Michael v - Unnatural

Now, however, there weren’t any tears and his disappointment didn’t sting as sharply. His father was a busy man, his calendar ever-changing, and Michael understood that. He knew that very soon they’d have their own moments together and they would be worth the wait. For now he would be content to know that his father wanted him back in his life, as hectic and unpredictable as that life might be. In the meantime, he needed to find his chauffeur.

Among the crowd of people in the airport, there was a very tall man holding a sign with the name Howard printed on it. Michael would have recognized him as his father’s driver even if he weren’t holding his last name in his hands. Dressed cap to boots in black, most of it leather, the man possessed the austere quality needed to be an employee of Howard Industries.

“You must be my driver,” Michael said.

“Follow me,” the driver responded. “Your bags are already in the car.”

Even though the man’s black-framed sunglasses prohibited Michael from seeing his eyes, he was sure they weren’t smiling. This man was all business. But Michael didn’t care; he was thousands of miles away from a life he never felt accustomed to and about to start what even his mother called the adventure of a new life. Despite the knowledge that he was on his own for the first time in his life, he could feel little bolts of energy pulse through his veins. He looked around at the faces passing by him—tourists, businessmen, employees. Could they tell? Could they tell that Michael was happier and more excited than he had ever been in his entire life? He knew he shouldn’t feel this way; only a few short days ago he had buried his mother, only a few short hours ago he had said good-bye to his grandparents for what could be a very long time, but the difference in his spirit couldn’t be denied. He felt as if he were back where he belonged. And on his way to where he was destined to be, in grand style.

The interior of the car, all black like the driver’s outfit, was plush and luxurious. Michael sank into the seat; the leather was soft and slightly heated and he felt the warmth penetrate and calm his anxious body. The sound of violins, Mozart maybe, drifted into the space from some hidden speakers, unhurried and soft. There was a smell vaguely like cinnamon, but definitely crisp, autumnal. He closed his eyes, and the memory of his grandfather’s Ranger faded easily.

The car wasn’t quite a limousine, but a sedan with a smoky gray glass partition that separated the backseat from the front so Michael could see the driver but couldn’t converse with him without pressing the red intercom button on the door panel. Not that Michael was in the mood to chat; he was too busy looking out the window, watching the city transform into the countryside. Skyscrapers became oak trees, concrete pavement a rolling green landscape. His life was changing right before his very eyes.

Several hours later, they sped past a sign that welcomed them to Eden, a small town of Cumbria County in the northwestern part of England. Michael pressed a button, and the dark-tinted mirror descended, giving him a better view of the surroundings. Outside, the land looked untouched and the few buildings worn and weather-beaten, as if they were built centuries ago, which Michael figured they most likely were. After a few miles during which time no buildings interrupted the grasslands, they made a right turn onto an even narrower road. “Almost there,” the driver announced. Almost there. Those two words were both comforting and uncomfortable and made Michael’s heart leap and his stomach lurch. In a few minutes he would reach his destination here in what could easily be labeled the middle of nowhere. He closed his eyes and asked God, “Please let it be worthy.” When he opened them, he saw that God had not denied his request.

Stepping onto the cobblestone path, Michael could feel the past detach from him and float away on the breeze. As he stood on the uneven walkway, he felt, for the first time in his short life, grounded and as if he had returned home. It was a wonderful, welcoming feeling. And, Michael had to admit, odd. He had never been here before, he had never even heard of Eden or Archangel Academy until his father told him about the school a few days ago, and yet, yet somehow, he knew this was the place he had been dreaming about. This was where he had longed to come when he had longed for something new, something better. He took a deep breath and savored the moment because he had learned, in his short life, that such extraordinary feelings were not ordinary.

He looked around and was awed by the sight of nature at its purest. The grass was so many different shades of green, all of it growing wild and free. Clusters of purple and yellow flowers populated the brush, some large, some small, but all radiant in their color. Trees with thick, gnarled trunks rose high overhead and their branches sprayed out dense with leaves that rustled in the wind, their sound mingled with birdsong. Weeping Water, in comparison, looked like a desert of dry, flat land.

The only artificial element among the scenery was the impressive entrance gate, the top of which had the name Archangel Academy spelled out in an arc made up of twisted pieces of metal. Very tall, but only about thirty yards in length, the gate was decorative and not practical; it wouldn’t keep trespassers out, but simply announced to all the school’s presence. Michael couldn’t believe that beyond the gate the buildings he saw in the distance comprised one of the most elite boarding schools in the world. From where he stood, they looked like the buildings he saw on the sides of the main road, abandoned stone houses belonging to the past and not part of an institution of higher learning. The metal, the stone, even the wild nature created a strong, masculine appearance. But the look was neutralized by the smell of lavender on the wind, wistful and feminine. All boys were welcome here. Michael stood in front of the gate and gave it a push. Archangel separated from Academy and the gate easily opened.

“We can drive to the main office,” the driver said from the car.

“I’d rather walk,” Michael replied.

He followed the cobbled path for a little over half a mile until it stopped at a building that looked as old as it had from the gate. Inside the greeting room, the driver was already waiting for him, standing in a corner, Michael’s bags placed around the driver’s feet. The room’s walls were painted a deep forest green to mimic the surroundings and were barren except for a huge rectangular mirror, wider than it was high, that hung on the wall directly in front of the door. The thick frame was dark brown oak decorated with carvings of angels—not cherubs, but guardians, warriors—the seven archangels that gave the school its name.

On the top of the frame, in the left-hand corner, was the angel Gabriel, foreboding but gentle, making his presence known by holding his celebrated horn to his lips. In the right-hand corner was Raphael in mid-flight, his rippling robes in perfect balance with the strength of his muscular arms. On the side of the frame underneath Gabriel was Uriel, his fiery sword pointing toward the center of the mirror, and below Raphael was Sariel, floating an inch above a crest of bones.

Ramiel lived in the bottom left-hand corner, behind a cloud of thunder, and in the opposite corner was Zachariel, whose face was framed by the sun. Finally, Michael’s eyes rested upon the largest carving, which lay in the bottom center of the frame, the one of his namesake. Michael the archangel was depicted in the traditional image, wings outstretched, sword raised to heaven, his foot pressing down mercilessly on Satan’s neck, his exquisitely carved expression triumphant and a bit vainglorious. Michael knew that feeling. He could feel his own private demons squirming under his feet and so he pressed down firmer to remind them who was in power. He liked it here.