The Church on Beelzebub Road

Aris looked down at his hands as the bus jostled down the highway.  He tried to imagine them clean.  He thought he could still perceive dried blood on them.  Danyul appeared to be asleep by his side.  This wasn’t true of course.  Angels didn’t sleep.  But more and more often they would close their eyes and struggle to remember why they were here and forget what they had done since they arrived.  Aris’ mind churned over the events of the last few days.  Blood… so much blood… and her face… so young.  Why?

 

Danyul’s head was tipped back with weathered, wide brim hat pulled low over his eyes.  He sensed his companion’s struggle.  Without moving he spoke, “Do we really need to talk to him?”

 

Aris snapped out of the past at the question.  His thoughts re-focused on the now and then extended to their near future.  “I think we have to try.  We always thought he would have one of them.  We just could not violate the Accord.  But the Accord can be Damned now.”  He smiled at the curse.

 

Danyul laughed and sat up.  “Damned, eh?  What else can He do to us anyway?  We are on His mission after all.  We didn’t make up these rules.”

 

“Exactly.  No one said the end of the world would be easy.”

 

“You keep telling me that.” Danyul paused.  “Do you think he’s changed?  It’s been ten thousand years here.”

 

Aris’ vision focused out to the horizon. “Haven’t we changed?”  His mind wandered backward again.  He could recall the Light, the Fall, the cold rain of reality, the sickened creation surrounding him, and the vacant hollowness of disconnection.  “ We have only been out of Grace for a few months.  I can only imagine what he is like now.”

 

“Can he die?”

 

“No.  He can never die… Maybe if he decided to repent.  But if he hasn’t yet… I don’t think he ever will.”

 

The pair sat in silence in their thread worn clothes--each pondering the looming confrontation.  The dried corn rows slid by as the bus slowly plodded down the bumpy, nearly unused highways of New England. 

 

Aris shivered at a thought.  “Do you think we’ll end up like him?”

 

Danyul felt a sick coldness in the pit of his stomach.  “No.  We are here on His Will.  We just can’t remember it.  But that’s why we need the talisman, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

The angel in the hat didn’t feel comforted.

 

The bus slowed and turned down a narrow dirt road.  The bent and faded sign read, “Beelzebub Road” and at the top of the hill stood a lonely country church--the sharp steeple a black knife in the setting sun.  A small graveyard surrounded the white building.  A tall man in priestly black stood on the church steps facing the approaching travellers.

 

Aris shifted in his seat.  “It appears irony knows no bounds.”

 

The bus lumbered to a shuddering halt squarely in front of the church.  Danyul fixed his hat on his head and stood up to grab their packs.  Aris took his long bag and followed the blond angel off the bus.  The door closed and the brakes hissed.  It drove away and left the pair behind.

 

They looked up at the priest.  A trick of the sun and the church foyer made it look like a great pair of black wings was folded behind the priest’s shadow.  His face was kind and handsome.  His hands were folded around a bible.  A modest silver crucifix hung around his neck.  Only his eyes looked old with long lashes and soft lines at the corners.  They told the story of a thousand battles, of loss and pain, of a thousand lifetimes and of immortal loss.

 

Aristiqis shifted the long bag containing his sword to a more ready position and cleared his throat.  “Hello, Lucifer.  The Trumpets have been blown.  The Seals are being opened.  We are sent to bring the end of days… and we need your help.”

 

The priest chuckled with the mirth that an old man reserves for the young.  His eyebrows rose in mock surprise, "Again?"