For a long time he’d thought that the other must be one of the four the Catholic Church didn’t mention, and about which least of all was known — Uriel, Raguel, Sariel, and Jeremiel — but now when he looked at them again, he knew at once that it had to be Michael.
The name Michael came from the Hebrew Mikha’el, “Who is like God?” Once he’d been a warrior, God’s general. God was omnipotent, Michael was like God. When God died, Michael went from being the almighty to being the dead.
That was what he was now. His hands shook, his head shook, his legs shook. His skin looked as if it had been stretched over a framework of bones. Without Raphael’s help he would die. But he didn’t die, he was like the dead.
It couldn’t be anyone but him.
Antinous waited until they’d almost disappeared into the mist on the other side of the meadow before following them. He walked among the trees on the edge of the clearing, still alert and wary, with his attention fixed just as much on what was around him as on the two angels far ahead.
When he entered the forest on the other side, he saw that they’d stopped again. They were standing next to a large spruce tree. Michael rested his head on Raphael’s shoulder, Raphael held him. On the far side of them the mountainside rose up in a steep, dark wall.
They’d found the mountain for him.
Antinous ducked behind an uprooted tree a short distance from them. Michael was no longer trembling, he noticed. Both were standing quite still. But then a great convulsion went through Michael, it began at his feet and seemed to twist its way upward, until his head was thrust to one side and the thing vanished in the air somewhere above him.
When the fit was over he put his arms around Michael, who leaned against him with all his weight.
Antinous thought that all those small tremblings must have united inside him. That he was having them all together now.
The next one was bigger. It looked as if his whole body was being torn apart. And this time he screamed.
When it was over, his body went completely limp, and the weight made Raphael take a step back to prevent himself from losing balance.
The two angels stood motionless by the spruce tree. There was nothing martial about them now, as there’d been the last time, then both had been clad in black chain mail and red capes, and each had had his sword hanging at his side. Now they were dressed in white robes, ankle length, and with cords at their waists.
The green and black of their wings shimmered against the snow.
Slowly Michael raised his head. He looked straight at Antinous. At first his eyes were quite vacant. Then they seemed to return to the world. For a brief moment they stared at Antinous. They filled with a fear so pervasive that Antinous couldn’t bear it, but pressed his head into the snow, while a new cry, the last one, pealed through the forest.
When he peered up again, it was over. Raphael’s arms were still around Michael, but his body was lifeless. His head lay loose-jawed over the shoulder, his arms hung limply by his side.
Antinous put his head down again, pressed his burning cheek against the cold snow, closed his eyes. There was a truth about him. He’d seen it in the angel’s look. Now he understood that truth. But he didn’t know if he could live with it.
He opened his eyes, looked across the snow’s white surface, the minute holes that pockmarked it, the water that made it glisten. The black trunk that rose a few yards away, shining too.
He raised his head and looked at the angels again.
Raphael was walking with Michael in his arms. He knelt in front of the rock wall, laid him carefully down in the snow, got hold of him under his arms, and lifted his torso so that he was sitting with his back resting against the wall.
He began to walk along the foot of the wall. After a few yards he disappeared up the slope.
Antinous looked at the angel he’d left. It sat quite still against the mountain. Eyes closed, hands in its lap, wings by its sides.
Snow had begun to cover its face.
He looked up. Nothing. Just mist, snow, mist.
This was what he’d dreamed of. All his adult life he’d dreamed of this: a dead angel.
But he remained prone. Perhaps because he was scared that the other angels might come back. Perhaps because he wanted to make sure it really was dead. He wasn’t sure of that himself. But something told him he had to remain flat.
He kept watch on the dead angel for several hours. It was thirty yards off, sitting against the glistening black rock wall, gradually being coated with falling snow.
Only when dusk started to fall did he get up and go over to it.
He stroked the snow off its brow and felt it. Cold as ice. He raised its hand from its lap and pressed his thumb to the artery on the wrist. No pulse. He was quite calm. He knew the truth about himself. There was no place there for any of the conceptions he’d had about himself. He’d never taken the final step that could have enabled him to see it. It wasn’t because he didn’t know there was a step to take, but because he’d persuaded himself it didn’t exist. He had known really. But now the angel who’d shown him that was dead. And he was alive. He was the one who was alive. He’d thought of that these past hours. Could he still live knowing what he knew? Yes, he could. And not only that. It would also set him free. He could do as he liked. He needn’t take account of anything anymore.
Not even the dead angel.
He bent forward and grasped it beneath the arms, raised it. It was light, much lighter than he’d expected. It was not unlike carrying a mummy, he thought.
He lifted it a few yards clear of the rock and laid it down in the snow, knelt down, and stood up with the angel in his arms and set off in the opposite direction from Raphael, until the mountain slope became gentle enough to walk up without difficulty.
All the way home, first through the river valley, then across the plateau and up the mountain on the other side, he thought about the angel he had in his arms. But not about what it was. Only what it represented. It could get him everything he’d yearned for. Fame, respect, admiration. His works would last forever. If he just gave way. The angel had seen who he really was, what he’d never been able to admit to himself that he was, and it was what he hadn’t been able to acknowledge that he had to give way to. He wanted to know, but no one else wanted to. They would worship him.
So ran his thoughts. Then he’d imagined how he’d lay it on the table in his study as soon as he got home, lock all the doors, cover all the windows, light the lamp, lay out his dissection instruments, get his preserving solutions ready, a book to make notes in as he worked. How he would cut open the skin from the throat down, cut open the ribs one by one, carefully lift out the organs and lay them on the adjacent table. Heart. Lungs. Liver. Kidneys.
Would it have a heart?
The mere thought had sent rushes of expectation through him. He didn’t know what awaited him. Nobody knew. He would be the first to dissect an angel. The angels had had eternal life, then they’d been trapped here, and become mortal. But they hadn’t become human. Their anatomy now ought to be the same as when they were eternal beings. He might be holding the very key to life.
It was late evening when he got to the road. He stood for a while looking around him. When he was sure there wasn’t anyone else in the vicinity, he walked up the road on the last part of the journey to his house, kicked open the gate, crossed the courtyard, opened the door, and went in.
He laid the angel down on the floor of his study, cleared his writing table of books and papers, and laid the angel on it. All this took place in the dark. He couldn’t bear to have a light, he was fearful that the sight of the dead angel there on his desk would fully bring home to him what he was really doing.