Seraphic Retribution

He didn’t know what woke him. Perhaps it was the slight midnight breeze rustling the curtains in the dark silence, or maybe the sliver of moonlight slipping into the room through the moving curtains. A distant rumble of thunder announced the approach of an African thunderstorm.

The Old Man sat up, crisp Egyptian linen sheets crackling loudly. He liked to sleep in absolute silence; the lightweight curtains allowed fresh air into the room, but the navy blue colour minimised any light. Two guards were stationed outside his bedroom, rotated every four hours to ensure they remained alert and awake. The Old Man was also such a light sleeper he would awaken immediately at the slightest sound.

He sensed he was not alone. He listened carefully, holding his breath, the silence like a shroud in the darkness. Another rumble of distant thunder sounded, and slowly he exhaled.

Relaxing, he plumped up his feather pillows, lifting the sheets so he could lie down again. The red numbers glowing on his beside clock told him the new day was two hours old. Settling back in his bed the Old Man sighed contentedly. What was he worrying about? His enemies couldn’t get close to him, and his grip on power was secure. Just like his bank account. He was safe, healthy and exceedingly wealthy. He had nothing to fear from anyone. Or anything.

Must be my age, he thought, and chuckled happily to himself.

“Actually, age has nothing to do with it.” The disembodied voice filled the room, cutting into the Old Man’s sense of security like a knife. He gasped, and sat up quickly. His hand moved to the glowing green panic button on the side of his bedside table, and he fumbled in his terror.

“Don’t bother, Old Man.” The words were crisp and sharp in the darkness. “They cannot hear you. Your panic button will not work. Oh, and you won’t need that,” the voice was mocking as he fumbled for the light switch.

“Leave it.” The voice changed, and the Old Man immediately remembered the teacher at his mission school. Father Jerome was a fair but strict man, a young boy’s mentor in the absence of the father who abandoned his family when this son was born.

“Father? Father Jerome? I thought you were dead,” the Old Man’s voice was hoarse with the memory of Bible studies the priest’s voice recalled.

“He is,” Father Jerome’s deep tones filled the room. “And you have proved a deep disappointment to him. He had such high hopes for you and your intelligence. You were one of the best and brightest students he ever encountered. But you’ve strayed from the path he showed you all those years ago.”

“Who are you?”

A shadowy figure stepped into the moonlight. The iridescent form was human, outlined in silver. The face was as smooth and youthful as a child’s, with the eyes of a wise and much older person – Father Jerome’s eyes. The long dark hair seemed to flow back from the face, exposing androgynous features with sculptured cheekbones. Dark robes covered the body so it was impossible to discern the intruder’s gender. Staring at this being the Old Man was suddenly reminded of the four pictures decorating the walls of Father Jerome’s study.

As a child he remembered the mixture of emotions these beautifully painted creatures stirred in him. The Archangels were all male, but the paintings depicted them with the hair and skin of women. Some nights he awoke, ashamed of the dreams they’d inspired. It had been many years since he had thought of those pictures.

“Gabriel – I was named for Gabriel” he remembered, thinking of his middle name. “Then there’s Michael and Raphael. Now who is the fourth one?” He frowned, and checked himself. “I’m dreaming again – there are no Archangels.”

“Oh, but there are,” the voice was now young and clear, with a slight echo. “How sad you’ve forgotten the teachings of Father Jerome. And how sad that your weekly visits to your Church have failed to expand on those teachings.”

The shining creature moved forward, eyes glowing silver. It was a fearful sight. The Old Man watched in terror as the vision placed both hands on the handle of a long shimmering sword, the blade pointing down so it touched the ground.

“I am Uriel, Old Man. I’m the fourth Archangel. And this meeting is long overdue.”

The image in Father Jerome’s picture shimmered into focus in front of the Old Man. How could he have forgotten any one of the Archangels? He remembered how uncomfortable he felt, gazing into burning eyes that seemed to strip him bare and sear into his innermost thoughts. He’d asked Father Jerome why the Archangels were not wearing flowing white robes – Uriel was clad in a heavy red robe, fastened at the waist with a gold belt, the same colour as the magnificent fiery sword in his hand.

“He’s an Archangel,” was the answer. “He stands at the Gates of Eden, and is the guardian of thunder and terror.”

“Ah, terror, Old Man,” Uriel’s voice read his thoughts. “You know all about terror, don’t you?”

Speechless, the Old Man shook his head, trying to shake the illusion from his head. He started as icy fingers gripped his forearm. He couldn’t bear to be touched, needing his personal space at all times. Even his wife daren’t touch him in a manner that would surprise him. He glanced down, pulled his arm away, and recoiled.

The small fingers holding his arm were bones, gleaming white in Uriel’s radiance. Horrified, he pulled back, but the bony fingers grasped him firmly. The arm was covered in a tattered, bloody sleeve, deep welts visible in the flesh under the fabric.

“Why, Baba?” A child’s weak voice echoed in the room. “You were supposed to save me and my family, but you said we were your enemies.”

“Get off me!” The Old Man’s voice was a feeble cry as he slapped the bony hand away. It vanished before he touched it, so his palm struck his own arm.

“That’s Gabrielle.” He turned at the sound of Uriel’s voice, and while the burning eyes remained, Uriel’s face was that of a small child. The mouth was distorted as it screamed, a shrill sound cutting the air with pain.

“She was eight years old. They shot her as she ran from the soldiers who ravished her. She was not dead when they threw her into an empty mine shaft. She died among the bodies of the others you murdered in her village. Alone. The only life in that mass grave, surrounded by her dead family and friends, bleeding and broken. Can you feel her pain, Old Man?”

He could. Stabbing, agonising pains filled his stomach and lower abdomen. He bent over, hands clutching his pain. He could smell rotting flesh and feel the cold, stale and musky air in the darkened mine shaft. He could feel Gabrielle’s tears on his cheeks, thick and warm like blood.

“Gukurahundi,” Gabrielle’s voice whispered through the pain. “Do you know my parents named me for you, Baba? You gave them such hope. They would have died for you, but I died because of you.”

“I didn’t kill her!” The Old Man flinched defiantly, struggling to breathe as Gabrielle’s life faded away.

Uriel laughed.

“I beg to differ. You didn’t violate the child, and you didn’t fire the bullet that broke her back. Nor did you throw her broken body into her tomb. But you gave the order to men who obeyed you as their leader and their father. You are responsible for them, and their actions. A father teaches his children to be responsible and respectable. Gabrielle, and the people who died with her, were killed by people who follow you because you are their leader. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you gave them your blessing to kill your people. You might not have sealed her tomb, but your words did.”

The Old Man was silent, Gabrielle’s pain fading as her young life ebbed away. It didn’t take long for silence to return. If the shimmering Uriel had not been in the room the night would have been the same as every other night. Quiet, a peaceful breeze lifting the curtains…

The scream that tore into the silence was filled with terror. Screeching brakes and breaking glass caused the Old Man to leap off his bed. The acrid stench of oil and burning rubber filtered into the room. He glanced at Uriel, whose accusing eyes stared at him with ferocious intensity.

The face staring back at him was familiar. The features were distorted and twisted in a fearsome grimace, complimenting the furious anger reflected in the eyes..

“You used me. You told me it was right to work against my own people; that it was for the good of the liberation movement. But it was only good for you and your image.” The words were melancholia in the darkness. “Why, Baba? What did I do that was so bad you had to kill me?”

Peter. The man tasked with economic empowerment of the black people disadvantaged under the British colonial power and the Rhodesia government. Peter. A man who had managed to seduce the Old Man’s wife who, 40 years younger than her husband, had fallen for the charms of her husband’s confidant and friend. She fell in love with Peter – young, vibrant and successful Peter. Their affair had been a major humiliation and embarrassment for the Old Man.

“I didn’t do it!” he shouted at the ravaged figure. It moved menacingly towards him, growling in rage. The Old Man whimpered, and fell back against the pillows.

“No, but you ordered them to tamper with my vehicle, didn’t you? And you instructed them to follow me to ensure I was dead after ‘the accident’. My family knew there was a bullet fired into me after the accident. I begged for my life that night, Old Man. But you didn’t care. I had to die, because you were angry about your wife’s indiscretions.”

“No! I didn’t do it!” The Old Man was terrified, panic forcing him to deny his insecurities.

“But you gave the order,” Uriel’s voice was weary. “You were his judge, jury and executioner. You gave the order you knew would be obeyed.”

“He broke one of the commandments,” the Old Man said, his voice stammering as he cast about for an excuse for murder. “He took my wife-“

“And you believe his actions gave you the right to take his life?” the question was incredulous. “Who do you think you are, Old Man? God?”

The silence was the denial.

“Vengeance is mine,” Uriel reminded him. “But it’s not yours to dispense as you see fit, Old Man. You are a mortal man, not a god. Your position does not entitle you to take people’s lives any time you choose to do so.”

The Old Man was afraid, but compelled to look at Uriel again. This time the blue eyes and pale face he saw was immediately identifiable.

David.

“You never met me, Old Man. I grew food for your people. I paid my taxes, and I raised my family. I wanted to give us all a better life,” the voice was quiet and thoughtful. “I fed your people, educated them and built their houses. I taught them to grow crops, and how to become responsible and self-sustainable.

“But then I realised you were not interested in your people. You didn’t care what happened to them, and my belief in you was destroyed. When your people used democracy to tell you they no longer wanted you as a leader you decided to blame the farmers. We were feeding the country, providing education and homes for the children. We were doing all the things you promised to do when you came to power. And your gratitude was bittersweet.”

He could feel the agony of the first farmer to feel his wrath at the people’s rejection of proposed constitutional reforms for his country. David was taken from his home, whipped and beaten before being executed in front of the people he’d worked so hard to help. The Old Man’s throat tightened and he choked, struggling for breath. The metallic taste filling his mouth disgusted him, and he reached for his glass of water. Hoping to wash the taste from his mouth he took a sip.

The liquid in the glass was warm. In Uriel’s luminosity he realised the glass was full of blood, and dropped it in horror. The red liquid spilled over his pyjamas, running down the fabric and staining it dark as it dripped onto his sheets. He coughed, trying to choke the blood from his mouth and throat.

“Your men cut David’s throat, Old Man. They drank his blood as he died,” Uriel said quietly. “It’s an ancient rite – consuming the blood of the vanquished to take their strength. That’s what they did to David. He watched them drink his blood as he died.”

“But I didn’t tell them to do that,” shaking his head, the Old Man’s denial was wavering with emotion.

“They call you Baba,” Uriel reminded him. “You are their father. They looked to you as an example, and if you tell them to do something they will follow your orders, as any good son would.”

The Old Man stared at him, denying the truths hiding in the three shadows drifting around Uriel.

“I am the leader. I gave my country freedom,” he replied, weakly. Uriel moved to the window.

“No. You exploited your position and abused your people. You were chosen to lead this country by her people. The world wanted to see your country prosper under your guidance. There was so much hope the day you accepted this position. You promised your people Paradise, but instead you’ve delivered them Hell. The earthly benefit is for your people, not you. You have had plenty of time to realise this, but failed to understand your duty.”

“I paid for this!” The Old Man wiped the last of the blood from his mouth. “I went to jail for ten years before I became the leader. I wasn’t even allowed to attend my son’s funeral. I was exiled from this country for many years! You have no idea the sacrifices I have made.”

“Sacrifice, Old Man?” Uriel’s laugh mocked the Old Man’s defence. “You call that sacrifice? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You are pitiful. During your years in jail you were able to study and educate yourself. You were given food and medical attention. How many people have starved to death in your prisons?”

The Old Man shook his head, defiant in his defence. “You are not listening to me! They took away my freedom! What are you going to do to them?”

“What your captors did to you is of no concern to me. I find it interesting that you continually blame others for your own actions. You will not take responsibility for your decisions. What is of concern to me is how you reacted to adversity, and how you have abused the privileges gifted to you.”

The Old Man opened his mouth to reply, but Uriel ignored him. “When you were released from prison you chose to go into exile. As usual your own safety was your only priority. From the comfort of your self-imposed exile you allowed your army generals to liberate this country. You have sacrificed nothing.”

“My son – what of my son? He was just three years old,” the Old Man’s whined. Uriel’s smile was without compassion.

“Your son died of malaria, Old Man. Natural causes. Your pursuit of power was more important to you than your family, and circumstances resulting from that decision meant you could not attend his funeral. That is not sacrifice. Your wife was unable to have any more children, but that didn’t stop you from pursuing another woman while she was fighting the illness that ultimately took her life.”

The words reminded the Old Man of his mortality. He had three young children, the legacy he planned to continue his name and assure his place in history. Again, Uriel read his thoughts.

“What a legacy to leave the world, Old Man. You are no leader. You have ensured your name will be cemented into history, but for reasons far different to the ones you would prefer.”

Uriel glided towards the bed. The Old Man whimpered, and pressed back against the pillow. The beautiful innocent face stared down at him, disgusted at the cowardice displayed by the dictator.

“You are not very brave when confronted with your crimes, are you?”

Uriel’s silver light glowed brighter, and those burning eyes glowed white so his pupils vanished. The marble white skin gave the Archangel’s face the appearance of a death mask. The Old Man was so frightened he could not move. When he spoke Uriel’s voice was that of a judge passing sentence upon a convicted criminal.

“I will return every night until your life is complete. Every night I will have different companions. You will be visited by those whose lives you have destroyed. I do not know how much time you have left, but know this: whatever time is left for you on this earth will be given to those you destroyed. You will answer for your crimes to your victims in this life, and you will pay for those crimes when this life is over.”

Uriel moved back, his shining luminance fading into his three companions’ ghostly shadows. In an instant he was alone. The Old Man stared at the curtain billowing into the empty room. In the silence it was easy to believe he’d suffered a terrible nightmare. He turned on the light, checking the sheets for the blood he tasted.

The sheets were clean.

With a trembling hand he pressed the button on his nightstand, calming as the door opened and a guard entered. He took the tablet offered with a fresh glass of water, before falling back on the pillows.

As sleep swept over him, only Uriel’s eyes and their terrifying promise remained.

How many years would his sleep be disturbed by his transgressions?

The following night he went to bed, afraid sleep would be elusive. It wasn’t. After his wife closed the door he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Shortly after 2 am he awoke. Uriel’s impassive, beautiful face was unreadable as it stared down at him.

The shadows shifted impatiently behind the Archangel, anxious to confront their executioner. The realisation he didn’t know what to expect from Uriel’s companions filled him with dread. The acceptance that this nightmare was an inescapable reality made him wonder how long he would have to endure these nightly visitations.

He thought about death, and the promised retribution waiting for him. And for the first time in his life the Old Man knew fear.

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