"Watchman, How Much Longer the Night?"
Canto III
Investiture
Scene 1
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."
— Albert Einstein
Vance was talking to Michael again, standing in a park somewhere. Vance knew it was a dream, because he didn't know how he had gotten there, or when or even where there was. The figure of Michael was not visible except for a swirling iridescence, but Vance just talked into the air as he paced.
"Why did you send me out to tail this guy? It wasn't like the dream. And I lost him. What good did it do?"
Michael waited patiently as Vance ranted, then answered, "The dream did not come true, because of your actions."
"So... that's it? He's just going to go home and behave himself?" Vance demanded.
"Because he noticed you, he will not act so boldly for some time."
"Wasn't I supposed to catch him, or follow him somewhere?"
"Eventually. For now, it is sufficient that a child still lives, and that he will hunt more cautiously," Michaels voice sounded gently.
"Hunt?" exclaimed Vance, pacing back and forth across the grass. "What is this guy, an animal of some kind?"
"No," said Michael. "He was quite human, but now lives outside the natural order. He is an agent of the Wicked One, intoxicated by desire and hatred for the living. He perpetuates his existence by feeding off the blood of his victims."
"A vampire?" Vance asked incredulously.
"Sort of. In your searching you will come across the name Akhkharu. This is the name which will lead you to what you need to know."
"I still don't get it. I don't go to church. I don't know any theology. I'm not exactly stable... wait, unless the unstable part is your doing."
Michael's smile could be heard in his voice. "In order to prepare you for the seeds of our conversations, it was necessary to till the soil of your soul a little first. As for who is chosen or not chosen... know that God deliberately chooses you, Vance Brennan of Chicago."
"So, what's the catch?" asked Vance.
"The catch is, that this path will not be easy," explained Michael. "The agents of darkness are not weak. They are merciless and cruel. They will hunt you, and destroy you if they cannot bring you to despair first."
Vance thought about that for a minute. "Despair?" he asked.
"If you give up hope, then you give up your soul to the Adversary. In the face of all difficulty, you must not let go of hope. If they can claim your soul, it is a great victory for them."
Vance questioned Michael at length under the trees of the park in the vision. Eventually, Vance stopped and threw up his arms.
"So now what?"
"Now, you decide," replied Michael.
"Decide what?" Vance asked. "I just asked, so how can I decide what I don't know?"
"Now that you know a little of what I am asking, it is time to decide if you will accept this call, or not."
Vance stared out into the swirling iridescence he had come to think of as the angel's 'wings.'
"You mean I can say no?"
"You have free will. I can show you the path, but you must choose to walk it."
"I... I can't possibly say no. This is the first time in many years I've felt as if I have a purpose. Count me in. And give me guidance."
"Welcome to the Order, Vance Brennan of Chicago. And guidance shall be yours..."
Scene 2
"How can you see into my eyes like open doors, leading you down into my core where I've become so numb? Without a soul, my spirit sleeping somewhere cold, until you find it there and lead it back home."
— Evanescence, Bring Me to Life
When Vance woke up again, it was broad daylight. What day is it? Did I miss work? Wow. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. As he glanced around, he realized that he had never really noticed the weave of the fabric on the recliner, and the pattern of wear that showed its age. He could hear the sounds of his neighbors as they walked down the stairwell toward the street level, and smell the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Everything around him was in focus, as if he were really awake for the first time. Am I drugged?
A familiar voice answered him: It is the Sentinel's sight. Learn to see what is hidden, such as the mark on you right hand.
Vance raised his palm and looked upon a strange symbol glowing through his skin, an upright sword like a cross.
This mark, and others like it, are given to all of the chosen. Likewise, the mark of the Beast is given to those who serve the Legion. You will dream of other Sentinels. Seek them out, and be wary. The world is far less safe for you now. You will need them, and they will need you.
Suddenly, Vance knew Michael was gone. Even though he lived the life of a loner, now he felt really alone. He stared at the supernatural mark on his hand for a while, and then got up to take a shower. Everything has changed, now, hasn't it?
Scene 3
"I ran into a juke joint when I heard a guitar scream | The notes were turning blue, I was dazing in a dream | As the music played I saw my life turn around | That was the day before love came to town"
— U2, When Love Comes to Town
Billy Jim Cole flipped aimlessly through the stacks of CD's in the Virgin Entertainment megastore. His eyes kept wandering back to the rack that included the CD's put out by his band. Former band, he chided himself. "Trigger Happy," was a regional blues favorite in the clubs and bars. Billy had been a popular fixture of the band, perched on his stool with a microphone and a harp, wailing away. It was the band that he would miss the most, the adulation of the crowd, the tight music-making. Everything changed when Uriel came calling.
Actually, it wasn't so much that everything else changed. The world was still the same. Billy was changed. Awake. Aware. Alive. Everything before now looked like sleepwalking in hindsight. And that change revealed not only the true beauty of the world, but also the rotten decay of society and the scheming agents of the Adversary.
Even before he had fully accepted Uriel's call, he had been sent out to confront one of those Marked in service to the Legion. It was someone he knew... no other than Gregory, the lead of Trigger Happy. Gregory was a guitarist of unreal talent. Bound for fame. In truth, Billy now knew that Gregory had promised his soul to the Legion. Billy had always thought the stories of selling one's soul for talent and fame was quaint. Then his eyes were opened. In his dreams, he saw that the confrontation would kill the band. That hurt. But there was no way around it.
The band was history now. The confrontation had been deliberately public. Billy smiled as he remembered the look on Gregory's face when Billy stormed into the bar and began yelling.
"You sick bastard! How could you! SHE WAS ONLY FOUR-TEEN!" And so on.
Truth be told, Billy Jim didn't know anything about Gregory being with an underage girl. The thought just... came to him. However, the look on Gregory's face indicated that, somehow, Billy had struck close to the truth, if not hit the bull's-eye. The bar had been filled with fans, a representative of their distribution company, and other patrons. Now the record distribution deals were gone and reporters were having a field day. It would be some time before Gregory could put together another band and slink out from under the rock where he was hiding now.
Billy would have liked to pick up a spot in another band, but that was too risky. I have made some powerful enemies. He had spotted Gregory once since the confrontation. Billy could now see the mark of the Beast, a goat-like sigil on Gregory's forehead. The sleeping masses of humanity could not see it, of course. That is how the Legion operated. Hiding in plain sight. God help us.
Scene 4
Boy: "Do not try and bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth."
Neo: "What truth?"
Boy: "There is no spoon."
Neo: "There is no spoon?"
Boy: "Then you'll see, that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself."
— The Matrix
Rabecka danced her fingers across the keyboard of her laptop briefly, and then watched the screen patiently for the results. There! She was in. An hour later, satisfied that she had covered her tracks sufficiently, she closed the screen on the computer, and started the car. Sometimes, it was just easier to tap into an unsecured wireless hotspot than it was to get inside someplace and hook up for internet access. And, as an added bonus, the random wireless hotspot also helped make her harder to track. A handy skill, but sadly unsuited to many legitimate uses.
Until Raguel had come along. Archangel of God and all that. That was a fine enough stamp of legitimacy for her. His first visit had certainly been a shock! Almost literally, Rabecka thought, remembering that he was bathed in a force that seemed to be like static electricity. Out of the corner of an eye, the force almost seemed to be wings. I understand now that the biblical visionaries were also stumped for words when trying to describe what they saw. She had tried to write down some of what she had experienced, but everything seemed inadequate. And there was no way to write about this stuff on her blog.
Rab was almost always playing with a computer, at least when she wasn't playing with her hair. She wasn't, well, pretty, but she had found ways to customize her appearance. In addition to her piercings and makeup, Rab had augmented her "goth" appearance by growing her basic brown hair out into dreadlocks, and then coloring the dreadlocks in hues of purple, pink and blue. Just for fun, her bangs were teal. On the one hand, with her colored hair and body piercings, she stood out in certain crowds. On the other hand, when it suited her, she could find ways to blend in, especially in big city crowds. If she wore a cap, as she sometimes did, she became just another plain-faced goth chick in the city.
Rabecka sighed as she passed Northwestern University. Before Raguel had placed the symbol on her hand, the one that vaguely resembled the earth, she had been sent to the university to ferret out some key information. Right now, that boiled down to a username and password, a memory of the woman's face. She had no idea what to do with that information yet, but she trusted that time would tell. Since she had "taken the red pill", as she called it, seemingly unrelated pieces of information had a way of coming together for her. And in any struggle, information was power.
Scene 5
"We are not prepared to stand idly by and be murdered in our beds."
— Rev. Ian Paisley, Northern Ireland politician and church leader
Sean O'Hara stopped cold when he opened his apartment door. The place was in shambles. Admittedly, it didn't look that great normally, but today it was obvious that someone else had been there and ransacked everything. He glanced down at the ramshorn-shaped symbol glowing on his right palm. Since he had accepted the offer to join the order of Gabriel, everything that had been normal had started going to Hell in a hand basket. Of course, there was no guarantee that life would be any better had the angel never appeared, but in his heart, he knew the truth. When I said 'yes,' I knew that things would change. I just didn't fully comprehend what that might mean, despite Gabriel's honest assessment of the price.
In retrospect, Sean recognized that he had been living with a subconscious dissatisfaction with his life for quite some time. By the time Gabriel appeared, he had a deep craving to change something, to break out of the rut, to find a way to address the hole in his being that was never satisfied with his job, his friends, his latest "project" (as he called them).
Sean was a good-lookin', smooth-talkin', hard-drinking, easy-going kind of guy, born to a family of Irish immigrants. He was the kind of person that others seemed to enjoy being around. He was very successful working a commission sales job selling furniture (he could always talk people into more than they intended to buy), and he could strike up a conversation with complete strangers in the street or market and have people think of him as a friend within minutes. For all of that, he kept to himself a lot. It allowed him to avoid answering too many questions.
You see, Sean's so-called projects sometimes required covering up his tracks. Like last month's "investment opportunity", which earned him more than a few dollars, but left several others wondering how to find him so they could strangle him. He had a contact that arranged exquisite counterfeit identification and credential papers, which he used very effectively, so no one should have been able to track him here.
Sean took a close look at the lock and latch on the apartment door. The lock had been picked, or opened with a key, perhaps, but not forced. He waded through the debris—sofa cushions, clothes, cereal boxes, books, paper napkins, junk mail, shoes—and found the phone near the entrance to the bedroom. He glanced around again before reaching for the phone to call the police, his eyes settling on the overstuffed chair near the television set. The cushions of the chair were still in place. Looking around the apartment confirmed his suspicions: everything else had been taken apart.
Cautiously, he stepped over the chair. It looks fine. That's what worries me. He ran his hands over the back of the chair, over the arm rests, and over the seat cushion. Something's not right. Removing the cushion, he could see that a rip had been made into the body of the chair. Poking into the opening, Sean could see clear plastic filled with something white. Holy *#&^! This was certainly not there earlier this week when he swept popcorn crumbs out of the chair. That looks just like a package of cocaine does on the TV cop shows.
Sean realized suddenly that if he had called the police, they would have looked through the apartment for clues. And, (not by accident, Sean was sure), they would have found this package. He pulled it out of the chair. This has got to be half a kilo. They ruined my chair! There would be no calling the police now. Carrying the bag, Sean stepped into the bathroom and began flushing the powder carefully down the toilet.
This stinks to high heaven, it does. Sean checked his jacket pocket for the printout. If I had left this here, they would have found it, no doubt. A few days earlier, his dreams had led him to slip into a company's headquarters downtown and bluff his way to the CFO's secretary. Talking his way into and out of situations was Sean's specialty. Even so, it was a minor miracle that he convinced her to step away from her desk and leave him alone in the reception area of the executive suite. He had followed his dream's promptings and printed out a copy of the spreadsheet the woman had been working on. He managed to slip the printed pages into his pants before she returned from the CFO's office. He thought that he actually got away with it. Sean was no accountant, but a later look at the printout seemed to suggest that the finances of the company were being kept in two sets of books: actual and reported.
After Sean had straightened up most of the mess in the apartment, he had figured out three things. One, that he didn't really get away with it. Two, that he must have been recorded on security cameras when he went in for the printout. Three, that since they took the effort to track him down and try to frame him with some very expensive props, that they must be hiding more than even Sean knew. In addition to the cocaine, Sean had found a small bundle of credit cards bearing various names (obviously stolen) and a sock full of noticeably counterfeit $20 bills. He would have lived in prison for the rest of his life before they were done with him.
I can't stay here. They know who I am, and they are not in the mood to play fair.
:: End Canto 3 ::
7th Seal Image: Pat Loboyko. ©2005 Scott Mitchell.
A vision of the archangel Uriel.
Image courtesy of Margé Getrouw and Lichtdrager Creations.
