"Watchman, How Much Longer the Night?"

Canto VII

Whom Shall I Send?

Scene 1

"He found himself able to see each falling grain, distinct and unique; and he knew then he was dreaming."
— Neil Gaiman, from Sandman #39: Soft Places

In Vance's dream, there were newspapers spread out all over his apartment. Whole pages were pinned to the wall, laid out on the floor and draped over the furniture. When Vance looked closely at the pages, he could see the headlines. Dead man lives! Bridgeport victim bleeds to death at home. Drawing gets freshman expelled. Laski's police bodyguards are removed. U.S. says dentist laundered money for prostitution ring. Anti-Semitic graffiti is found on wall of Northwestern dorm.

The headlines were clear, but Vance couldn't make out the dates, and any details he read in the articles simply drifted through and out of his mind like smoke in the wind. There's a pattern here somewhere, I just can't see it! As he continued to wander among the papers, he noticed that some of the papers were stained. Red spots, blotches, even large areas of rust-colored stains where blood had spattered, dripped, or pooled. Vance was both revolted and fascinated.

And these papers, here on the dining room table... Murder suspect in black van sought. Freak storm pounds Palos Hills. No leads in case of missing teen. The headlines were clear, but there was an odor of smoke. The edges of the newspapers on the table began to darken and curl up. Little flames explored the margins. Robbery suspect killed; 2 cohorts charged. Man dies after dog falls from overpass, hits car. Vance desperately tried to read the rest of the headlines before the papers were consumed, but the flame moved quickly from the edges to the center.

A moment later, all that remained was a dusting of ashes across the table. Motes of soot drifted slowly through the air in previously unseen currents. To Vance, the floating dust seemed as a great crowd of people: dancing, pausing, running, screaming, falling. Each particle was distinct and clear, but every one of them were fated to share the same end. Each would fall. And each would be swept up, to be dumped into the rubbish.

As Vance looked around, all of the papers in the room were gone, and everything was covered with a fine layer of ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Scene 2

"The adventures first… explanations take such a dreadful time."
— the Gryphon, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll)

Jimmy Garfield walked rather aimlessly down the sidewalk in the mid-morning light. Rush hour was gone, and the traffic in this residential neighborhood had eased up considerably. Not much going on here, unless you were leaving home or coming back. For Jimmy, he was in the "not much" category.

He had been unable to sleep, and finally just gave up and rolled out of bed sometime between five and six AM. The time didn't matter much, these days. After a shower and a bag of peanuts for breakfast, he had wandered out onto the street, to give his mind the room it needed to do its own wandering.

His life was full of change and stress; however, the stress of one little detail was the most prominent thorn in his mind. For the first time in, well, God knows how long, Jimmy was wrestling with his conscience. And losing, as far as he was concerned.

I've made my living exclusively from burglary for four years. Now, all of a sudden, I talk to angels. What's more, Raphael talks to me. Now that I've had a 'conversion'—if that's what you can call it—I can't do the cat-burglar thing any more. Not as a job. Not as a hobby. Jimmy felt Anxiety step up next to him and give him a big hug. A long hug. One that didn't seem to be ending.

So, what can I do for a job? What are my job skills? Hmmm. Climbing. I'm ambidextrous. I've got good reflexes. I am almost always well-aware of my surroundings. I can get around quietly and hide in shadows. Jimmy subconsciously waited for the crosswalk signal to change to green before he crossed the street. I can pick locks and I know how to bypass security alarms. I know how to use a rope. I'm not afraid of heights. I can hear more—and understand what I hear better—than most people, although I'm not very musically inclined. So far, I've got the perfect skill set for being... a cat burglar. This sucks. What is an accomplished sneak supposed to do on the side of the good guys?

This could all be a moot point, anyway. I am a fugitive, although my adversaries don't seem to know about me yet. If the conflict is as serious as it seems to be, I won't be safe holding down a steady job. I won't be safe in my apartment, or any apartment for long. I'll pretty much be homeless. I won't be safe on the street, either. So, face it, being safe is off the menu. So, apparently, are answers. Jimmy entertained imaginary scenes of himself working as a fast-food cashier, as a grocery bagger, as a construction worker, as a rock-climbing instructor, as a cop, as an office worker, as a taxi driver. Each of the possibilities seemed as preposterous as the next. Except maybe the taxi driver thing. Naw.

The hum of the city provided a background for the other sounds of the street filtering into Jimmy's subconscious. The clink of a dog's tags against its collar. A door closing. Someone dropping their keys in the distance. The conversation of a pair of workers in the bucket of the utility truck just ahead. The low rumble of an old red wagon, being pulled down the other sidewalk as someone carted groceries home. The acceleration of a car coming up the street behind him.

Jimmy paused, and then reflexively stepped to the far right of the sidewalk. The car he heard was still accelerating, and now moving way too fast for the street. As his ears tracked the car, he could sense that it was not going to be a danger to him on the sidewalk, so he relaxed and turned to see what kind of lunatic would try to get a car moving so fast down such a narrow street.

The car may not have been a danger to anyone on the sidewalk, but the driver, gaining speed very quickly, was obviously going to be dangerous to somebody. As Jimmy turned his head to observe, the car revved past him. Then, the driver miscalculated. Just a little. Just enough to clip the rear corner of the utility truck, sending automotive debris into the air from the front passenger side of the car as the vehicle swerved away. The reckless driver let off the gas long enough to gain control of the car, and then sped away.

A later appraisal of the scene would reveal that the utility truck didn't suffer a lot of damage. The rear bumper of the truck was, of course, far sturdier than the fender of the car. The effect of the impact on the utility workers, however, was dramatic. Standing in the bucket a the end of the extended boom, they were whipped about so violently that both men were thrown from the bucket. One of them was secured with a safety line, but the other fell twenty feet to the sidewalk and lay still.

Jimmy began sprinting toward the accident before the man even hit the ground. By the time other bystanders were just beginning to react, Jimmy was already kneeling at the side of the fallen worker. The man's nose was bloody, and one of his arms had gained an extra elbow. In the face of the crisis, Jimmy was instantly centered and calm, the worries of his life temporarily put aside.

"The power of the Lord was with him to heal," Jimmy heard in his mind. You, too, have been given the gift of healing.

Again? Jimmy was incredulous. He had felt the power flow through him when he spoke with the ailing priest at the run-down church, but hadn't believed that the power would be available for him to call on when he chose.

Heal him, said the voice confidently.

Jimmy had started to learn to trust that voice. Remaining on his knees, Jimmy held his hands close to the man's head and torso, and began to pray. God above, I do not know what words or what actions will bring healing to this man. But I trust that you will do as you say, and that this man will be healed.

After a time—it couldn't have been very long—the man groaned and Jimmy opened his eyes. The injured man reached over and pulled on the wrist of his broken arm with his good hand, and the arm straightened. A look of surprise filled the man's face as he realized the pain was fading. His nose was no longer bleeding. A sharp intake of breath among the gathering crowd expressed both their relief and unbelief that the man's injuries seemed minor. Jimmy had felt the power flow through him twice now, but was still almost as surprised as everyone else at the result.

A cry from the man dangling from the utility truck's bucket brought Jimmy's attention back into focus. Appraising the scene, at a glance Jimmy could see that the man was injured. Time to get him down, but... Jimmy ran at the back of the truck, looking at the controls that allowed the boom to be controlled from the ground. I have no clue how to work this, and if I make a mistake, I'll probably drag the man through the wires. Not good. After only a moment's hesitation, Jimmy leapt up onto the truck and quickly monkey-walked up the boom, arriving in the bucket to the sound of the crowd's appreciative murmurs.

Looking over the edge, Jimmy met the eyes of the man dangling from the safety strap, too far away from the rim of the bucket to reach up and pull himself to safety. Glancing down at the clasp at the end of the safety strap attached to the bucket, Jimmy could see that the aging hook had been bent open from the force of catching the man's weight. One wrong move, and the clasp would fail completely.

"Pull me up!" breathed the man, who was obviously in significant pain. Quickly, Jimmy reached over, pulled up on the strap and helped the worker back into the bucket. The man was unable to stand on his left leg, and leaned heavily against Jimmy.

"I'm not sure I can control this thing very well," said Jimmy, motioning to the controls. "We'll be better off if you drive."

"Yeah. Sure…" the man continued to chatter on gratefully and began bringing the bucket down. Jimmy wasn't really listening as he called once again on the divine healing power. By the time the worker had docked the boom in its place on the top of the truck, it was done.

The worker turned, wide-eyed, to Jimmy, tentatively testing his balance. "Hey! I... I think I'm doing better now. I was sure I was really messed up, but..." The man tested each of his limbs and ran his hands up and down his left leg.

"Can you climb down?" Jimmy asked.

"I think so,'' said the man. He tentatively swung his leg up and over the edge of the bucket, waiting for the pain to reassert itself. Feeling fine, the man slowly finished his descent, and Jimmy stepped down to the pavement right behind him. As the man began to thank Jimmy profusely for his intervention, Jimmy could hear sirens approaching. The man's comments, and especially the crowd's attention, made Jimmy feel quite uncomfortable.

"Let's check on your friend," Jimmy suggested in a clear voice, seeing that the other worker was sitting up. As the man turned and began moving toward his partner, the attention of the small crowd went with him, and Jimmy stepped back and walked around the other side of the truck. I don’t need this kind of attention right now. And I certainly don't want to answer the questions of the police. Or deal with police at all.

Jimmy crossed the street at a casual pace. A few moments later, the scene was a soup of flashing lights, police officers and EMT's. When one of the witnesses went to point out the "hero" to the officers investigating the incident, Jimmy was nowhere in sight.

Scene 3

"You must know that in any moment a decision you make can change the course of your life forever: the very next person you stand behind in line or sit next to on an airplane, the very next phone call you make or receive, the very next movie you see or book you read or page you turn could be the one single thing that causes the floodgates to open, and all of the things that you've been waiting for to fall into place."
— Anthony Robbins

In the morning, Brisco laid in bed for a long while, staring at the ceiling. In the dream, something is about to happen. It's at a place I've been before. Daytime. Nice red car, pulled up to the light. Some jerk in a grey hoodie with a gun. Car-jacking. Blood on the pavement.

Brisco rolled out of bed and went through his morning routine. He couldn't help but feel anxious, like he sometimes felt when the weather changed and the air pressure dropped. By eight, he was at his shop, sitting at his desk, going over the day's paperwork. Brisco could see that there wasn't much of a workload; so he left his small crew to take care of details, and stepped outside for a walk. Maybe he'd get something to eat at the place over on Chicago Avenue West.

As he walked, his thoughts turned to his dream, letting his eyes and feet work out their own course down the sidewalks. Brisco's mind often wandered away from his surroundings for daydreams, problem-solving and planning sessions. He managed to avoid the label 'absent-minded', because, fortunately, some part of his mind was always "minding the store", keeping track of his surroundings. He could be deep in thought and still avoid moving machinery, walk around hazards, pass through traffic and maneuver through a crowd. He could continue his work and keep track of the little parts in the shop that tended to get lost when a normal person's attention wandered. He could fall asleep on a bus or subway and know right where he was when he woke up, always before his stop, not after it. Or, as today, just go walking, and trust that his feet would take him where he needed to go so he could concentrate on his mental landscape.

What am I supposed to do about a carjacking? Blood... my blood, or someone else's? Red 2004 Toyota Prius hybrid, the custom wheels on this one alone are worth a pretty penny. I'll just have coffee and toast when I get to Sami's; money's tight. There is no way I can fast-talk my way out of the wrong end of a gun. His thoughts entered and exited the stage of his consciousness without much of a script, so it was no surprise that no answers to his questions presented themselves.

He was stopped at a crossing, and as he re-connected his conscious mind to his eyes, it was not mere déjà vu that struck him. This is the place. As the signal turned to indicate he could cross, the red Toyota pulled up to the intersection right in front of him. This is the time. Brisco's feet were frozen in place. Crossing the street toward him was the figure in the grey hoodie, the carjacker from the dream, looking down at the pavement to keep his face in shadow, his hands hidden in the pocket of his jacket.

In the movies, this would have been the time to put everything into slow-motion, but in real life, it seemed to be going way too fast. As the hooded figure walked toward the car, he looked up to get a close look at his prey, and Brisco could see the man's face. Brisco's shock at seeing the dream unfolding before him was redoubled as he recognized a detail that was not in the dream. I know him. A very large part of Brisco's mind was firmly insistent on paralysis as a survival skill, but elsewhere in his psychology was a clear understanding that not only could Brisco intervene, but that he knew that he must, regardless of the consequences. The main problem was that there was no time left to figure out how.

"Marcus!" shouted Brisco, as the hooded man was about to veer from the crosswalk toward the driver's door of the car. The man's head jerked up in surprise. When he recognized Brisco, his blank face became a determined scowl.

Brisco, unconsciously holding his breath, merely shook his head slowly. Marcus, realizing that his opportunity to act anonymously was gone, stalked toward Brisco, crossing the remainder of the street in front of the Toyota.

Brisco was acquainted with Marcus because of Brisco's hobby at his 'barn'. Marcus was one of the clients who would bring stolen cars to Brisco and then re-distribute the parts after Brisco had worked on them.

Marcus was furious. There were no other pedestrians near them, so Marcus barely attempted to keep his voice down. " What do you think you're doin' interrupting me?"

"I was under the impression that the cars you brought to me were unoccupied when you acquired them," Brisco said, a little derisively.

"Well, I wasn't going to bring this one to you, now, was I?" Marcus sneered.

The light changed and the car pulled away, the driver blissfully unaware of their close brush with fate.

"You're carrying a gun, aren't you?" asked Brisco apprehensively.

"And maybe the bullet is going to be yours, now that you've gone and chased my pretty car away," Marcus spat through clenched teeth.

Brisco didn't think that this was the time to argue that the car had continued on without being chased by anyone. "Would you really have shot the driver?"

"If they gave me any hassle, yes! " Marcus was now leaning into within a few inches of Brisco's face.

Brisco stood where he was. To be honest, he wasn't sure he could get his feet to move, anyway. "Well, then, consider that I've done you a favor by keeping you out of jail for one more day!" Brisco's racing heart was pumping his own emotions dangerously high.

Marcus looked confused. "What do you mean, fool?"

"Do you know what kind of car that was?"

"Yeah. One of the fancy hybrids."

"Ever drive one?" asked Brisco.

Marcus paused. "No."

"Do you know what the key to the car looks like?" Brisco challenged.

"Whatever is plugged into the keyhole, who cares what it looks like!"

"Not quite," Brisco said, growing calmer as the moments passed. "That car doesn't use a key. There's a big button on the dash. You push it, the car powers up."

"Even simpler," grinned Marcus.

"But you would have stalled the car fifty feet down the road." Feeling like a parent teaching a know-it-all kid, Brisco continued. "By the time you figured out that you couldn't get it re-started, the police would already be on their way."

Marcus' smile disappeared. "You're full of shit."

Brisco was sure that Marcus' hand was still on the gun in his pocket. "The key," Brisco continued, "is a gadget that the car senses by radio waves. You would have tossed the driver out, and not knowing any better, lost the key. The car would recognize that the owner was gone, and shut down before you could get a block away."

Marcus respected Brisco's knowledge of cars, and reluctantly recognized the consequences of such a scenario. He turned and looked up and down the street, still not sure if he believed Brisco.

Brisco lowered his voice. "Stick to unoccupied cars. You don't want blood on your hands."

Marcus said nothing, and then turned and marched back across the street the way he came. The street light obligingly turned green in Marcus' favor.

Brisco found himself trying to catch his breath. Bladder? Check. Bowels? Check. He was so relieved to have made it through the intense incident that he just wanted to sit down on the sidewalk right there and cry.

Scene 4

I saw the Lord seated on a high and lofty throne, with the train of his garment filling the temple. Seraphim were stationed above. "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts!" they cried one to the other, "All the earth is filled with his glory!" At the sound of their cry, the frame of the door shook and the house was filled with smoke. Then I said, "Woe is me I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!" Then one of the seraphim flew to me, holding an ember which he had taken with tongs from the altar. He touched my mouth with it. "See," he said, "now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged." Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "whom shall I send? Who will go for us?" "Here I am;" I said; "send me!"
— Isaiah 6:1bc-2a, 3-8 (NAB)

When the archangel Gabriel returned and asked Jeb if he was willing to take on duties on behalf of the hosts of heaven, Jeb didn't hesitate to say yes. His experience with Yamadori had scarred him, but now there was no pretending, and no turning back. He understood implicitly that his life expectancy was short, but at least he would be serving a purpose other than money or power.

After Gabriel left him, Jeb dreamt of other chosen sentinels, of angels singing amidst clouds of incense, of horns being sounded across the lands, of mystery and of wonder. And of Chicago.

When he awoke, the world was a very different place. Everything looked, felt, sounded, smelled different. More alive, more real, more intense, more dangerous There was an odd, intricate, faintly glowing tattoo-like sigil on the palm of his right hand. It was in the shape of a ram's horn, the kind you'd see in the movies like some kind of ancient bugle. The mark of Gabriel's horn. Looking closely, Jeb could see that the skin itself wasn't marked, at least not physically. The symbol seemed to be under the skin, glowing softly.

The sphragis is the mark by which you will be able to identify other sentinels, said Gabriel's thoughts in Jeb's mind, and those not so marked will not see it. Those carrying the mark of the Beast, however, may be able to identify you, and you, them.

Looking at the sphragis, Jeb felt encouraged. Then, as he looked up and thought of the day ahead of him, his feelings shifted. He was simultaneously relieved and saddened as he realized he could no longer bear to work for Mr. Thompson. Hmmm. That will require some fancy footwork to throw them off my trail.

Jeb began his day by calling Mr. Thompson's office and feigning sickness. His supervisor seemed to believe him, so he would have enough time to get a head start, maybe even a couple of days. A person didn't just quit a job like serving as a bodyguard for an amoral egomaniac like Mr. Thompson. That would leave loose ends in his security arrangements, with a person now outside of the organization knowing too much. Jeb knew from experience that Mr. Thompson hated loose ends. The only allowable retirement option for Mr. Thompson's security staff, to assure loyalty to the end, was to hasten the end.

Jeb proceeded to pack up clothes and small necessities, and packed it all into a couple of duffel bags. He didn't have a gun, but he did have a concealable vest of body armor. Expensive stuff, body armor. Sure, it belonged to Mr. Thompson, but Jeb was fairly sure that he wouldn't be asked to return it. They would just pop him in the head and leave it on his corpse, anyway.

There would be no sense in taking furniture or his entertainment system with him, but he did take some of his electronics to a local pawn shop and pull together some extra cash. By early afternoon, he had drained his bank account and was ready to move on. His rent was paid up for another 20 days, so he wouldn't have to worry about mentioning the vacancy to the landlord for a while. Just in case, he kept a key to the apartment.

He saw his neighbor Keith—nice guy, Keith—in the hallway of the building.

"What'cha up to, Jeb?"

"Oh, I'm going on a little vacation." Was that a lie? Did it matter?

"Great! Good for you. Where are you off to?"

Jeb didn't want to lie, but he certainly didn't want to tell him the truth. Word will get back to Mr. Thompson, eventually. "I thought I'd catch some miles on the road, see the country a bit. Maybe check out the shoreline."

"Wonderful!" said Keith, in his normal, upbeat manner. "I'd like to see the Gulf coast myself someday. Enjoy your trip!"

There wasn't any reason to inform Keith that Jeb was thinking about a much different shoreline than the Gulf coast, so Jeb just smiled and waved as he turned and walked away.

Scene 5

Rose: "If I hear another of your theological paradoxes, I'll scream. Frankly, today I don't care if God exists or not."
Gilbert: "I doubt he feels likewise, Miss Walker."
— Rose Walker and Gilbert in SANDMAN #14: Collectors (Neil Gaiman)

Christine awoke to find the being, the powerful presence, in her room again.

"Christine Jacobs," Jeremiel said in a voice of compassion, "you are, indeed, clever and resourceful."

"Why are you here?" she asked. She was trying to convince herself this was all a hallucination, or another dream.

"I am here to offer you an invitation. God has sent me to you, that you may be chosen, and become an agent of light in the darkness." The voice was soothing and encouraging, but Christine was fast becoming more agitated.

"I don't understand!" she said emphatically.

"There is a struggle, a terrible struggle, occurring in the world, a struggle between the forces of light and of darkness. The disciples of the Adversary are growing bolder, and people of the light are needed to counter the darkness." There was a touch of sadness in the voice.

"You, Christine, have been elected to this responsibility, to become a soldier in this conflict and help to tip the tide of battle. Already, you have shown that you can make keen observations and find solutions to problems. You can be a valuable asset as we seek to interfere with the enemy's plans."

She sat in her bed and hugged her knees, shivering from nerves, sure she was hanging on to her sanity only by the smallest thread.

"Do I have a choice?"

Jeremiel paused for some time before answering, "Yes. You have the gift of free will. I have brought you the invitation, but it is for you to decide."

There was a long silence between them, but Jeremiel knew her heart before she spoke.

"Go away!" she cried. "I just want to live my normal life! I don't want anything to do with a struggle, or darkness, or battles, or soldiers! I just want my life back!" she yelled at Jeremiel.

"So be it," said the angel with a strong tide of sadness in his voice. "Turn to God, Christine. Turn and be saved, for the hour is late..."

Scene 6

"Difficult to see... Always in motion, the future."
— Yoda, The Empire Strikes Back

Brisco was not happy with Raphael when the archangel showed up again in Brisco's apartment. Despite the sense of power, majesty, peace and awe that accompanied the archangel's presence, Brisco immediately launched into a stream of questions and accusations that continued for quite a while. Raphael listened calmly as Brisco's fear (for it was fear that was driving him) tapered off under the influence of Raphael's calming aura.

Brisco finally paused, before more quietly commenting, "You knew how that would turn out, didn't you? Somehow, this is all one big script, and we're just blindly following our parts."

"On the contrary, the outcome of the incident was far from certain," insisted Raphael.

"How is it that you can know enough to see that something's going to happen, but just the same you can't see enough to see what's going to happen? You can't do both, it just doesn't make sense," Brisco challenged, crossing his arms and facing Raphael directly.

"There are..." Raphael said, as if carefully choosing his words, "many currents which lead toward the future. The great majority of these are quite predictable, but there is always the potential that someone will make a choice, a decision that changes the flow. It is difficult to foresee clearly beyond these key choices in the currents. It is in these little opportunities that the future must be won."

"So you're telling me that you didn't know if there would be blood, like in my dream, or not?"

"There was a possible future descending from violence at that space-time, and a potential future descending from your intervention."

Brisco sat down with a sigh of resignation. "You're telling me that these dreams in my head are a way for God to fiddle with the future?"

"God has always been active in human history, both subtly and overtly. In the same way, the adversary seeks to spread a dark influence."

"So, angels or whatever appearing in people's apartments doesn't break the rules of the game?"

"This is not... a game. As the Fallen One uses extraordinary means to escalate the conflict, God provides extraordinary assistance. These, as you might guess, are not ordinary times."

Brisco paused, uncertain of how to get at what was bothering him the most. "I don't get it. If God is all-powerful, ever-living and all that jazz, why do such terrible things happen to innocent people? The driver of that Prius could have ended up in a pool of blood, and all for nothing, really. The newspapers are full of such things every day."

"You have free will. It is a very powerful, important gift. And that power can be used for good or for ill. The responsibility is shared with humankind. Evil occurs not because God allows it, so much as because humans allow it, and God respects your free will."

"Pardon me," interjected Brisco, "but that doesn't explain tsunamis, earthquakes, tornados, the stuff we don't have any control over."

"No, it does not, but people have control over their reactions to such events," Raphael said. There was a tinge of sadness and a daydream quality to Raphael's voice for a moment. "The cosmic design behind such events, and the unavoidable suffering they cause, is deeply rooted in the rather ineffable divine understanding. Such suffering is not caused by evil, but it is a necessary thread in the essence of existence itself. Creation, in all its complexity..."

Raphael trailed off in thought, and Brisco tried to imagine how much of creation a supposed archangel might be able to comprehend. The entire Earth? The galaxy? Galaxies unnumbered?

"...is quite mysterious, at all levels of existence." Raphael seemed to be focused on Brisco once again.

"So all you can tell me is that 'it's a mystery'?" Brisco pointed out, half-teasingly.

Raphael simply smiled.

 

:: End Canto 7 ::

7th Seal Image: Pat Loboyko. ©2005 Scott Mitchell.

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A vision of Raphael.

Image courtesy of Margé Getrouw and Lichtdrager Creations.