Eden Lost
Science fiction short story
Billie was in the west vale when he first saw the angel.
It was around dusk, with the sun falling steadily through the green-blue sky towards its resting place, and the west vale was a haunt of streaking sunlight and bare trees awaiting the first touch of spring. Winter’s chill still lurked in the shadows, and Billie was on one of the footpaths, heading east, when a darting bird caught his attention and spun him around
The angel was high up - thousands of metres, according to his father’s tales - and heading to the north-west in a thin line of white vapour. It looked like a thin white feather, stuck to the sky’s dome and slowly inching away, and Billie watched in awe until it disappeared behind the trees and the far curves of the distant rim-wall mountains.
The angels were back!
That night, around the dinner table, his father read them the news from Outreach Station after the table had been cleared, and there was mention that more angels had been sighted to the north, around Oasis and the big port city of Seamouth. Billie waited for a moment in the silence, and then raised his hand. After a nod from his father, Billie told them what he had seen in the west vale, and there was silence around the table once his short tale concluded. Mother hung her head, and his two sisters - Natalie and Rose-Marie - took a cue from their mother and quieted down as well. The twins, Matthew and Matthias, were oblivious to the mood, but they had the benefit of infancy on their side. Andrew, the eldest of the six, frowned, before turning to their father.
“Will they come here, Father?”
“We will pray for the best, and prepare for the worst. That has always been our way.” Father looked grim, and did not speak much for the rest of the night. Billie, once his chores were done, went to his bedroom and drew out the textbooks which Andrew had received at the start of that year - the textbooks which the younger children were not meant to look at yet. Andrew was with Father on the back porch, deep in conversation, and Billie knew better than to interrupt them when the porch door was closed.
The textbooks were old, passed from class to class, and the corners were curled from the countless hands that had handled them. The history book in particular was thin, barely two dozen pages, and there was one picture, right at the back, that Billie immediately sought out.
They had faces like men, and were clad in heavy armour - like knights, in the pictures from the Before Times, Billie had thought the first time he snuck a look - and massive, many-feathered wings sprouted from their backs. The photo had caught the angel from below as it flew, the details grainy from the magnification used to capture it from the ground, and its face, framed in short, dark hair, was an impassive frown that left the eyes as pools of shadow. Fire bloomed from their feet and wingtips, barely visible in the photo, and apparently responsible for their fearsome speed. A lance, easily twice the length of the angel, hung from its one hand where it had been captured, frozen on the page, and Billie wondered - with a guilty thought - what it would feel like to wield such power one day.
There was a dead tree in the northern vale, on the edge of Farmer Brown’s lands, atop a hill that overlooked the farm. Farmer Brown told of a fearsome storm that had befallen their lands one night, when he was but a wee lad, and how the sky had howled and burned as the angels fought something in the heavens overhead. In the morning, when his father ventured out, the farmlands had been dotted with patches of ash, and the tree atop the hill - a proud oak, generations old - had been split in half and charred to black glass. Billie had first seen it two summers ago, after a week-long visit to help Farmer Brown with a set of new wells. It stank of sulphur, to this day still, and Billie - when he first saw the angel photo and the fearsome lance it carried - had known, instinctively, that the tree had died at the hand of that weapon.
As for why, he did not know.
Was this the same angel he had seen that day?
There was a short paragraph with names - Gabriel, Josiah, Elligios - but the names meant nothing to Billie, and the book had no answers.
Billie hid the textbooks again and went to bed, and the next morning, when he rose before sunrise to help with the cows, the sky was full of angels.
Great swathes of the sky were lined with their passage, and Billie watched, mouth agape, as squadrons formed, wheeled, and broke up again overhead. More were coming in from the south, groups of three or four arriving every few minutes, and Billie caught a cuff on his ear when Father came out and found him gawking at the sky.
“The land waits for no-one, boy. Not even them.” Billie furtively rubbed his ear while Father spoke. His father cast a critical eye at the sight overhead and gave a heavy sigh before hoisting his milking pails. “Come. There is work to do.”
They had just finished the cows, with Billie’s sisters arriving to take the pails, and were getting ready to release the chickens for the day when the angels began to leave again. Billie had been sneaking up glances whenever he thought his father was not looking, and saw a vast arrowhead formation, comprising hundreds of angels, begin to form and angle off to the north-west. The angels were so thick in the sky that their trails had begun to resemble clouds, and serried rank after rank fell into formation and slowly inched their way to the horizon. His father caught him looking, frowned, and then looked for himself. The chickens, underfoot, scattered and went their usual way about the yard, and Billie and his father both watched the massed formation until it eventually disappeared over the distant horizon.
His father, when he finally looked down, caught Billie’s eye in a way that the young man found unbreakable.
“Take extra care today that none of the animals run off. I don’t want trouble today, and I want every head accounted for when we close the barn tonight. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
Billie waited for more, for an explanation, for a clue, for anything - but his father was quiet, and they collected the tools to mend the bridge over at the eastern plantation, and then they had to help with the fences on Farmer Kristoff’s place, and then Uncle Dan’s son, Josh, arrived to ask them for help to find a lost ewe, and before Billie knew it the sun was starting to set again and the day was almost done.
Lockup was extra careful that night, and Billie heard his father’s words in his head even as the man himself said little. Clouds were building to the north, high over the horizon and black as tar, and the wind of the day started dying off even as they closed and locked the barn for the night. They secured the shutters and doors on both the tool shed and the greenhouse after that, and finally did a round on the main house too. The still air felt ominous around them, and Billie found himself holding his breath when he clunked the last shutter bar in place next to the kitchen door. His sisters were already inside, and told him to go around and use the front door when he knocked to be let in the back.
Dinner was tense, and quiet, and Andrew’s place at the table was a gaping hole that sucked up whatever words were spoken. His father had sent the eldest off early that morning, while Billie was still getting dressed, and he had heard little aside from muttered words before Andrew’s footsteps had receded down the hall and out of the house.
After dinner, Billie helped Mother put the twins to bed - they were fussy, and seemed to have picked up on the mood around the table - and he was just about to leave when his mother caught his arm at the door.
“Whatever happens, save yourself, my boy,” she whispered at him, before disappearing down the passageway to her room. Billie wanted to ask her what she meant, but by the time he got to her door he could hear soft sobbing from the other side, and felt too embarrassed to knock.
The house was preternaturally dark now, with all the shutters closed, and Billie found himself in the lounge, a book unread in his hands and the coals dim in the fireplace, when there was a hammering on the front door. His heart leapt, and he was half-way out of his chair before Father’s voice cut through the air.
“Get the axe, like I told you. Go.” Father was a shadow in the corner of the room, rising from his recliner, and his belt knife - the big one, that he only put on when they were expecting trouble with the forest cats - was in his hand as he left the lounge. Billie ran for the kitchen cupboard where the axe was kept - not the big one, which he could barely lift, but the smaller hatchet that Father had taught him how to use the previous summer - and he had just grasped the familiar hilt when he caught Andrew’s voice from the front door.
“The station is telling everyone to be ready. The battle is coming this way.” Andrew was out of breath, voice panting through the ground floor, and Billie, eyes round, found his father and brother standing in the foyer. The front door was barred again, and a big duffel bag lay on the carpet at Andrew’s feet.
It had the triple arrowhead mark of Outreach Station on the side, and Father was already digging through it. A black assault rifle came out, followed by two more, and then boxes and boxes of shells. Andrew caught sight of Billie waiting in the passageway, and beckoned him in. His brother was flecked with mud, and his boots were still on - a sin inside the house which Mother would never forgive, unless circumstances were truly dire.
“Brother. I went to Outreach Station today, and talked to…”
Father cut Andrew off with a chop of his hand and furrowed brows, and Billie watched his older brother stop mid-word.
“Enough. He does not need to know.” Father was checking the rifles, working their mechanisms to ensure they all moved smoothly, and tossed the first one up to Andrew once he was done. His brother caught it with deft hands. “Say goodbye to your mother, then meet me back here. We are leaving in five minutes.”
Andrew disappeared up the stairs, rifle in hand, and Billie was left clutching his hatchet and looking at his father’s penetrating gaze.
“Remember when I told you about the Evil, William?”
Billie nodded, and thought of what his father had explained to him when he turned twelve. They had been out in the forest, alone, and his father had sat him down by the stream, and they had talked for a good two hours.
Billie had never looked at the world the same again after that, and as much as he had savoured the knowledge that he was now considered a man in his father’s eyes, another part of him had quailed at the things he had learnt that day.
“The Evil is back today, and we have a duty to do. Your brother and I will be at the crossroads, just past the main gate, with the rest of the militia. We will be listening for the bells. You remember what I told you about the bell?”
“Yes, sir. One peal every half-hour to let others know we are okay. Two peals if we hear or see something.” Billie swallowed hard. “And a constant ring if there is an attack here.”
“Exactly that.” His father pressed a metal box into the bottom of the second rifle, then held it up for Billie to see. “What are the three rules of using a weapon like this, William?”
“Only point it at things you want to kill, sir.” Billie had only used a hunting rifle once before, the previous summer, and the black weight felt strange in his hands after he clipped the hatchet to his belt and took the assault rifle from his father. “Finger off the trigger, and always mind what is behind the target.”
“Good man.” Father rose, the third rifle in his hand, just as Andrew returned from the sleeping area. Billie thought his brother’s eyes looked wet, but the dimness of the foyer made it impossible to be certain. “Wait here while I talk to your mother. Andrew, get the knapsacks.”
Billie found himself alone in the foyer, weapon in hand, and finally noticed how his heart was hammering in his chest.
Something was happening.
Something was leeching into his blood, something cold, with fingers that crawled into his brains and wanted to gibber about fear and running away and hiding.
Billie closed his eyes, and forced himself to not think of that discussion at the river bank, and when he opened his eyes again Andrew was next to him with the two knapsacks slung over his shoulder. His brother kneeled down to stuff more shell boxes into his pockets, and Billie took one box for himself before realising that he did not know how to load them into the strange black rifle. He was about to ask when Father came back down, and when he saw Father’s face the words dried up in his throat.
Father was wearing his silver cross, and the thin chain around his neck gleamed in the dim light. Billie had only seen him wearing it at weddings before, and the one time they had to bury Aunt Sallie from two towns over, and a small part in the back of his brain finally clicked what Father had meant with the Evil having come.
“William.” Father stopped in front of him, and laid a heavy hand on Billie’s shoulder. “You are the man of the house now. Remember your duty. Remember your oaths.”
Billie blinked, and nodded, and Father’s eyes were hard in the darkness.
“Whatever happens, my son, stay true. Every test can be the final one.”
The front door banged, and Billie was alone in the foyer.
It felt like an eternity before Billie forced his feet to carry him up the stairs to the sleeping quarters. The room that his sisters shared stood open, as did the room that the twins slept in, but their beds were all empty, and Billie thought he heard voices behind Mother’s door. He wanted to knock, but his knuckles hovered over the wood for a long moment before falling to his side again.
What could they say, or do, that Father had not already instructed?
What could he say, that Father had not already said?
The stairs to the loft were narrow, and the loft itself was a dark cavern that barely responded to the dim light when he flicked it on. The belfry stairs were dark and unlit, and narrower still, and Billie crept up them one by one until he reached the top hatch and pushed his way out onto the watch platform in the spire of the house.
Here, surrounded by the night air, Billie caught his first glimpse of the approaching storm.
The north, where the clouds had been massing, was now a solid, starless mass of darkness that blotted out the heavens and reached almost all the way overhead. Peering out over the edge of the parapet and craning his head up, Billie spotted barely a handful of faint stars in the sky to the south; in every other direction, darkness reigned. The bell was a dark clump behind him, in the centre of the platform, and he made sure to check that the cords were clear and within easy reach. It took little effort to ring the instrument, and its brassy tones could be heard for kilometres around.
The land itself was as dark as the sky overhead, and Billie wondered about that until he remembered that hunters never used lights at night - and neither did people who were hiding. Lights attracted things, and Billie did not want to think of the things Father had told him that came when the night was darkest.
The first bell peal came some twenty minutes later, from somewhere to the west, and Billie listened to another homestead repeating it, until it was his turn to ring the bell once. The single gong sounded like thunder up on the platform, and when the cord yanked up and threatened to give a second peal, Billie almost fell over in his rush to pull the brake lever. Heart pounding, he listened to the dull crack of the clapper inside the brake, and breathed a sigh of relief when the next homestead took the cue and sounded their single peal.
Within a few minutes the valley was silent again, and Billie resumed watching the sky. Nothing moved that he could see, and the darkness overhead kept eating stars until eventually even the southern horizon was covered. The stillness that had come with dusk was still there, the wind silent and leashed, and Billie waited for the chill of the night to settle in - only to be surprised when the first drop of sweat came oozing out of his hairline. There was an insidious heat in the air, so slow and stealthy that he barely noticed it at first. It felt like the sky was breathing down on Billie - slow, measured, deep breaths like a man waiting in a game hide for a deer to raise its head and present that perfect silhouette.
The minutes ticked past, and the single bells tolled, and eventually, at a time that Billie judged was around two hours past midnight, the northern horizon began to flicker.
It was a single strike at first - slowed by the distance, lazy with the night’s late hour - and it flickered umber-red for two long heartbeats before fading again. Billie rubbed at his straining eyes to make sure he was not imagining things, and when he looked again there was another flash. This one was short, whitish-blue, and arced down from the clouds and was gone in an instant. Two more followed it, in rapid succession, and then another long reddish strike curled down and lashed at the ground for two long heartbeats before fading away with a sullen glow.
Billie realized that he had not been breathing, and when he exhaled, the northern sky exploded. Lightning strikes came thick and fast on each other - some white-blue, others red - and the entire horizon crackled like some vast fire as energies boiled down from the darkness overhead. The sound came seconds later, a faint rumble dampened by distance and the oppressive cloud cover, but soon Billie could hear the rumbles growing louder, and the flashes began to get closer. He could see the flashes moving now, as they drew closer, and the backblast of light showed things moving in the clouds - tiny, black dots that swooped and soared and struck at each other with energies that made the clouds boil.
Jaw slack, Billie watched the approaching battle - until the next lightning strike came down and set the eastern woodlot on fire. The flash of light and the peal of thunder came right on top of each other, shaking Billie from his reverie, and the next moment there was a constant roaring above him as more and more blasts came down. Night transformed into day - white the one moment, lurid crimson the next - and Billie cowered beneath the spire roof and covered his ears as the sky screamed down at him. Things were moving overhead, spinning and twisting and diving through the night sky, and when he looked up again something drifted into his eyes and made him stumble back. It stung like salt, and his eyes water profusely as he rubbed at them. In the strobing light he saw ash clots covering his hands, thin and grey and smeared across the skin, and he looked up just in time to see one of the black shapes above him disappear under the questing fingers of a white-blue blast. It was there for a moment, outlined in white fire, and Billie thought he saw ragged wings and a long tail - and then it was gone, and Billie suddenly knew where the ash was coming from.
It felt like an eternity passed before the battle moved on, and it was only when the majority of the strikes were to the south that Billie finally dared to look up again. Thick drifts of ash had collected atop the edges of the watch platform, and the yard below, caught in the flickers of the battle, looked like Wintermass morning when the snow had covered everything under a soft blanket. He could hear lowing and braying from the barn, but the doors and shutters were all still shut, so whatever the animals were dealing with would have to wait. They would probably have to discard all the milk as well that morning, Billie thought, and he was just beginning to smile at the thought - silly as it was amidst the fury overhead and the terror in his heart - when something came tearing out of the sky and ploughed into the family cemetery on the other side of Father’s apricot orchard. Ash and clods of earth fountained up into the air, and the next moment the shockwave caught Billie and flung him against the bell with a resounding crack. Billie felt something in his left arm snap, and then he was on the floor, arm shrieking in pain while the bell warbled and trilled next to him. The ash that had collected on the watch platform swirled around him, choking its way into his nose and mouth, and Billie coughed and retched up grey drool for a long time before he could gather his senses again.
Something was here!
His left arm was useless, and pushing himself off the floor felt like it took forever, but he eventually got his feet under him, and the rifle under his right arm, and tottered his way down the belfry steps. Halfway down he slipped and landed on his behind, and the rest of the descent into the loft was accompanied by yelps of pain as his left arm banged against everything on the way down. The loft itself was still lit - albeit dimly - when he picked himself off the floor for the second time, and he took more care with the loft stairs. His sisters were waiting at the bottom, lanterns out, and shrieked when they saw him come stumbling down the stairs. They fled before he could say a word, and it was Mother who finally poked her head out from one of the bedroom doors and recognized him.
“William! What happened…” She rushed toward him, but stopped halfway and flung her hands to her mouth when she saw the state he was in. Billie, fumbling with the cabinet where the lower bell cords were, looked down at his ash-streaked clothes, and waved her away when she wanted to swoop in again.
“I just fell, Mother. I’m okay.” He finally got the cabinet open, grabbed the heavy cord, and gave it a good yank. Overhead, the bell tolled once - and then again, and again, as Billie kept up the cadence. His left arm hurt with every twist of his body as he leaned into the cord, and once he had worked up a good tempo, he looked back at his mother. Her eyes were wide, and tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she understood what his glance meant, and immediately rushed in to take the cords from him.
“Keep the bell ringing. Father and the militia will come.” Billie tried to raise his left arm, but the pain made him give up after a moment. It felt like fire in his veins. “Something fell from the sky. I have to go see what it is.”
His sisters had come out of the room as well at that point, drawn by the tolling of the bell overhead, and William motioned for them to follow him as he set off down the last flight of stairs. They were willful at most times, but for once they followed him without complaint, and when the three of them reached the front door Billie turned and gave them his hardest look. He could only imagine what he looked like, with his limp arm and his ash-streaked cheeks and clothing - but it must have worked, for their eyes were large and their mouths were shut.
“Bar the door once I’m out. I’m leaving this here for you.” Billie stacked the rifle next to the door, and indicated for them to take it. Rose-Marie, the shorter and older of the two girls, took the rifle in trembling hands as Billie pushed the heavy beam off the door. “What are the three rules of using a weapon like this, Rose?”
“Only point it at things you want to kill. Don’t play with the trigger. Take care of what is behind.” Billie listened as his sister repeated the same lesson he had learnt, and then tried to give them a smile.
“I’ll be back soon. I need to make sure everything is safe out there first.”
Natalie’s lower lip began to tremble, and Rose’s mouth had disappeared into a thin line as she hefted the weapon. Billie pulled the door open, unclipped the hatchet from his belt, and set off towards the cemetery. He heard the door bang shut behind him just as he stepped off the porch, and the fallen ash puffed and swirled around him with every footstep.
The night was still dark, and the battle overhead had moved on by now, leaving fewer lightning strikes to break the darkness, yet this was a path that Billie had trod many times before.
His first time as a pallbearer, carrying Grandpa from the house chapel, past his apricot trees, to the cemetery.
Grandma, two seasons later, in the winter snow and with the wind howling around them and hiding their tears.
Baby Joshua, who did not last his first winter.
Uncle Phillip, who carved scrimshaw in winter and helped with the fences in summer, until the wasting sickness took him, and Billie had to watch his mother cry and cry for six months as her brother faded away.
The orchard was a dark wall on his left, and Billie kept the hatchet raised as he crept forward. The edge of the orchard ran right up to the cemetery plot, and Billie winced when he saw that the trees on that side had been knocked over and into their neighbours. Years of growth and careful cultivation, gone in an instant.
The cemetery itself was a low hill, barely a metre or two high, and the path to it was covered in clods of thrown earth as Billie approached. The gate itself had been ripped off and was stuck in the branches of the nearest apricot tree. The constant tolling of the house bell was a metronome somewhere behind Billie, setting a pace that he wished his heart would slow down to.
A massive crater, metres across, filled the centre of the space where headstones had once waited in patient ranks, and Billie felt sick to his stomach when he noticed a smashed casket sticking out of the tumbled ground. There was a foul stench on the night air, of stale water and bad eggs, and at some point he could not help himself - his bile rose, and he gagged out a thin stream of vomit to the side as the sight and smells overwhelmed him.
“Oh you poor child. Are you alright?” The voice came from deeper in the cemetery, and Billie froze where he had been busy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is a terrible night to be outside.”
A woman stood at the edge of the impact crater when Billie looked up. Long hair covered most of her face, and in the flickering lightning Billie spotted a dark eye and the curve of a smile. She was dressed in loose clothing, something that the seasonal labourers would wear, but the longer Billie stared at her, the more it seemed wrong. The tunic was strained across her shoulders, as if she was hunched over, and she had no tool belt over her trousers, and - worst of all - she had no shoes.
Two pale feet, in the grave dirt, and not a care in the world.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Billie blurted out. “The Evil is here, you should be in shelter. This is a bad time to be outside, lady.”
“Of course, yes!” The lady smiled, or at least Billie thought so, but the intermittent light made it difficult to be sure. “I was… lost, and was looking for shelter. Is there shelter nearby?”
“Our house is just behind the trees.” Billie indicated the path behind him, hatchet still in hand. “We should…”
Something was wrong.
The lady was wearing a dark dress, and there was a slit up the one side, and Billie could see pale skin gleaming in the flickers of red light from above. Her hair was longer, all the way to her bosom now, and Billie could not help but notice that she seemed rather well-endowed.
“Why are you here?” Billie looked around at the rest of the shattered cemetery, but there was no-one else in sight. “Where are your people?”
“I was looking for shelter, just like you said.” Her voice was softer, deeper, and it was starting to raise uncomfortable feelings in Billie’s belly. “Is your house very close? Can we take shelter there, and maybe… you could comfort me?”
Billie felt a hot flush starting to creep from his belly up into his chest, and his first involuntary step caught him by surprise. He forced himself to a stop an instant later.
“I don’t… I don’t think…” he stammered, and the lady smiled, and the next lightning strike was a white-blue one that showed him the true form of the thing standing before him.
Billie screamed, and turned to run, and the next moment there was a shriek of air and another shape crashed to the ground right at the cemetery gate.
Wings steamed in the air, spreading wide as the shape rose, and Billie caught a glimpse of a raised lance - and then the world went white and silent.
Billie came to his senses to the sound of crashing, tearing noises. Something was yowling, a bobcat caught in a trapper snare, and there was a continuous insect buzzing underneath it all. Light strobed around him, eye-searing in intensity, and Billie screwed his eyes shut before feeling around himself with his good arm. He found his hatchet after a few moments, and with the weapon clasped in one trembling hand he slowly pushed himself erect and turned towards where the sounds were coming from. His left arm was still on fire, but he barely felt it any longer.
The angel and the creature were grappling at the edge of the impact crater, and ripping the ground up with the fury of their battle. The angel had a double-handed grip on the creature’s one wing, and was slowly and methodically busy tearing it off the creature’s back. Black talons, trailing steam, lashed at the bone-white armour that was overpowering it, and a thick black snake - no, tail, Billie realized - was wrapped around the angel’s one leg and trying to pull it off balance. The yowling, buzzing sound was coming from the creature’s face, teeth chomping in canine jaws below a forehead branded with unreadable, glowing green sigils. At one point it managed to latch onto one of the angel’s armoured forearms - but in the end, it was to no avail.
An impassive face, with iron eyes, looked down at the creature below it with nothing but disdain and pity, and Billie finally, truly understood what Evil was.
The first wing came loose with a wet, ripping sound, and evaporated into glowing cinders even as the angel tossed it aside. The creature lunged for the angel’s neck, jaws wide, only for two gauntleted hands to grab it by the jaws and hold it immobile for one long, straining moment as it snarled and writhed. An armoured knee came up, gouging into the creature’s neck, and the yowling cut off as the beast crashed back onto the ground. Billie watched as a silver blade grew out of the angel’s forearm - mimicking, in a strange way, the hatchet held in his own - and then the blade flickered down and steaming, glowing wounds began to appear on the creature’s chest as the angel laid into it. A final thrashing of clawed legs and twisting tail managed to stagger the angel for an instant, forcing it to step back and away from the supine black form - but when it twisted and leapt for the crater, a gauntlet darted out and caught the tail mid-air. The angel twisted at the waist - a man winding up a bullwhip, to Billie’s mind - and the yowling creature whiplashed down into the crater with enough force to shake the ground and stagger Billie even where he stood. The angel was in the air an instant later, silver blade held high and wings spread, and disappeared into the crater right behind the creature.
Billie heard a single last scream, stretching out like an ox badly butchered, and then there was only silence.
Did they even know he was still there?
The darkness lay thick upon the cemetery now, and even the distant lightning had faded to just the occasional flicker by now. Heart pounding, Billie considered whether he should go look or turn around, and he was just on the verge of making a decision when a dim shape rose from the crater.
“Do not be afraid, child.” The voice was deep, and a thin glow rose to outline the angel as it stepped over the crater edge. “The Watch has been kept. You are safe now.”
Billie wanted to run, but he remembered the woman he had first seen, and a little voice inside his head warned him to be careful.
“Why are you here?” Billie felt his voice cracking, the way it had started doing two summers before, and this time it did not even embarrass him.
“I am a Keeper of the Watch, and one of the Legion. I protect this world, and all who toil upon it.” The angel turned to recover its lance, then straightened again. Billie saw cracks in its wings, and things leaking out from beneath its armoured plates, and wondered how it was still standing. “My oath is to this world, and for that oath I am tested. The serpent was my test, and I passed it.”
The impassive face turned to regard Billie, and Billie saw fatigue - and something else.
“It tested you too, did it not.” There was no question in the statement, and Billie remembered the feeling in his belly and the thoughts in his heart as he had stepped toward the woman. He hung his head in shame, and felt the flush in his cheeks at the same time.
“Do not hang your head in shame, child. You endured where men have fallen.” The impassive face shifted, lips creasing ever so slightly, and Billie looked up again to see the smile hovering there. “Do you know what you faced?”
Billie shook his head, and the angel sat down on the edge of the crater before patting the ground next to it.
“Come sit with me, and let me teach you the truth of this world, child.”
Billie took tiny steps until he was close enough to where the angel had indicated, then gently lowered himself onto the ground. Up close he could smell the angel now - oils, machine scents, and something that reminded him of the incense from the cathedral in Oasis - and the angel’s armour gave off a faint humming sound as it turned to regard him.
“First there was Adam, and he journeyed to this world on a great ark…”
Billie listened, and asked questions, and after a while the exhaustion of the night overcame him, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Father and the militia men found him hours later, alone, and when Billie woke he was blind. He told the men of what had happened, and Father held him tight and wept tears of joy that his youngest son had survived such an ordeal.
Cradled in his father’s arms, with his father’s cross pressed to his cheek, William wept, because he finally, truly understood what was at stake.
The juxtaposition of the mundane—milking cows and mending fences—against the cosmic horror of the machine war is brilliant.