David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

“That’s my son, Kaisen,” Maria said, quickly kneeling at the boy’s side. “He’s been running a fever for four days now, and each night his cough’s gotten worse and worse. I told them to use the scepter, to call for someone, but they wouldn’t. They said he’d be fine, that he’d…but that cough, he can’t even breathe when it hits him.”

She looked near tears. Ezekai smiled at her, wishing to do all he could to comfort her. No doubt she’d been sleeping little, each night worrying more and more for her precious child. Sitting down on his knees beside Kaisen, the angel reached out a hand and touched his forehead. The heat was immediately apparent, the fever burning deep within him.

“I’ve done what I can to make him drink,” Maria said. “Wormroot also worked on the fever for a day or two, but then stopped…”

“You’ve done well,” Ezekai said, still focused on the child. The sickness radiated out from his lungs, and in Ezekai’s mind it shone like a red spot amid a field of white. Frowning, he placed both his hands on Kaisen’s chest and closed his eyes.

“Help me, Ashhur,” he prayed. “I know this is beyond me, but nothing is beyond you.”

The power flowed from him with a strength that took his breath away. His arms shook, his head pounded, and still he wondered if it would be enough. So weak, he felt so weak when it came to matters of healing and faith. Kaisen coughed, first wildly, then less so. Maria watched for a moment, then was unable to keep herself away. She clutched her child, her hair coming loose from its knot and falling across the angel’s hands as Ezekai continued to pray. Smaller and smaller shrank the red sickness until it was gone, the fever in the boy’s flesh beginning to subside.

Ezekai took in a deep breath, then slowly stood.

“I doubt he would have lasted the night,” he said, surprised by how much his voice shook. “Four days, you say? Why was I not summoned sooner?”

Maria was crying as she held her child.

“I told them to,” she said, not looking at him. “I told them to, but they wouldn’t listen. They said…they said it wasn’t necessary. That he’d get better.”

Ezekai’s mouth dropped open, hardly able to believe it. Maria was lying to him. He sensed it in his gut with the properties Ashhur had bestowed upon all his angels. Lying…but why?

“Maria,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “I know you hide something from me. Why was the scepter not used? In your heart you knew Kaisen needed my aid. Someone else denied you. Tell me why.”

Maria sniffed, still refusing to look at him.

“They’ll be mad at me,” she said.

It was no lie.

“Who are they ?”

She gestured to the door and the village beyond.

“They,” she said.

“You are under my protection, as are all of the people here. Please…”

She looked up at him with red eyes.

“They didn’t want you to see what they did to Saul.”

The words, the meaning, the mystery; it all sent a chill down his spine. He didn’t even know he could feel anger and fear simultaneously like that. He’d thought it a lost human emotion. Apparently not.

“Where?” he whispered.

She told him. He knelt down, kissed her forehead, then her son’s.

“Stay here,” he said.

Exiting the home, he let his wings stretch wide. It felt good, but it was the only pleasurable thing he felt. With several heavy beats he took to the air, then circled around to the northern end of the town. There, hanging from a pole, he found the body of the man who had been Saul Reid. His skin was dry from exposure to the sun, with rips in it showing rot. The crows had been at the corpse as well, further deteriorating it. The worst, though, was where the man’s crotch had been. All that remained of his genitals was a brutal collection of gore and pus.

Ezekai landed, his hand reaching for his sword.

“What has been done here?” he roared to the village. “All of you, come to me and answer for this!”

Slowly they gathered, men and women lurking at the edges of homes and beyond, not daring to near the pole. None spoke. Again Ezekai demanded answers, his voice carrying. Some went running out to the fields. With each passing second of silence, Ezekai felt his anger grow.

“You,” he said, pointing at a brown-haired woman leaning against a nearby home. “Who has done this?”

“Not my place to say,” she said. “Ask the men. They’re coming.”

Another he asked, this a boy of twelve.

“My pa said not to say, not even to you,” the child insisted, and it was the truth.

Ezekai turned about and looked to the fields. A group of thirty men was approaching, instruments of their trade slung over their shoulders. He sensed no anger in them, no danger, just…caution. Next to Ezekai, the rotting body continued to slowly swing.

When the group arrived, they crossed their arms and kicked their feet into the dirt, as if waiting for something. Ezekai had no patience for any of it.

“I demand an explanation,” he said.

“He was just like Locke,” said one of the men. He was a thin fellow, and the dirt on his face looked like it belonged there. From the way the others looked to him he appeared to be the one in charge of the most recent events. “They did stuff together, the two of them. He admitted as much when we caught him peeping in through my little girl’s window.”

“You tortured this knowledge out of him?”

The men glanced to one another.

“We made him talk,” another admitted.

Ezekai closed his eyes, meaning to pray for calm, but the stench of the corpse was too near. They had killed the man, mutilated him, and then hung him up for all to see. Because of this they nearly let an innocent child die, all so they might hide their deed. When Ezekai opened his eyes, he felt fury burning in his blood.

“You tortured, mutilated, and then murdered a man,” he said to them. “Without law. Without justice. Without proof.”

“We heard it from his mouth,” someone shouted.

“He confessed!” shouted another.

“Under torture!” Ezekai insisted. “How do you know he spoke truth?”

“What of you?” asked the thin fellow with the dirty face. They were closer now, starting to surround him. “How do we know you spoke truth when you forgave Locke? If he fell on his knees and begged, would you have let that monster remain in our village?”

There was no way for Ezekai to know, and no way to explain. When Locke had cast himself to the dirt, the guilt and sorrow overwhelmed every strand of his soul, his yearning for salvation beyond anything Ezekai could describe. The man hated himself, hated his life. Ezekai had shown him a ray of light, had hoped to cure him of the vile desires, and then in that light Locke had asked for forgiveness from a man he’d wronged. That man, Colton, had murdered him in cold blood. Yet now, when faced with another similar situation, the townspeople chose not to embrace the forgiveness, but instead the murderer? It was more than Ezekai could understand. He didn’t want to understand it. He didn’t want to believe it. He cherished these people. He protected them. He loved them, even the poor, sick Saul that hung from a rope.

Ezekai lifted his sword.

“This cannot happen,” he told them. “It will not happen, not again. Not ever.”

He turned to cut free the body only to find a wall blocking him. The men were gathering together, holding their rakes, shovels, and scythes as weapons against him.

“He hangs,” said the man in charge. “We called no angel, and we’re a hundred miles from Mordeina. What Saul did deserved death by every law known to us, even yours, and we administered that law. Don’t you dare cut him down.”