistance was mostly Catholic resistance. Even the Socialists abandoned their atheism for the sacred oath: