Psychopomp
Never before has Dana seen a church like the Heavenly Ossuary of Archangel Samael. In
terms of scale and layout, it isn’t too different from the gothic cathedrals he’s seen in
films and photos. But in terms of decor, the setting is more akin to catacombs than a holy
site.
An impossible number of skulls aggregate around Dana to construct the walls of the church. Every time he tries to make an estimate for however many there are, the skulls seem to multiply and surpass whatever guess he would have. Between them are columns of femurs and humeri stacked atop each other, stretching upward and outward into bridges between themselves. They rise higher and higher, finally meeting a ceiling adorned with several chandeliers. They too are constructed entirely of skeletal remains.
A crown of pelvises fixes each chandelier into the ceiling and falls outward into chains of vertebrae with ribcages flaring out. Along the center column are more femurs and humeri bound together with a bowl of scapulae adorning the middle point. At the bottom is another scapula-bowl with arms bent outward to present candles atop skulls. The arms themselves have finger bones draped along them, suspended like waterfalls frozen in time.
At the church’s crossing where the altar and wings meet the hall of pews, a much larger and more impressive chandelier hangs above. It appears to be made from a multitude of other chandeliers, but with the baroque messes of bones overlapping each other, Dana struggles to discern what exactly is used and where. Even then, just as the skulls around him multiply when he counts, the bones above shift and morph as he tries to discern them.
But perhaps the most curious detail would be the crucifix behind the altar. It’s not one made of bone, nor does it feature any skeletal depiction of Jesus as Dana might suspect.
On the contrary, Christ is absent.
The cross’s wings still feature nails driven into them where the Son of God would have His hands. Below them, another nail where His feet would be. All three nails feature red stains trickling down, while the head of the cross still has “INRI” posted to it. An imprint of Christ seems present, perhaps through a lingering memory of where He should be, but the body itself has been gone for a long time.
Below the crucifix, Samael stands before his altar. The grand hallways of pews in front of him are empty as requested, with the ossuary vacant save for himself and Dana Armbrust. Dana stands below the choir, his head bowed towards Samael.
“Approach,” Samael requests. Dana does so, stepping onto the choir. As he rises, Samael grows in size to stand two heads above him. The Archangel’s black wings unfurl, their span reaching beyond Dana’s peripheral. Yet, somehow, he clearly sees their tips. The sudden sweep causes a shudder in Dana, not helped by Samael extending his palms and placing them against Dana’s forehead. As they press against him, all heat escapes his body. An echo rings throughout the ossuary as Samael prepares to give his blessing.
“‘To purge all wicked from Earth.’ Will you, Dana Armbrust, dedicate your soul to this mandate?” he thunders.
Dana closes his eyes, feeling Death’s icy hands against his head. He stills his body, then his voice, before answering.
“I will.”
With this, all free will is wrestled away from Dana. A serene patience seeps into his being‒ No, not just that. He feels an utmost reverence to whatever stands above him. Whatever bewildering, off-putting nature the ossuary had vanishes to make room for an unseen dogma beneath his conscience.
“B'mshichuta qadishtha hadeh,” Samael recites, “Nes'adok Marya b'khubeh uvrachmaw'i b'taybutha d'Rukha d'Qudsha.”
Voluntarily, yet involuntarily, Dana responds “Amiyn.”
Samael’s frigid hands make their way to both sides of Dana’s head, then roll down his shoulders to meet his hands. The Archangel takes hold of them and continues, “Neshawzakh Marya d’faraq lakh men khtita w’naqimakh.”
“Amiyn.”
Death’s wings stretch further outwards, wrapping around himself and Dana as he embraces the young man before him. He places both hands on Dana’s back, his indices and thumbs tracing the edges of Dana’s scapulae.
“Neshawzakh Marya d’faraq lakh men khtita w’naqimakh,” Samael repeats.
Dana, washed by a peace felt only in eternal rest, again says “Amiyn.”
His face is pushed into Samael’s robe, and he feels the Archangel’s hood brush across the top of his head. Death plants a tender kiss just above Dana’s forehead, whereupon the Archangel’s wings throw themselves away and he steps back.
Free will returns to Dana, promptly being wasted.
He falls to the floor with the weight of two burning blades being driven into his back. He screams and grovels as searing brands twist and pull at his spine, bubbling and bursting outward as if giving birth to flaming prongs. Saliva froths from his mouth in a vain endeavor to carry the pain from his body. A molten ring of metal lodges itself into his skull, building outward and begging to be quenched by the air outside of his scalp. A crown then bursts from atop his head, yet the scalding within his skull remains. The searing in his back responds by ceasing for only a fraction of a moment, giving way for two wings to tear out of his flesh. Dana whines and grimaces and gnashes his teeth as an eye appears in his vision, unblinking and unwavering. It bores into his own pupils, melting the contents of his sockets. He raises his hands to claw at his eyes, yet as soon as his fingers press against them, the heat ceases at once and his vision returns.
Agony dissolves, Dana now feeling nothing but the feathers on his wings and the ring above his head. He sees his hands pull away from his face, and the milky floor beneath them. His gaze rises to Samael, and above him Dana can now see the clear imprint of Christ’s body against His crucifix. Not as a visible discoloration, but as a hazy memento still failing to take shape.
“Are you OK?” Samael asks, stretching a hand to Dana. He’s returned to his prior stature, noir wings again folded behind him to frame his halo.
Dana leans back, sitting on his calves. His fingers twitch as he readies his hand to take the Archangel’s, but then a thought stops him. With no meditation, Dana asks.
“How does God not know about this?”
Death’s fingers curl when the question finds his ears. Something between a wince and a sigh escapes his hood. Clearly, this isn’t a question he’s been wanting to answer.
“It was written that the silence in Heaven would last half an hour,” Samael responds, his voice now grim, “It has been much longer than that.”
Dana’s lips part to ask what Death means, but he holds his tongue before it can move. It’s clear that Samael doesn’t want to explain, which he proves by reaching behind him and wordlessly drawing a sickle.
“This is to be used in your reaping of souls,” Samael explains as he turns the blade to himself and extends the handle towards Dana, “When you’ve purged someone, their spirit will sit up from their body and remain tethered. Use this to sever the cord and send them on their way.”
Dana hesitates, still trying to parse what Samael meant by the “silence in Heaven.” But not wanting to keep the divine waiting, he shakes the thought and takes the sickle. Death turns away, looking to the rear of the building as Dana stows the tool in his belt loop.
“I should take you to your quarters,” Death says, “Follow me.”
Samael heads further towards the back of the ossuary, leaving Dana to catch up to him. They stop once they reach the apse, whereupon Samael turns to Dana.
“You’ll want to hold my arm,” the Archangel warns, “Crossing the interstice is intense for the unprepared.”
Dana eyes him up and down, not moving until Samael makes a second nod in the corner’s direction. He slowly reaches for Death’s arm, coming to a gentle stop midway through. Samael finishes the task, linking elbows with Dana and pulling him close again while gazing into the wall before them. Dana looks too, his eyes lost in the gaps between skulls. Etched in their foreheads, he notices names unseen before his blessing. None in particular stand out to him, though.
Just when Dana thinks of turning his head to face Samael, a small crack splits one skull in half, eating away at its surface. It spreads slowly at first, creeping to the skulls above and below before splitting the whole wall open. A sudden gust of nothing slams into Dana, who squeezes his grip on Samael’s arm before he can be pushed back. The Archangel remains stiff, looking dead ahead into the abyss beyond. Dana can feel the building crumbling behind him, but can’t hear it at all. Instead, the faint flickering of fire slithers into his eardrums and blows through the bullet hole in his head. His brain is seared and squished as he screws his eyes shut and buries his face in Samael’s robe. All the same, Dana sees an atom the size of Earth come careening past him to crash into the moon. The resulting boulders and electrons scatter into a mist of invisible white dust, too small and too large to give a sense of proper scale. No air blows around him, yet Dana still finds himself being pushed back by the void, as if the ossuary somehow clung to his collar and desperately needs him to return…
And then it’s over.
The cacophonous fire is killed by the hum of an air vent. The pull of gravity cuts back to the ground below. The shadow behind Dana’s eyelids returns, and the feeling of Death’s cloth against his face eases him back into the world. Dana jolts away, rattled by the sudden peace, but his anxiety slowly melts as he gets his bearings.
He and Death are nowhere remarkable, just in a worn-down lobby with musty air. Its entrance is a simple pair of glass doors blotted with water stains. A maroon carpet littered with splotches of its own has been rolled past the doors and beneath Dana’s feet. Brick walls surround him, lit by dim plug-in chandeliers above. The decor is tacky if nothing else, with postmodern paintings of shapes and colors clashing against art-deco chairs and sofas, but all the same Dana finds it welcoming. A bit endearing, even.
“Where… Where are we?” Dana’s eyebrows furrow.
“I could tell you,” Samael says. Dana senses a smirk beneath Death’s hood as he continues, “But I think you know.”
Dana furrows his brow for a moment, then the knowledge floods in.
“1844 S Lincoln St, Chicago IL 60620,” he says effortlessly, “04:28 on Sunday, 22 April, 2009.”
Samael gives a nod and a chuckle, “Time and place are top priorities for angels of the Third Sphere.”
“Third Sphere?” Dana asks.
“It’s the tier of angels who exist closest to the physical world,” Death explains, “Which, by the way, we call the Low Surface. Angels of the Third Sphere, like you and I, interact a lot with the Low Surface. So it’s important to keep close track of when and where we are.”
“I see,” Dana nods. And he does, but not as clearly as he thinks he should.
“Don’t worry about it too much,” Samael assures him, “You’ll get used to it quickly. In the meantime…”
The Archangel nods towards an elevator across the room. Its faux-wood doors wait patiently to be opened and walked through. Samael crosses the room, Dana in tow, and calls the elevator. With the click of a button in need of cleaning, a red-carpeted chamber reveals itself to the duo. The two step in, and to Dana’s surprise the elevator doesn’t sag or creak; it stands firmly as though it were simply another room in the building. Samael clicks the button for floor 1, just above L, and the doors close. The room shudders violently, causing Dana to throw himself to the wall. There’s no feeling of rising or falling, just one vigorous shake before the doors open again within a second. Samael exits, leaving Dana shivering in the chamber. The Archangel looks back, hands folded in front of him.
“Come along,” he nods.
Dana shakes his head‒ not to say no, but to snap out of his haze. He pushes away from the wall, practically leaping out of the elevator in an effort to get away from it. Death huffs a chuckle and pats Dana’s shoulder. His hand doesn’t have the same icy feel as before, Dana realizes. Not to say it’s warm, more that it’s without temperature. Stagnant air could press against him and it would feel no different.
“You’re in Room 147,” Samael pulls his hand away, “Almost there.”
Dana nods, following Death across the musty carpet. It’s not beyond saving, Dana thinks, just old and in need of maintenance. A good shampoo would do it well.
“I’ve been thinking of renovating,” Samael comments, “Make the place feel less decrepit and more art deco.”
Dana nods, not sure exactly how to respond.
“Although I think most would prefer a ‘70s feel,” Samael continues, “What do you think?”
“I-I don’t really know,” Dana crosses his arms, “Just a good cleaning would be nice.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Samael hums before stopping in front of a room marked 147. He gives it a light knock, and the room replies with the sound of scuffling feet.
The door opens, and a tall man steps in to block the entrance. He’s at least a foot above Dana, and despite the shortness of his black hair, it seems to have grown out a bit to resemble a pixie cut. His arms are slender, yet signs of fading musculature are prominent as though he were an emaciated warrior. Regardless of this retired demeanor, his olive face is clean-shaven and his clothes are as neat and put-together as a white tee and black slacks can be. Behind all that is a pair of grey wings and a pale halo above. The man’s eyes turn to Dana, and he gives a nod to the young man before looking back at Samael.
“Anything I can do for you?” the man asks.
“Your cohort’s complete,” Death says, putting a hand on Dana’s shoulder, “A new recruit’s come in.”
A smile crosses the man’s face as he looks back at Dana and extends a hand.
“Kevin Sheehan,” he nods.
“Dana. Dana Armbrust,” the young one replies, clasping hands with Kevin for a not-too-firm handshake.
Kevin then steps aside, opening the door for Dana and Samael to enter. As they pass through, a mess of clashing decor hits Dana in the face. Posters of every kind ‒ baseball, DJ promos, police recruitment ads ‒ are plastered over the walls like clumsy attempts to replace the wallpaper. Wherever there isn’t a poster, shelves have been screwed into the wall to show off their own sundry contents ‒ statues of the Virgin Mary, swords of every length, abstract metal sculptures… If the “cohort” Samael mentioned before is to be taken at face value, Dana thinks, then surely they decorated this room at their own discretions.
At the center of the chaos is a round table with an ashtray and four seats around it, one of which has been kicked over. Two people sit across from each other, both with grey wings and pale haloes to match their companion. On the left is a broad-shouldered black man with a flat-top haircut supporting a pair of round sunglasses. His tank top reveals the build of someone who works out daily, only building the necessary muscle for an active lifestyle. To juxtapose that, a cigarillo has been placed between his fingers. He draws it to his lips as his brown eyes are cast over at Dana and his head bobs a hello.
Across from him is a skinny woman, probably older than Dana by a couple years at most. Her sapphire hair is the first thing he notices, followed closely by the stitched-up gash across her pale throat. Below that, a white tee from which her ribs clearly stick out. But despite her lack of fat and muscle, she has no problem flipping a foot-long blade in the air and catching it at the handle. She throws her black-irised eyes at Dana before a smug grin crosses her face.
“New blood?” she asks.
“Yes, this is Dana Armbrust,” Samael nods, “Dana, you’ll be with these three as your, eh… entourage.”
“Alex,” the blue-haired girl says with another knife toss.
“Malik,” the smoker puffs. His lips part slightly as though to add something, but then they shut and pull a corner of his mouth to the side.
“The second,” Alex says, pointing her blade in his direction. Malik just shakes his head and sighs.
“Well, I have responsibilities to attend to,” Samael cuts in, “Just relax for now, Dana; Kevin will show you your first purge when you wake up. If you ever need me, come to the ossuary.”
Dana nods and Alex gives a two-fingered salute. Malik pulls the cigarillo from his mouth, setting it on the table’s ashtray while he and Kevin bow. Once Samael has taken his leave, Alex kicks up the sideways chair and corrects it with her free hand.
“Have a seat,” she says, “Dana, right?”
“Eh, right,” Dana says, approaching her. He eyes the chair, then Alex’s blade, and decides it best to stand.
“Alex, put that down,” Malik says, picking up his cigarillo.
“What? I thought she’d like to sit down,” Alex says.
“The knife, you nimrod!” Malik throws up a hand. Alex just snickers and lets her dagger clatter onto the table.
“He,” Dana corrects. Alex gives Dana a puzzled look, then her eyebrows pop up.
“Oh shit, my bad, dude,” she says, “I was thrown off by the, uh…”
Alex gives Dana a few looks up and down. Her brows furrow and her lips purse before she finishes: “…the everything, really.”
Dana scoffs, throwing a hand up and turning away.
“Hey, hey, come on,” Alex raises her hands.
“Alex…” Kevin starts.
“No, no, listen,” she continues, “I’ve had the same shit said to me. Had short hair for a while and wore jackets all the time, it was constant torture.”
Dana doesn’t say anything. Kevin looks between him and Alex, then casts his eyes to the floor and shakes his head slightly. A sigh full of smoke plumes from Malik’s mouth as he sits up.
“Hey Dana,” he says, “Why don’t we step outside? Clear our heads.”
Dana sucks his teeth, preparing to decline until Malik snuffs his cigarillo and rises from his seat. At that point, Dana looks to the door and nods. The two of them step out of the room, leaving Kevin to shake his head and say something to Alex. Once the door closes behind them, Malik sighs.
“Sorry about that,” he apologizes.
Dana crosses his arms, not mad at Malik or Alex, but at the circumstances.
“It’s fine,” he replies, “I just… It’s been a horrible day.”
Which it has. Dana bites down on his cheek and sucks in his tongue to keep tears from building. Malik nods, a knowing glimmer in his eye.
“I ain’t gonna pry,” he says, “However bad it was for me, I know it was that bad for you. Maybe even worse.”
“You have no idea,” Dana sighs.
After a pause, Malik says, “None of us do.”
Dana looks down, then off to the side. He doesn’t want to think that Malik could have had it any worse, but then he’s a Valkyrie too, isn’t he? Who’s to say he didn’t kill a few children on his way out?
“About Alex‒” Malik starts.
“It’s fine,” Dana interrupts, “I know she didn’t mean anything, it’s just been‒ Well, you know.”
“A horrible day,” Malik echoes.
Then nothing. The two of them stand for a while, neither one willing to break the silence or gesture to go back in. Dana just leans back against the wall, feeling his own wings against his back and the smooth surface against his feathers. Occasionally, he rolls his head to one side to smooth out a small bubble in the wallpaper, then doubles back to make sure it stays down. Of course, it still pops up as soon as he’s left it.
Eventually he catches eyes with Malik, who nods toward the door. Dana shakes his head. Malik shrugs.
“I was a cop,” Malik says.
“Yeah?” Dana says.
“Yeah. Crooked, too.”
“What did you do?”
“Took bribes, mostly,” Malik admits, “And let people walk away. Let a lot of people walk away. But they weren’t hurting nobody.”
Dana furrows a brow.
“My parents hated cops,” Malik laughs slightly, “That’s why I became one. But then I realized the shit they said about power trips and Uncle Toms had some truth to it.”
His words hang in the air, failing to inspire Dana. Malik’s lips move to one side before he looks back at the door.
“I’m going back in,” he says, “Take your time out here.”
Dana nods, watching Malik open the apartment door and disappear behind it. He reaches into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, only to find nothing. With a sigh, Dana lets his hand fall to his side and looks up at the ceiling. His eyes wander about the terrain for a while, dipping through the minute hills and valleys across the surface. They stop at a ridge forming a straight line from one wall to the other, and trace its path above his head.
Then a pale ring gets in the way.
The light of his own halo puts a strain in Dana’s eyes, yet he gazes into it regardless. He could swear there’s something in there; something behind the faint screen of his mother’s cigarette flashing over to his father’s backhand. Something behind the image of his own forearm lined with beading cuts. But then, he realizes, those surface images are exactly what’s behind.
He tears away, bringing his head forward and leaning back against the wall. His wings are pressed behind him, the sensation just the same as if his weight were against his arm. He turns to his right, unfolding his wall-side wing to get a better look at it. His cheek brushes against it, tickled by the smooth feathers. He rests his head on the wing, letting its soft plumes press into his face like a thin silk pillow. His eyes glaze over and his other wing instinctively folds forward to hug him. Weights bring his eyelids shut and a soft murmur takes over.
His mind becomes hazy, and eventually Dana falls asleep standing alone in the hallway.
Just as he’d done in his waking life.
