Page 52 of The Deer and the Dragon
And so, I added him to my nightly prayers. I’d thank God for everything I had, I’d pray for protection, for salvation, for forgiveness. Then I’d pray for my parents, and without fail, night after night, I’d thank God for Caliban and ask the Lord to keep him safe. I’d fall asleep somewhere in the middle of my prayers, mumbling gratitude for my angel—the only friend I knew would never leave me.
That was when I made my next mistake.
“What do you think about guardian angels?” Months had gone by before I made a mistake. I asked my mother over a plate of overcooked spaghetti and red sauce straight from the jar. I swallowed a rubbery bite before vowing that I’d teach myself to cook.
My dad was either at work or at church. It was hard to tell, and neither of us cared. The modestly decorated home had no trace of a male presence. He was never home, andhis absence was rarely felt. Besides, my mother was the intelligent one. She’d nearly finished her master’s in biblical studies before she’d met my father and had to choose between supporting his dreams or achieving her own. Though she’d left higher learning behind for life as a wife and mother, she’d never stopped studying. She’d read everything, from theology and literature to geography and history. She continued to teach literature and loved to talk to me about the sorts of things that made me even less popular at school than I already was, which was fine. As the years went on, our relationship changed. There were times I even felt like she looked at me as if I were a peer.
She was nearly as friendless as I was. Perhaps that’s why we clung to one another.
She swirled the spaghetti around her fork, chewing and swallowing her food as she called on a verse. “The book of Ephesians tells us that we’re not contending against flesh and blood but against the principalities, against the powers, against the rulers of this present darkness. It talks about spiritual hosts of wickedness and heavenly places.”
“And?” I asked. It was risky, but there was no one else I could ask. “Do you see angels or demons?”
She stiffened. Her fork was halfway between her plate and her mouth, but her eyes did not leave mine. Slowly, she asked me, “Do you?”
I forced myself to remain casual as I said, “I see my angel sometimes.”
I was acutely aware of how shallow her breathing had become. I knew enough of her drastic mood swings, her intense temperaments, her bouts with depression and her quickness to anger to immediately back off. I’d been born into a house on fire, but through cautious steps, I’d learned to manage the source of the flames.
“I’m not a child. I know the difference between good and evil,” I quickly amended. “I would know if I were seeing something bad. I would know if it’s from God or Satan.”
She relaxed, but only slightly. She twirled the noodles on her fork with no intention of lifting it to her mouth, eyes fixed on the slow, intentional movement as red-stained pasta coiled more and more tightly. It took her a long time to say, “You might have your mother’s gift.”
I looked up at her mid-bite. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to bring it up to her in the first place, but this certainly wasn’t where I’d thought the conversation would go.
Her utensil clattered to her plate as she looked at me. “The discernment of spirits can be a very powerful gift, Marlow. It also means you have a great responsibility.” She stood from the table and left the small kitchen, crossing into the shadows of our unlit living room. She fished a thick book from a high shelf and returned in several steps. She plopped it down on the surface next to me. “It’s fiction, but it’s about someone who can see angels and demons. They fight over our towns, our houses, our hearts as if each place is a territory. The angels are on the side of every believer. Demons want to drag us to Hell. I thought it would be too scary for you, but there aren’t a lot of books that talk about what I…what we have.”
I set my fork down, appetite evaporating. “You see demons? Like monsters?”
She made an interesting face I couldn’t quite understand before saying, “Did you know that Lucifer was the most beautiful angel?”
I blinked. I knew the verses backward and forward, and she knew that. She wasn’t asking because she expected an answer. Her question was heavy with some other implication as her eyes unfocused.
“He was a musician,” she nearly whispered. “He played beautiful music and was one of God’s favorite angels. A lot of people in the church translate his name toMorning Star, orShining One. He was the dawn. A new day.”
Looking back on that day, I remember only how cold the room felt, how dim the bald lightbulb overhead looked as Isearched her face. The hum of the outdated refrigerator was too loud, too robotic for the seriousness required of such a topic. “You talk about him like you know him.”
“He rebelled against God,” she said finally.
I shook my head, then finished, “To bring evil into the world.”
“No,” she corrected, “because he thought he was equal to God. He took a lot of angels with him who no longer wanted to be under God.”
I frowned and pushed the congealing pasta around my plate. The smell of cold food was beginning to make me nauseous. I couldn’t keep the confusion from my face as I pressed, “This just sounds like people not wanting to have slaves and masters but be equals.”
“Don’t say that,” she hissed, mood changing in a flash. She snatched my plate from me and crossed to the counter. It had yellowed over the years, the plastic peeling up from its corners. She found a stained Tupperware and dumped my spaghetti into it. She kept her back to me, shoulders tense as she began washing dishes.
“But”—I stood from the table, taking a step closer as I pushed—“it just sounds like the same people. If they were all angels, then they’re still all angels, just on two different sides of the line—like the Civil War. One side who wants to keep things the same, and one side who wants freedom. If demons are just beautiful angels on the other side of the line, why do people think they look ugly?”
“Beauty is a trick,” she said curtly, refusing to look at me. Every muscle remained flexed as if poised to fight.
I didn’t understand why this was getting her so emotional. I was nearly an adult, and this was an academic discussion. As a scholar and a zealous theologian, she should have loved this conversation.
“If fallen angels are so bad,” I continued, “why didn’t God just evaporate them? Why create Hell? Why—”
She turned with wet, soapy hands and snatched the bookfrom where she’d left it before shoving the fictional novel on angels and demons into my hands. She returned to her chore before saying, “Go read the book. See if it resonates with you. Though, for your sake, I hope you did not inherit my gift.”
I set my jaw as I said through gritted teeth, “I see angels.”
