Michael Griffo - Unwelcome

David’s eyes traveled around the mirror’s elaborate, carved oak frame, from archangel to archangel. He was filled with a glut of emotions, not all of them good, and one by one he surveyed the spiritual creatures, casting his eyes upon their likenesses as if they were long-lost relatives. David glared at the figure of Gabriel, his lips forming a sneer to express his rejection of the archangel whom he condemned as loud and ostentatious. His eyes then fell upon Uriel and Ramiel, whom he thought of as more resourceful angels since they used fire and thunder as their weapons, and Raphael, whom David viewed as weak, but allowed his eyes to linger long enough to admire fully the splendid curvature of his muscled arms.

Next he focused on Sariel, whom he appreciated for protecting the dead but acknowledged that he was nothing more than a collector of bones that were the spoils of someone else’s victories and, therefore, a disappointment. And then he stared at the one he truly loathed, the thing known as Michael. So much glory, so much recognition, and why? Because Michael was a narcissist, God’s pet, a minor player who demanded praise for one questionable conquest. The fact that Michael had outshone them all for eons in the courtroom of public opinion enraged David, but all that anger, all that resentment was forgotten when his eyes landed upon Zachariel. His reflection softened and for once appeared vaguely human as he looked at the carving of the deity who was, according to David, the true sovereign of the archangels.

He was astounded. Even while resting against a wooden replica of the sun, that magical orb, Zachariel’s face shone brighter than the others. He exuded warmth, wisdom, and incomparable power. Power that was given to him by the great sun itself. His upturned chin, sharp eyes, and unsmiling mouth were a welcome to those who were worthy and a warning to those who were not, a notice that their time had come to an end. “I am the embodiment of you,” David said with reverence. “And I have taken your name out of honor and in sacrifice.”

David traced the outline of the sun that framed Zachariel’s face, gently, cautiously, afraid the wood might disintegrate from his touch. But he was unable to resist. He commanded his courage to rise and he let his fingers fall across Zachariel’s hair, his cheek, his eyes, the eyes that had witnessed more beauty, invoked more fear, than David could ever hope to. “I have returned here to uphold your commandments, your principles,” David whispered into the one small wooden ear that was visible, and then abruptly pulled back from the sculpture and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the beautiful blue irises were gone; so too was any indication of white. All that covered both surfaces of his eyes was black.

As David stared into the wooden eyes of his namesake, it was unclear whose were more lifeless but obvious whose were more consumed with vengeance. “And I will not rest until I rid our land of those who do not belong, those who have tarnished our legacy,” David seethed. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them this time, they had resumed their color. Once again they were sparkling blue, as if reborn. Tenderly he kissed Zachariel’s lips, feeling not wood but the breath of eternal life. “Oh, Father,” he sighed. “It is so good to be home.”

When he heard the joyful singing fill the air and invade his private ceremony, David believed it was confirmation, a message to him from Zachariel that he approved of his plan. He could not have been more pleased.

And Michael could not have been more disturbed.

“Ronan?” Michael wasn’t completely awake, but one quick look around the room and he knew he was alone. He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and saw that it was a little after two A.M. Where could Ronan be? And what was that sound? He had heard the singing in his dream. He and Ronan were resting on the beach, Ronan sitting against a dune, Michael leaning into him, their eyes closed, not thinking, only feeling, feeling the beautiful music. Now awake, he heard those notes again, soft, lilting, and, most of all, familiar. “Is that you?”

Michael lifted open the window and peered out, ignoring the bitter cold breeze, and scoured the trees in search of the music’s origin. Could it be? Could it possibly be the meadowlark that traveled with him from Nebraska? The same lark he heard from his bedroom window back home? Who witnessed Michael and Ronan emerge from the ocean after offering their souls to The Well? He hadn’t heard his beautiful melody since that day and it brought him such delight to know his friend, his companion, had returned.

Throwing on some clothes and sneakers, Michael left his room and ran downstairs. He couldn’t resist; he had to get closer to the music and see if he was right. But when he walked outside, he forgot about his mission; he was overwhelmed. He felt as if he had stepped inside peace. Overhead a full moon shone brilliantly, its grayish-white light luminous, making the night sky look like an immense sheet of black velvet in contrast. Michael couldn’t believe how luxurious it looked, he wanted to wrap himself in the night, let the texture of the unknown embrace him. Just when he didn’t think it could get any more perfect, the sky changed. Speckles of light appeared in the darkness like tiny silent firecrackers, and Michael thought the stars had come out of hiding, but it wasn’t stars. It was snow.

Slowly, Michael watched pieces of white fall from the darkness, floating without care, without concern, their only ambition to touch the earth. He looked up and smiled as the first snowflakes landed on his cheeks, his nose, moist and cold. He didn’t mean to impede their journey, but he was compelled to make contact, so he stuck out his tongue and savored the fresh taste of winter, laughing at how childish he was acting, but loving every second of it.

And then he heard a noise.

The sound took away his youth and immediately he remembered who and what he was and the kind of danger that existed in the world in which he now lived. Then in the next moment, he remembered what kind of protection also existed in his new world and, calmer, yet still heedful, he waited for the fog to come, to encase him and separate him from whatever was out there in the darkness. But nothing happened. The fog didn’t appear. The darkness wasn’t joined by mist. He was still alone. And now even the music had stopped.

The noise, however, was getting closer.

Standing near St. Joshua’s, David could no longer hear the music. He had followed the sound for as long as he could, drawn to its notes, its melancholy, but as abruptly as it began, it ended, replaced by the silence only nature could produce. David stood motionless in the snow, his arms outstretched like a forgotten scarecrow in an abandoned field, and accepted the chill as it penetrated his skin, the white flakes as they fell freely all around him, and he listened to the quiet.

Until it was interrupted.

He stared into the night, through it, using his preternatural vision like a beam of light to illuminate the dark. With no movement of his head, his eyes darted left, then right. Nothing. Although he was certain the sound came from the direction he was facing, he quickly turned around and scoured the area behind him. Still he could see nothing, alive or dead, nearby.

And yet he heard the sound again, this time even closer.

Phaedra, I need you! Michael didn’t speak the words but shouted them inside his mind. He had never called out to Phaedra before, never asked for her help because he never had to, whenever he was in danger, she appeared. But now, just like the other day in the swimming pool, she was nowhere to be found. Why was she abandoning him? He had no idea if she could hear him, but he called out to her again, and still no response. Didn’t she just tell him she would continue to protect him? Was she somewhere with Fritz right now, preoccupied, concerned with her own pleasure and not his safety? Michael didn’t want to prevent Phaedra and Fritz from starting a relationship, but seriously, wasn’t this the reason efemeras existed in the first place, Michael thought, to respond to the silent pleas of those in need? Then again, perhaps there was no danger; perhaps he was just overreacting. When he heard the growl, he knew his first impression was correct.