do something. We created hell—such a wonder! And we enlisted the talents of special men, true
men, to aid us.‖
Neville nodded, not needing to answer. The Select with their book of incantations,
thrusting down the angels‘ issue into hell each year on the Nameless Day.
―We keep him trapped up here, though.‖
―Why?‖
―He is a Master Trickster. Too dangerous to allow contact with others of his kind.‖
―And then you constructed the Church,‖ Neville said. ―To further limit the damage.‖
They were very close to the small hill now. The hill was barren of flowers, apparently nothing
more than a heap of dirt and gravel, and Neville could see that there was a cross atop it. He concentrated on the cross, and on the figure of the man fixed to it, and it gave him back some of
his strength.
He no longer felt naked, and he moved more confidently.
―Yes,‖ said Archangel Michael. ― His word had spread too far. It was too seductive,
winning men and women away from their duty to us. Frightful. Dangerous. So we took his word
and made it our own.‖ The archangel laughed. ―We took his offer of freedom and made of it a
prison.‖
Michael stopped suddenly and swung about to face Neville. ―You have learned a great
deal in the past two years,‖ he said. ―You know why mankind cannot be allowed his freedom,
don‘t you?‘
―He would destroy himself.‖ Neville was now concentrating so hard on the figure on the
cross that he found conversation with the devil at his side much easier. He knew what to say, for
he knew what Michael wanted to hear.
After all, had he not been a good and devoted student of the Church?
―Yes.‖ The archangel‘s voice was relieved. ―Mankind cannot handle its own destiny. Too
dangerous a toy. We must do it for them. Guide them as children need to be guided. Now, you
see what we approach?‖
―Yes.‖ Neville could see very well. They were climbing the hill now, approaching the
cross at its summit. Neville slipped a little here and there on the loose gravel, but Michael moved
effortlessly, as if he glided over cold marble.
They reached the top, halting.
―Behold the Master Trickster,‖ Archangel Michael said.
Hesitantly, almost too scared to dare to look into Christ‘s face, Thomas Neville lifted his
head.
The cross itself was of twisted, blackened wood, as though the tree it had been cut from
had died in a forest fire. It was rough, splintery, desolate, and marked in places by dark stains:
sweat, perhaps, or blood.
Finally, Neville allowed himself to look at Christ.
In this cold, barren, malicious landscape of heaven, there was only one warm, living
thing, and that was Christ on his cross.
Christ had been nailed to his torment through his wrists and his feet, and Neville could
see that, in order to breathe, Christ had to constantly use the muscles of his shoulders and chest
to lift himself up so his lungs could draw breath. His muscles were trembling with the exertion of
continually supporting himself against suffocation, his chest shuddering with the effort of
drawing breath into lungs torn and bleeding.
Yet even so, even despite the trails of blood and sweat that ran down flesh grimy and
stained, Christ‘s body was as beautiful— far more so—than those of the angels. He was well- but finely-muscled, his shoulders broad, his hips lean, his arms and legs shapely. Where not covered
with either grime or blood, his skin was pale, marked in places with traces of fine dark body hair.
It was a beautiful body, the body both of the warrior and of the lover.
But nothing caught at Neville‘s heart and mind and soul so much as Christ‘s face. His
hair was black, like Neville‘s own, and his light beard was stiff with the sweat and blood that
trickled down from where the crown of thorns pierced his forehead. His face was composed of
hard angles and planes with a hooked nose over a well-shaped mouth, yet despite its angularity,
his face radiated nothing but warmth and compassion. It was as knowing as that of the angels,
yet its knowing consisted of generosity, not judgement.
His eyes were black, like the angels‘, but loving, so very much unlike the angels‘.
He was in physical torment, but Neville could see that Christ cared for only one thing,
and that thing was Neville.
―How does God allow His Son to suffer so?‖ whispered Neville.
―God?‖ said Archangel Michael, then laughed uproariously.
Christ turned his head, flinching with the pain of the effort, and looked at Michael. His
expression was sad.
Then he looked back at Neville, intensely, curiously, as if wondering what the man would
make of what Michael said next.
―There is no God,‖ said Michael, and laughed even further at the shock on Neville‘s face.
―God is nothing more than the collective will and endeavour of the angels.‖
―No God?‖ whispered Neville. He‘d sunk to his knees, staring unbelievingly at Michael.
―No God,‖ agreed Michael. ―God as a single entity is a phantasm. It is easier for the
simple souls of mankind to worship a single entity than a collective grouping.‖
―So Christ is the son of…‖ Neville now looked up at Christ, drawing all the comfort he
could from the sympathy in the man‘s eyes.
―All of us,‖ said Michael. ―A collective effort. We thought he was to be one of us, the
one to finally consolidate our grip on mankind. But,‖ his voice hardened into absolute hatred, ―he
betrayed us, seeking instead to free mankind from our will.‖
I almost succeeded. Christ spoke into Neville‘s mind, and somehow Neville understood
that Michael was not aware of Christ‘s words. I almost succeeded… Now it is up to you. You are mankind”s final chance. You alone.
But how? Neville thought. How? There is but the one test, and I cannot choose the way I
want.
Christ‘s face suffused with love and comfort. You will choose the way your heart directs
you, Thomas. Trust me. Trust me. Trust your own heart.
―And now we have him trapped,‖ Michael continued, his eyes on Christ. ―Trapped,
where he can no longer wreak his havoc.‖
Then the archangel lowered his head and looked Neville straight in the eye. ―Not like our
next effort. He works our will as if an extension of our own thoughts. There will be no mistake this time.‖ His mouth twisted, frightful and unloving. ―Beloved.‖
Neville stumbled through the guildhall, its occupants still under the thrall of the
archangel. He almost fell over in his dash to his clothes, feeling the cold of heaven penetrating to
his bones. He grabbed at his clothes and boots, pulling them on as fast as his shaking muscles
would allow, then rebuckled his sword belt about his hips.
His hands were trembling so badly he cut two fingers on the buckle, and when he tried to
put his boots on he dropped one of them three times before it finally consented to slide on his
foot.
Clothed, he felt only very slightly more in control—how could clothes comfort the
turmoil in his mind?
He turned, looking back to the door. Silvery light still shone through, and Neville could
see the faint outline of Archangel Michael, standing watching him.
Then the archangel turned, and walked into the light, and the doors slammed behind him,
and the hall woke.
Hands grabbed at Neville: the dying, seeking some last hope of succour. He pulled away,
and walked as steadily as he could back to the alcove where Mary, Margaret and Jocelyn still
slept.
There he sank to the floor, his back against the wall, staring at the sleeping forms of the
two women and the girl.
There was no God save the collective will of the angels? God was nothing but the
ultimate sum of those cold, heartless creatures? And if Jesus was the product of their collective effort, what had Archangel Michael meant when he said that their latest effort acted only as an
extension of their will?
Neville wrapped his arms about himself, shivering, driving away that last thought,
concentrating instead on what he had seen in the Field of the Angels.
Desolate, malicious. Heaven!
If nothing else, Neville now knew exactly what choice he wanted to take when the time
came for him to choose. Freedom for mankind, freedom from the chains of the angels. The
mission that Christ had started but had failed to accomplish.
But to do that, Neville would have to hand his soul to Margaret, and that he knew he
could not do, however much he wanted to do it.
Just that single niggle. That single doubt. That single piece of knowledge that she had
abused his trust, and if she had done that once, then she might do it again—even if unwillingly or
unknowingly.
Just one single hesitancy, but one that would damn mankind forever.