"Watchman, How Much Longer the Night?"
Canto I
Things That Go Bump in the Night
Scene 1
"From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us!"
— Cornish saying
Vance Brennan hid a smile as he looked out through the window in the bullet proof shield surrounding the gas-station counter. It was 3 AM, and the woman in front of him, dressed in a housecoat and sandals, was digging through a Ziploc bag of loose change to come up with money for cigarettes. Working here, a man sees just about every kind of person, Vance thought to himself. That's what he liked about the job, really. Especially third shift, when the city took on an almost unreal quality as it was taken over by drunks, gang members, insomniacs, disinterested cops, hooligans, truckers and ambulance drivers, all looking for gas, cigarettes, coffee, pretzels—trying to keep themselves alert, or just searching for whatever they had a jones for.
They walked from the other-worldly yellow lighting of the pump and parking area into the store like a parade of zombies on most nights, but every now and then he'd get a live wire. Some cop hyped on adrenaline from a recent call, an over-talkative cab driver, or a stoned kid trying to steal beer.
As he patiently watched the woman count through her change—now down to counting the rest out in pennies—he noticed that the man filling his tank at pump #2 looked nervous. Nervous types were sometimes trouble, so he wrote down the man's license number with his right hand as he handed the woman's cigarettes over with his left, thanking her and wishing her a pleasant night. When he looked back up at the man at the pumps, the man was looking straight back at Vance. His teeth were long and strangely chiseled, and head was too large for his body, and its eyes were too small and too bright. The man's skin was a sickly gray color, and he looked, well, hungry. Vance blinked hard and took another look at the man. No, just a normal guy, putting the pump handle back on the pump and pulling out his receipt. But for that moment...
Vance's friends would cough up the strange vision to his overactive imagination and penchant for watching the Horror Channel. But Vance looked at horror films and novels with a different eye than most. He remembered some rabbi writing that "All stories are true. Some of them actually happened." His eccentric uncle used to say, "All stories are true, if you believe them." OK, maybe he did have an overactive imagination, but there is always a piece of truth that gives life to even the strangest stories. At least I have interesting hallucinations, Vance thought as the man drove off.
Scene 2
"A dream that comes only once is oftenest only an idle accident, and hasn't any message, but the recurrent dream is quite another matter... oftener than not it has come on business."
— Mark Twain, Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes
Jimmy Garfield rolled around restlessly in his sleep, then gasped into wakefulness, internally complaining about his weird dreams. Night after night recently, seeing buildings blowing up, or people detonating themselves. As he looked around his bedroom, he could still smell the explosives.
Tonight's dream was even stranger than usual. He has been looking in the 3rd story window of a building, seeing a man place pipe bombs into a backpack. Then the man had turned, met his gaze through the window, and detonated the pack. The sights, sounds and smells stayed with him as he got up and got a drink of water and stared out the apartment window. A thought itched at his mind: I know where that building is. I don't know how I know it, but I do.
The apparent obstacle of looking in through a third-story window didn't phase him. He did that all the time. Part of his... hobby, one might say. Even though he didn't have job at the moment, his hobby was able to provide him with sufficient funds to pay for his small apartment and other expenses, as long as he didn't get greedy. He had even saved up quite a nest egg. The hobby? He was a cat burglar. Housebreaker. Operator. Owl. Pilferer. Prowler. Porch climber. Second-story man. Sneak. Basically, a thief with considerable climbing skills and little fear of heights.
Explosives? That would be a real nightmare. Jimmy fervently hoped he would never caught in such a helpless situation. He looked around nervously. Why isn't the smell of the explosives going away?
Scene 3
"Did you sleep well?"
"No, I made a couple of mistakes."
— Steven Wright
Vance stared at his blank television screen, pondering his strange visions. Here and there, he imagined he saw people with fangs. Or claws. Or horns. Or misshapen features. The wall behind him was covered with newspaper and magazine articles about paranormal events, unexplained attacks, reports of "monsters", and other unusual occurrences. He might have given some credence to the theory that his sanity was slipping, but he had noticed that the percentage of such strange reports had grown dramatically in the Chicago area over the past year. Something was going on. And, maybe his sanity was slipping, too.
The image on the TV was of a car turning onto a residential street of closely spaced little houses. The man got out of an old black Buick, but he was covered in blood. The Buick—That was the same man and the same car that were at the station last night... He blinked hard and looked at the screen again. The TV was still off. Had he dozed off in the chair?
He hadn't slept in a day, but going without sleep usually wasn't very hard for Vance. He could go for days with just an hour's rest here and there. He wasn't drowsy, so how had he dreamt of seeing something on the TV? How had he seen the monster at the station? Why were his dreams so crazy lately? This was like a scene out of one of those horror stories. Vampires and such. He got up and walked over to his desk. Under the desk was a dusty briefcase. He pulled it out, opened it and looked at the contents: a silver-edged knife, some holy water, and a large sterling cross. Yeah, he was certifiably nuts anyway. But he was sure there was something to the stories. The briefcase was for... just in case.
Vance awoke to the sound of wind. In my apartment? The wind was both far-off and yet very near, although he could not feel it. Awe caught in his throat as he looked up to see an impression of a noble figure, with eyes like a deep starry night, standing before his reclining chair. The air in the room had a charged, heavy quality, and the hair on his arms stood on end. He had a faint impression of a shifting, blue-black mantle around the being, iridescent as a magpie's wings. A ghost?... No. This has got to be the strangest dream yet. Vance was frozen in place in fear.
A clear voice whispered throughout the room and throughout his head. "Vance. Do not be afraid. I am an angel of God, sent to you."
The voice was calming, the smile on the angels face was gentle, but Vance could not find his voice.
"I am the one called Michael, and I come to you because you are among the chosen elect. Your name is inscribed in my book. From his day forward, you will carry a sword in heaven's name."
Vance pulled the recliner upright and tried to stand, but fell to his knees, overwhelmed.
"I... I... I don't get it," Vance finally uttered. "Am I mad?"
Michael smiled. "It's OK. The Almighty One sees all, and... 'gets it'. Your sanity is as it ever was. Sleep now, and dream..." Vance had one last thought as he fell into a slumber: Woah.
Scene 4
"See, now is the acceptable time."
— 2 Corinthians 6:2 (NRSV)
Dawn was still a couple of hours away. Jimmy felt alert, but the room was swimming, as if something was stirring the air. Then, a slender yet powerful figure stood before him, indistinctly robed in a greenish shimmer of rainbow and sunlight that did not declare the being either male or female. Softly curling hair the color of ripe chestnuts, tumbling shoulder-long, framed a face of such indescribable beauty and strength that he wept to see it. For a long moment, the being simply gazed into his eyes, the beautiful face filled with a expression of incredible compassion.
"James Garfield, I come to you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
Alternating emotions of joy, deep sadness, wonder, fear and shock oscillated through Jimmy. "Who...?" is all he managed to breath out.
"I am Raphael, an angel of God, sent to you because you are to be numbered among the chosen. Adonai calls you to service."
"What do I need to do?"
"Your dreams: pursue them. You shall be a foil in the plans of the Adversary."
"When? Why?" whispered Jimmy.
"Now is the acceptable time. The enemy's plans are in motion. The One who is sends me to you in this time of need. Dream now. Your time to act is nearly upon you."
:: End Canto 1 ::
7th Seal Image: Pat Loboyko. ©2005 Scott Mitchell.
St. Michael, as depicted in a stained glass window at St. Mary's Church in Grand Rapids, MI.
Image ©2003, St. Mary's Church.
