Sharon Partington

         It came to him, softly.  Barely a whisper, it drifted across his consciousness.  Not as urgent as some he had answered, not as immediate or as insistent, but more powerful for that. He heard sorrow in the whispered cry. Fear and the lonely desperation of a bewildered soul. It touched his heart, and Ambriel knew he could not forsake the call.

         The cosmos stretched before him, a glittering strand of stars and suns. A multitude of worlds, the Creator's handiwork displayed in all its glory. Ambriel narrowed his focus, seeking. An image formed, a blue and white sphere, wrapped in cloud. Yes.  There. A city street. A figure huddled in a doorway. He shuddered at the touch of evil that washed towards him. He was not the only one to hear the cry...

         Mark slept in the park last night; by the time he reached the shelter it was full. Wrapped in his jacket, he'd spent the night shivering on a bench. And today it rained. A steady, persistent drizzle that chilled him to the bone. He spent the day huddled in a downtown doorway, watching traffic swish by. No one saw him, or if they did, they pretended they didn't. Funny how they could step right over him and look right through him at the same time. 

         Making his own way in the world didn't seem like such a grand adventure anymore. The words he'd screamed, punctuated by the slamming of the front door, had a hollow ring to them now. And of course, he was so much better off here, wasn't he?  Sleeping on the street. Begging for change from strangers. He might even manage a bed in the shelter tonight, and if he was really lucky, no one would steal his jacket while he slept.

         Had it really been so bad at home?

         The rules he'd felt encumbered by. The endless inquisition about where he'd been, and who he'd been with. The chores. School. The expectations. 

         The warm bed. The steady meals. His mother's smile.

         He should go home...

         And admit to his dad what a screw up he was? Admit that he'd made a horrible mistake?  Mark's pride rebelled, and he closed his eyes in frustration. He pictured the smug satisfaction in his father's eyes, the condescension in his voice. No, thanks. He'd spare himself the humiliation. And really, when he thought about it, it hadn't been so bad. Hadn't he managed to avoid the pimps and perverts who haunted the streets when the sun went down?

         Yeah. Maybe. For now. But for how much longer?

         He pulled his frozen hands inside the sleeves of his jacket, and buried his face in his folded arms. He was cold. He was hungry. And he was scared. Really scared.

         Kebrath watched the boy. Soon the time would be right. Another series of disappointments. Another week of fear and loneliness. Perhaps even a temptation impossible to resist. That would be a nice touch, although the boy appeared to be irritatingly resistant to most of the things Kebrath had dangled before him. At least so far.  The demon smiled. He enjoyed a challenge; he had not risen this far in the master's favor by avoiding the difficult cases. So delightfully pitiful, the boy looked. So lost. So forlorn.  It was almost time. Another week. Maybe two. And then, one little push. One small nudge. And the master would steal another soul from beneath the Creator's nose. 

         "You will not take him."

         The voice came from everywhere, and nowhere, and Kebrath hissed impatiently.  Damn the Creator's minions and their cursed magic!  "The master has chosen him, he will be mine."

         "He is my ward." The angel materialized in a cloud of divine light and Kebrath scrabbled backwards, towards the soothing darkness of the alley. He squinted into the dazzling brilliance, his wounded eyes just able to make out the outline of outstretched wings and golden hair. 

         "He is nothing," the demon spat. "Less than nothing. His soul is without worth, and he will not be missed."

         The angel laughed softly, a sound much like the tinkling of wind chimes. It grated on Kebrath's nerves. "All souls have worth, dark one. Else your master would not send you to steal them." The angel's voice hardened, suddenly brittle and cold as ice. "Seek your prey elsewhere. This child is mine."

         Kebrath grinned. He had expended considerable time and effort in creating the boy's current mood of misery and hopelessness; he would not give him up without a fight.  "I think not. He has forsaken you, and your Creator."

         "He has not," replied the angel. "I can read his heart as well as you, and it tells me he is yet undecided. Your poison has failed to turn him. He may yet be saved."

         Kebrath snarled his frustration as he was forced to admit the truth in the angel's words. Curse them and their Sight! Very well, then. If battle was called for, then battle there would be.

         "You know the rule, Angel. If two compete for a single soul, the boy, himself, must choose."

         Serene confidence flowed to Kebrath from the angelic form that stood between him and his chosen prey. Its purity made him gag.

         "So be it," said the angel. "Prepare thyself, dark one. I will win this soul for the Creator and send you, wailing, back to Hell."

         Kebrath chortled, his form dissolving into the darkness. "We shall see," he hissed. "We shall see."

        

          Ambriel watched the demon depart, then turned his attention to the boy.  The destroyer's agent had done its job well; the boy floundered in a sea of fear and uncertainty. Anger. Pride. Stubborn resolve. All of these things warred within the young man's breast. But the angel read other things in the boy's heart as well. Anger, yes. But anger at himself for being foolish. Sorrow at the pain he knew he caused those he loved.  The fear that they would never forgive him. Crimson bands of rage and pain bound the young man's spirit. Darkness shrouded his vision, making it difficult for him to see the truth.

         Ambriel touched the boy's spirit with his own, feeling the resistance. The anger. The confusion. The walls of doubt the demon had created within the boy's heart were high and strong, and the desolation within him brought tears to the angel's eyes. There was so much promise there, buried beneath the pain. He wrapped the boy within the shelter of his wings, whispering words of comfort and peace...

         The rain had blessedly stopped, and the sun had even come out for a minute or two before disappearing back behind the clouds. All things considered, Mark supposed the day hadn't been a total loss; he'd managed to beg enough change to buy himself some hot chocolate and a plate of toast from the diner on the corner. It had taken the edge off his appetite, and allowed him to warm up a little, but he hadn't stayed long. The waitress looked at him like he ranked only slightly higher than pond scum. Eventually shivering in the damp seemed preferable to shivering under her frozen glare and he slammed the door on his way out.

         He wasn't as grubby as some who lived on the street; he took a perverse pride in that. The bathroom at the bus station went a long way towards keeping him washed and semi-clean. Not much he could do about his clothes, though; the bus station didn't provide laundry service.

         He thought about making his way to the mission by the park; they served hot soup and sandwiches and it would be warmer than the doorway he currently inhabited. But, by the time he walked the dozen or so blocks, the soup would be gone and the doors would be closing. He'd have to walk the dozen blocks back again and by that time he'd find his doorway taken over by someone else. No. Better to stay where he was.

         The clock in the mall tower across the street read 3:36. In another hour or so his dad would be arriving home from work. His mom would have dinner started and the house would be filled with the smell of pot roast, or fried chicken. His sister would be on the phone, gossiping with her girlfriends. His little brother would be parked in front of the TV watching "Power Rangers" or "Ninja Turtles". He missed them. God, how he missed them...

         He closed his eyes, shivering in the damp, trying to make himself as small as possible. 

         He couldn't do this any more, he just couldn't. He was so tired of being cold. So tired of being hungry and afraid. He wished he could melt through the concrete into the earth. Wished he could just fade away. It’s not like anyone would miss him. 

         Tears burned his eyes and he didn't have the strength or the will to brush them away.

         He wished he could just...die.

         Ambriel faced the demon, the boy's fragile, shivering form between them. The air crackled, alive with power. The boy teetered on the edge of the abyss, his soul hanging in the balance. Light and love flowed like healing rain from Ambriel's outstretched arms; it was caught and deflected by the angry crimson shroud the demon projected over the boy's wounded spirit. Time flowed to a standstill, the universe spinning down until only the battle remained. Light and Dark. Hope and Despair. 

         Ambriel felt the boy's inner turbulence. His heart wept at the pain that emanated in waves from his broken spirit. He felt the rising desperation. The boy had almost reached the limits of his endurance.

         The demon cackled. "He is broken, winged one!  See how far he falls?  Watch, as I claim his soul!"

          A car slowed to a stop in front of the boy's doorway. A man rolled down the passenger side window. 

         "Hey, kid."

         The boy's thoughts swirled through Ambriel's mind. 

         Mark looked up.  Who was this guy?  "Yeah?"

         "I need someone to do me a favor, wanna earn a quick hundred bucks?"

         A hundred dollars? Oh, yeah! Imagine what he could do with that much money.  He could buy himself a decent meal. Some new clothes. He might even be able to afford a night in a cheap motel, where he could indulge in a proper shower.  He could wash the street grime off himself, and maybe feel like a human being again. It would be so great to be able to sleep in a real bed, under clean sheets. 

         Elation was followed quickly by suspicion. "Maybe. What do I have to do?"

         "Deliver a package for me, that's all."

         "What kind of package?"

         The man shrugged. "Just a package. You give it to this guy I know, I give you a hundred bucks.  If you do good, and I like you, maybe I'll shoot another job or two your way.  The same deal, a hundred bucks a pop.  Whaddya say?"

         "Why don't you give it to him yourself?"

         "You ask too many questions, kid. Do you want the money or not?"

         Mark wasn't stupid; he knew the guy's package contained drugs. Crystal Meth.  Crack. Ecstasy. Whatever.  Still, a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and it's not like he'd be selling the stuff himself. He'd just be the delivery boy. 

         It would be so easy. 

         The demon smiled, a wicked smile, as a yawning chasm opened beneath the boy. His destined path descended into the void. "See, winged one?  He chooses the dark!  Mine! He is mine!"

         "Not yet," whispered Ambriel. He reached deep within himself, drawing forth all of the remaining power he possessed. It surrounded the boy, wrapping him in a protective cocoon of silver-blue light. The boy's thoughts swirled through the angel's mind, once again.  Turbulent. Uncertain...

         Mark thought about his younger brother and sister.  They looked up to him.  At least they had before he'd dropped out of their lives.  Was this what he really wanted to do? Sell poison to other people's kids? How could he ever face his family again, if he did that? 

         His parents had taught him that there were some lines a guy just didn't cross.  You didn't lie. You didn't steal. You didn't cheat.  And you didn't take money from drug dealers.  Not even if you were flat on your butt broke, with no other options.

         And Mark suddenly realized that he did have options. He always had. He just had to choke down his pride, and admit he was an idiot.

         Not a popular option, but better than the alternative.

         Funny how easy it was to do the right thing, after all. He looked to the guy in the car and shook his head. "Sorry.  I think I'll pass."

         "Sure? It's easy money, kid."

         "Yeah. I'm sure."

         The guy in the car shrugged. "Your loss."  He rolled up the window, and the car pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the night.

         The angel's divine light swirled about Mark's damaged spirit, merging with the demon's crimson rage. Absorbing it. Washing it away. The chasm beneath the boy slowly sealed itself, his destined road once more straight and clear.

         "I told you, dark one," Ambriel replied. "He is my ward, and he has made his choice. I claim his soul in the Creator's name. You may not take him."

         The boy shuddered and the flow of time resumed its normal pace. The demon shrieked with fury and frustration, his cry spiraling into infinity as he vanished into the darkness.

         Mark woke with a start and rubbed his eyes, blinking into the growing dawn. It was raining again. Did it ever do anything in this city besides rain?  He felt foggy.  Detached.  As though he'd been prematurely woken from a very vivid, half-remembered dream. 

         The street was almost deserted, except for the occasional car that swished by.  Streetlights and stoplights were mirrored in the puddles, and he was stiff and cold from sleeping hunched over in the doorway.  He was hungry again; the toast and hot chocolate had long since been digested. 

         He sighed, scrubbing his fingers through his damp hair. This was stupid. He didn't belong here. He belonged at home. In his own house, in his own bed. 

         He'd made his point.

         The payphone on the corner called to him. He had no money, but he could call collect. Would his dad accept the charges, if he did?

         He got to his feet, still staring at the phone. His heart hammered in his ears and his knees felt weak as he walked toward it.  Just pick it up and dial. How hard was that? 

         He drew a deep breath. Don't think. Just do it. The receiver felt cold and damp against his ear, and his fingers trembled as he dialed the number.

         One ring. Two rings. 

         "Hello, dad? It's Mark. I want to come home...

 

Copyright 2006, Sharon Partington

Sharon Partington lives in Alberta, Canada and is owned by her grown son and two cats.  She is the moderator of the Novel Crit Online Writing Workshop, and has just completed her first novel.  Her work has appeared in Flash Me! and The Bleeding Quill.