The rain hammered against the high arches of the old, Gothic cathedral.  Occasional flashes of light slashed across the sky, illuminating the dark city streets that surrounded the ancient church.  Beyond, further into the darkness, were antiseptic monuments to modernity; huge stalagmites of glass and steel.  The thunder added its voice to the pounding rain, suggestive of the power of the natural world and the absolute insignificance of humanity against her spectacular fury.

Staring out between the curves and crevices of the great chapel were gawking and leering gargoyles.  Their expressions curled into contemptuous glares at the harried creatures below.  Though some of the gargoyles showed signs of cracking and the pursuit of ages, they were already generations old by the time the current crop of personages were twinklings in their parents eyes.  They would outlast the life of those twinklings as well; a small glimpse at the march of eternity within their stony features.

On top of the arches, at the apex of the tower was another dark figure.  Its hunched, misshapen form could easily be mistaken for yet another stone statue, and was by those hurrying past the time-tested cathedral.  Like the statues it imitated, the figure barely moved.  Heavy, water-logged wings reached down to the building, providing a bridge for  the unceasing rain in the journey towards the longed-for soil.  As lightning lit the sky, the rain fell,  pattering off the down-turned head and nose of an introspective, agonized face.

The rain continued to fall, washing over the angelic, statue-like form of the still, crouched figure.  Its unblinking eyes stared down with the gargoyles at the non-conscious humans below.  In the deep greyness of the angel’s eyes was not contempt though, but sympathy, longing, and distance.

The angelic statue broke its still form, coming to life.  With a slow, measured movement the head moved backward, allowing the full force of the rain to strike his face.  The movement hinted at hidden meaning, as the cleansing rain lashed down at the now neutral expression.  His eyes closed slowly.  The jaw and mouth remained unflinching, the closed eyes twitching from time to time, engrossed in the scenes that flashed before them.  The moments of the present continued piling upward, ever falling toward the future.

One year ago...

The last exam had been completed.  Four years, preceded by twelve other years, were finally put to rest.  Firm concentration and many hours of hard studying had virtually insured Thomas Emory would graduate.  Not only that, but graduate at, or near, the top of his class.  He did.  Some of his friends had tried to get him to come out for a celebration.  Thomas declined, all he really wanted was a very deserving slumber.  That was not to be.

The first explosions of pain occurred as the last rays of sun disappeared beyond the horizon. It was pain the likes of which Thomas had never before believed possible, much less was forced to endure.  It was a pain that stopped screams, allowing only for garbled, writhing agony.  In the space of seven hours, Thomas’s body was utterly transformed.  His five-foot-ten frame was stretched to seven-foot-two.  Onto his formerly average muscles, new muscles burst into existence, wrapping and searing themselves onto the existing muscle mass.  His very eyes mutated in their sockets, changing in structure and composition to become far different than they had been.  From every pore of his body fluids poured before the light shot out, coalescing to form a cocoon around Thomas’s changing body.  His mind changed too, shifting and remaking itself to handle the new form.  And from his shoulder blades sliced out new bones, which slowly grew over the course of seven hours, developing feathers along the way.  The blue sheets on his bed were stained dark with blood.

Why his parents didn’t do anything, when they came in and saw their son levitating in agony several feet off the bed, is anyone’s guess.  Perhaps they didn’t know if phoning 9-1-1 would be of any help.  Perhaps they were afraid that if they did call someone, then something horrible would happen to their son.  Perhaps, being religious themselves, they believed this to be the work of God.  Or, perhaps, they were just scared.

Whatever the reason, as his parents watched, their son’s body twisted and changed before their eyes.  But as the first beams of sunlight penetrated the room and touched the battered and torn form, the changes stopped.  The light gave solace to his mind and body, enfolding him in its embrace.  Floating down to his bed, Thomas slept.

The next few weeks were hard.  Thomas never went out, except at night.  During this time he learned to fly.  One of the most ancient dreams of humanity was his, it almost made up for the growing alienation towards his parents and friends.

It was during two separate nights that he first met the dog and then the cat.  The dog’s first temptation was obvious and open: spread you’re wings and subdue the world.  Thomas had no desire to subdue the world, had no desire to hold dominion over another.  His parents had taught him better than that.  So, beyond the feared madness, the dog became for Thomas the symbol of the evil inherent within his new found powers.  The cat’s temptation was far more subtle.

The black cat, seemingly oblivious to the world as cats are wont to be, didn’t offer the world but rather bread.  Her message was simple: be what you are, learn, grow, become what you will.  It was never that simple though, and so, while the dog’s overt overtures could be rebuffed, the cat’s responses had to be pondered and analysized.  What was she really after?

During all this, as his powers grew and the fears of madness began to creep in (why else would a cat and dog be ‘speaking’ to him?), the rift and tension between himself and his parents grew.  It was to be expected, really.  After all, his parents took their Christianity seriously though not zealously.  They had made a Pascal's wager for the belief in a God and here, in the form of their former son, appeared to be living proof.  Beyond the fact that strange metahumans existed, beyond the fact that supernatural occurrences were known to occur in the world, there was the constant reality of their angel-like son.

What happens when every action in the home (good, bad and neutral) is witnessed by what amounts to a constant reminder of the power which you have determined to revolve your life around?  A home which offered the only respite to a world of struggle.  No longer being able to have a moment when they weren’t ‘on’, his parents moved slowly away.  As was once said, ‘one must not look too long at the Sun.’

Thomas’s fear of rejection boiled over towards his friends as well.  How can someone accept you as you, if you’re not even sure who that is anymore?  The thoughts and the words behind those thoughts had been undoubtedly uttered many times before, but what happens when there is a very physical component to that idea.  The physicality of the situation gave shape to the reality: was he still Thomas, or something very different?

And so, as the situation built upon itself, and as the days passed, Thomas resolved to leave.  It was for his parents sake, it was for his friends, it was so that those who might want to abuse his new powers could not harm those he cared about, it was for those he loved -- it was for himself.

He took to the sky one night, leaving behind a note that he hoped would convey his love and the reasons why he left.  Though hard, he left everything behind; all the tangible realities of his past, save the clothes he wore.  He headed west, over the Rockies.

For the next week Thomas lived from day to day.  He had a vague notion of heading towards the coast, but no concrete plan.  He would arrive at a church, play the angel, and con a few meals and a night’s sleep from those who would believe.  When he felt a twinge of discomfort from time to time about what he was doing, he remembered the night of fire and pain.  Besides, as they were giving him food and shelter, he was giving them something equally important: a renewed faith.  His new-found, encyclopaedic knowledge of the Bible only helped reinforce his image, and other’s belief in him.

Finally, Thomas made it to Vancouver and more or less expected to do the same thing there.  He knew he was drifting, without purpose, without focus.  He knew it was dangerous -- at what point would he just not care anymore.  Worse, what if someone was able to take advantage of his mood and turn it against others.  Thomas knew there were far more persuasive people in the world than the cat or dog.  But, through all that, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.  That was when he met the Brehauts.

Arriving at some church, he was prepared to play his part as an angel once again.   A middle-aged couple, with two children of there own, offered to take him in.  James and Linda Brehaut.  Yet, somehow, they saw not only  the angelic appearance, but also the human within.  More importantly, they saw the confusion and uncertainty that filled Thomas’s life.

They took Thomas in and treated him like one of their own.  It was not too long later that he learned that that was what they did.  They had devoted their lives to helping others.  They devoted huge amounts of energy in trying to help others out of unfortunate situations which the universe had transpired to put them in.  And they were successful.  Their unwavering belief in the potential of every human, their commitment to relieving suffering, and their fonts of love saw to that.

Three and a half weeks passed in self-discovery and the beginning of acceptance.  As long as people still starved, there was purpose; as long as innocence was still being exploited, there was focus.

Usually in life, people drift by, splash in the pond of memory and are gone.  But occasionally, very rarely, there are those that possess a secret pass into one’s consciousness; you suddenly discover that, though you have never met before, they already have a place prepared for them in your heart and mind.  For Thomas, the Brehaut’s fit that description.

The Brehaut’s become, in a way, the adoptive parents of a new creation.  As Thomas struggled with a new identity, new ways of understanding, new thought patterns - a new life - the Brehaut’s were there, offering guidance and support.  To his encyclopaedic knowledge of world religions was added a sympathetic mentality and a social ethic that had at its heart the possibility of true change.  In other words, the sacred words were infused with human meaning.

With so much they had given Thomas, it came as no small surprise when they turned and confided their own personal concerns to him.  As was known, the Brehaut’s were successful in the work they did, helping people off the streets or away from their desperate situations.  However, not everyone was happy with the work they did.  For some, preying upon the lives of others was how they made their own livelihood.

The last vestiges of Thomas’s childhood melted away as the Brehaut’s told him of the dilemma they faced.  He had had concerns before, about marks, about student loans, but they seemed to pale somehow in the face of the truly difficult choices that the Brehaut’s faced.

The structure of the Brehaut’s choice was simple: stop what they were doing, or die.  And the threat was not an idle one, it coming from a serious, prominent, deadly gang.  But the choice?  That was not so simple, not so simple at all.

The threat was real, but what do you do in the face of such a threat?  To back down was to mean giving into the darkness, a choice that was counter to every other choice they had centred their lives around.  Even at the risk of themselves, they could not make that choice and damn other souls to darkness and despair.  But, if not for themselves, what about for the sake of their two daughters?  Were the lives of a few prostitutes and street persons worth the possible destruction of their children’s lives?  Ultimately, painfully, the Brehaut’s decided the model of courage, hope and change they gave, as well as the lives they saved, outweighed the risks and costs.  They decided to continue helping those most in need.

Thomas was privy to the discussion and had blanched at its implications.  The colour had flushed back into his cheeks with the realization of just how little his own huge and powerful form was doing to help the world he lived in.  He would, needed, to do something and soon.  Yes, soon, he would do something.  If only he could figure out what that something was.

Two days later, on a Thursday, the terrible possibility became a reality.  Linda Brehaut’s mother had come over to drop off the children and was worried that neither her daughter or son-in-law were home yet.  More worried still, because she knew some hidden fact or thought had been bothering her daughter.

The time for supper came and went and still there was no call, no word from the conscientious parents.  Thomas nor the grandmother found comfort in the other, they never had.  So they chattered instead about mundane, superficial things to mask the silence that settled between them.

At 8:34 a car door closed, a dog barked in the distance, and somebody had just asked Pat for an "R."  The door bell rang as the overlarge and multicoloured wheel was spun.  With a quick, terrified glance to Thomas, the grandmother hurried to the front door.

The television served as a focusing point for Thomas’s ears, better than most humans.  As four-year old Mary wandered off in search of her grandma.

"I’m very sorry," "accident," "dead," and "bodies" were the only words Thomas’s mind would allow him to recognize.  Those words and the weeping that quickly followed was heard by those sensitive ears.

Everyone reacts to sorrow in their own ways.  Despite what some claim, there are not seven steps to the grieving process; each grief is felt and belongs to its own.  To claim otherwise and claim a norm for grief is to add anguish to the plate of those already drowning in the sea of sorrow.  For some tears are an essential part, for others wailing and gnashing of teeth, and for others simple silence offers the greatest expression of their heartfelt grief.

Thomas was a silence kind of guy.  As Ruth, the Brehaut’s eleven year old daughter, ran to her room and slammed the door, Thomas merely stared straight ahead, his mind flailing against the impact of the message.  Through her tears the grandmother looked almost accusatory at the presence of the angel in the house.  Mary, her mind filled with Sunday School ideas and only a vague notion of death, approached, concern in her eyes.

"Thomas, Mr. Angel, did God take my parents away?" she asked.  "Did I do something wrong?"

Thomas wanted to hug her, hold her tight, offer words of encouragement -- but he couldn’t.  He fled to the back yard and the great, open, starry sky above, leaving Mary to find comfort in the arms of her grandma.

"Why?" He had asked to the thousand pinpoints of light above.

"Why them?" Still the sky was silent.

"Why, God?"  Something burned within him.

"You’re not really expecting an answer from up there are you?" a golden retriever spoke, seeming to have materialized from out of the darkness.  "You’re a little ways away from Mount Sinai or any road to Damascus.  Of course, considering what you are, maybe that’s exactly what you are doing.  The answer is right in front of you though."

"And what’s that?" the angel spat back through a choked throat.  "Take over the world so I can stop things life this from happening?"

"That’s funny; not a bad idea either.  But, alas, no."  The dog snorted slightly and paused.  "What do you think’s going to happen?"

Thomas was silent, not wanting to engage in that level of conscious thought.

"Let me help you then," the dog continued.  "The guys who killed the Brehaut’s knew what they were doing and they have money.  Which means they probably won’t get caught.  If they are caught, they might be able to convince someone to lose some vital piece of evidence.  If they can’t do that, they’d at least be smart enough to hire a damn fine lawyer.  After all, what’s really linking anybody to the crime?  Did your surrogate parents ever mention by name who was threatening them?"

Thomas shook his head almost against his will.

"Hmm," The dog responded.  "Even if they do get sent to prison, for how long?  But even beyond that, what is a few years in jail to the brightness of the lights they extinguished in bloody murder today?"

"So?  What do you want me to do about it?" Thomas replied.  Ahh, but he knew already, as if some part of himself was trying to rise to meet the call.

"Strike out.  Give just punishment for what has happened today," the dog answered, his voice steady.

"Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord," the angel offered with no conviction.

"Vengeance is mine -- !  Vengeance -- !"  The dog stuttered, his voice rising in fury.  "By all that’s Holy, have you looked at yourself lately?  Thought about where all this came from?  You are an angel!  You are God’s instrument!  There’s a reason why you’re here, and a reason why it’s now.  If you can’t stomach it then turn your back on God, but don’t ask God for vengeance.  You, are the Divine’s answer."

Jacob shook his head once, a tremor moving through his body.  He took to the air in a streak of light.  He needed to get away from that damned dog, needed to clear his head.  So what if he found himself hurtling towards Vancouver’s centre?  So what if he was headed to the major area where the Brehaut’s had worked?  The thought stuck in his mind like a thorn, where the Brehaut’s <i>had</i> worked.  The world was out of place.  The stars no longer twinkled in their private spheres, but merely shot down sharp pin pricks of light on the world.

Was it really a thorn, Thomas wondered as he flew, or rather a grain of sand in the mouth of an oyster?  He moved closer to the ground.  He would show the dog the proper way of things.  He would show the dog his own strength, resolve, and will.  The dog wanted him to take a sinister vengeance; well he would take vengeance, but a just one.  He would search out the criminals and hand them over to the police.  He would start doing something for the world to bring positive change.  It would be a noble and just start.

He started by tracking over the area in which the Brehaut’s had worked, searching for a sign or a clue as to where to begin.  It did not take long to find it, though his heart ached when he did.  He watched as the tow-truck slowly lifted and spirited away the car that had been the Brehaut’s.  Thomas had known that car.  Worse, as his eyes focused in upon the scene, he saw the traces of blood splashed across the passenger side of the dark blue car and noticed two holes where before there had been none.

He looked down upon the pavement.  More blood, though it was being washed away.  And patterns within the splatters.

He looked again at the car as it moved away.  The windshield, though it had held, was smashed.  The doors, something seemed wrong about the doors, his hawkish eyes told him.  His mind began to work out what tragedy had been wrought against the Brehaut’s.

Looking down, he watched as others watched the car being towed away.  Friends of the Brehaut’s?  Acquaintances?  Bystanders?  Witnesses?  He watched as one tight-clothed figure looked back at the scene before slipping away into the darkness.  An angelic form soon followed her.

And so it was, as the night progressed, through intimidation, fear, and sometimes the courage of others to find there voice -- what you tell an angel, is not the same as what you would tell a cop - Thomas put together the pieces of what had happened to the Brehaut’s that day.  The image that formed in his mind railed against almost every one of his sensibilities.

The Brehaut’s.  Driving to a call.  Forced from their car.  Forced to kneel before their tormentors.  Together.  Side-by-side.  Execution style.  Dead.

One theme dominated among the willing and the unwilling testifiers, nothing would come of it.  The silence would be total, or near enough for it not to matter.  When threatened with death, or the death of the ones they loved, silence would be the option.  Besides, this thing had happened before and the murders had not stayed behind bars for long.  Not that they, the people who lived in fear, wouldn’t rejoice if the killers found justice.  It was just - the police could only do so much.

By 3:30 in the morning, Thomas had found his way to the outside of a building.  All evidence pointed to this location, that inside he would find those responsible.  It was a brick building, outside and away from a larger warehouse.  The warehouse was empty.  He thought he could hear loud music and even laughter coming from within.  He clenched his fists and trembled with anger.  Were those flecks of red, orange and yellow he could see out of the corner of his eye?

There appeared to be no windows, but one man held vigilance on the rooftop -- a trap door leading to the building below.  The man’s right hand rarely strayed from his jacket as his watchful eyes swept over the landscape.  Darkness flew on night’s wings.

While the man’s eyes stared forward and to the side, he had no inkling to look straight up.  The only warning that was offered was the sound of air hastily being parted as a heavy figure smashed into him from above.  A gun fell out of his jacket and skidded away.  The man crashed into the hard, gravel covered roof.  His hands had not been enough to stop the impact of the blow, his nose and face bleeding from the impact.  He turned with angry eyes and fierce words on his lips towards his attacker.

As the man turned towards him, Thomas felt a rage unlike anything else seep into every corner of his body: an uncontrollable, horrible fury.  Thomas watched as the redness of the man’s bloodied face matched the redness of the swirling aura that surrounded him.  The world became red, and then was no more.

For a time, time ceased to have meaning - there was only red, and voidless space.  Then, whispers of senses: screams, searing sensations in his hands, the acrid aftertaste of blood in the air, the smell of burnt and burning flesh.  His sight returned.  Through the dying redness he recognized the struggling face of another.  His large, angelic hand encompassed it, overwhelming it.  Like a basketball player palming a basketball, so too was the writhing man held up by his face.  And then the sensation of warmth began to flood Thomas’s palm.

He tried to fight against, against what it signified, but the red still ruled the world.  Saturated, a brilliant flash shot out, propelling the man the length of the room.  As the man crashed and crumpled against the wall, one undeniably human feature was missing - the man no longer had a face, or truly even a head to speak of.  What was left on top of the man’s shoulders was a crumbled mass of blackened hair and flesh.  As the red began to subside, as Thomas felt his body move under his control once more, he found himself adrift in a world he did not know.  Around him lay blood, severed limbs, burning flesh, and mutilated bodies.  Around him was not a single stirring of life, only death.  All told, as he walked through the building aghast, eleven corpses had been freshly born.  The red had fade to be replaced by an insane world.

He had fled that night, not knowing where he was going, not caring, simply wanting to flee.  In that night had been born Jacob, for Thomas could no longer exist in this world; Thomas no longer did exist.  Eventually Jacob, this new creation, had made his way to Toronto and the solace of a monastery.  The world was dead.  A new world was born in its place.

In the Vancouver news, no reports were made of the slaughter, only that two hard working and dedicated parents were gunned down in the streets.  In many of those streets the joy and laughter of liberation echoed for a time.  While, in Toronto, a new ancient life stumbled forward.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky as the rain continued to fall.  Memories, those harbingers of doom, fell over Jacob and mingled with the rain.  He struggled for his voice and found the bare whisper of one as thunder rolled over the landscape.

"Why?" He asked to the falling sky above.

"Why me?" Still the sky was silent.

"Why, God?"  The numbing silence echoed within him.

Why had he been transformed that night of fire and pain?  Why had the world turned red as he slaughtered the Brehaut’s murderers?  Why so many dark and forbidding flashbacks to a life he had not, could not, have led?  Why New Orleans, the death of thousands now piling upon his head?  Why had he gone to Ireland?  Why had he sought to help?  Why was Proctor no more?  Why?  Was there a God?

The weight of the questions he bore on his shoulders forced him down, his head drooping once again.

The blood of every dead vampire in New Orleans was now on his hands.  For if Ireland, why not in New Orleans?  He had heard the swirlings of words of what had happened in the Emerald Isle.  A miracle, some said.  But it was no miracle, it did not come from God.  God had been silent and let his creations work for him, for good or ill.  And how much more ill there was than good.

Jacob opened his face to the lashing rain once again, trying to look to the sky for some answer, some comfort in all this.  He wanted to be free again.  Or if not free, then some sign that all this pointed somewhere.  That the blood on his hands might not be washed away, but that it could, it might, lead to something better.  He waited.  With so many visions of dark purpose in the mind of the angel he shared his body with, there had to be visions of light.

Then he saw it; a glimpse, an image, a thought, a sound.  Language failed in the perfection of the vision.  Glimpsing Eternity, he entered the Heart of Existence.  And he wept for joy.

There are images, perfections, which humans were never meant to see before death.  The humanity of Jacob saw such an image.  It did not kill him, as the Face of God would, but rather The Beauty of the moment made pale the light of the world.  Everything else was dust.  Enclosing within itself this perfect moment, Jacob’s humanity surrendered, and was silent.
 

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