Humanity was and will always be a failed project.
Look at them, how they pepper each other for a cause they do not understand. Look at how they fire their muskets, letting it spit its filth in the air and sever the ties that bind the souls of men to the earth. As I fly over the battlefield, I cannot help but scowl at their screams of unfiltered rage, how their officers yell at the men, stirring up their savagery. Why do they kill? For what?
When every volley leaves these men emptier than the corpses they leave behind?
These thoughts go unanswered as I search for my charge among the litter of severed limbs poking from the caked ground. I know why that is. I am an angel, servant of the Lord. Servants do not question the whims of their masters. They obey. But why me? Why should I, the archangel of the heavens, the bane of the Devil, deal with such a degrading task? I know why. Because He knows my disdain for humans.
He knows and he sent me to protect one. His name is George Washington.
There he is-riding hard on the back of a stallion, yelling words of courage, a steady presence amid the chaos. I sighed and circled over, making sure to land in the smoke of the gunfire so no one saw me. Well. Let's get on with it, shall we?
I blanket myself in the illusion of an average soldier: a linen hunting shirt and grey trousers with my canteen along with the rest of my accoutrements strapped to my back and high knee leather boots. I make sure to appear as ragged and bloodied as the rest of them-one must avoid suspicion even though it was utterly revolting- and drop down into the nearest trench.
I ignore the cold of the sludge making its way in my boots and shuffle my way past the squatting men. Though I tower over them, they only spare me a moment’s glance. Good.
Though what isn’t so good is how the smell of the dead clogged up my nose. I look down with a grimace as I navigate past the lost limbs of men. A glossy-eyed head. A hand of broken fingers. A leg at a wrong angle. Their corpses made the trench the museum of grim art.
Finally, I reach the far end of the trench where right above me is the human. Commander in Chief according to the bloodied medals on his chest. And I made it just in time too for not even a moment later does a blaze from beyond rip at his stomach in rapid succession.
One. Two. Three times.
He fell. Ridiculously slow I would say, though it might just be my perception of time. For a creature of dust, a heartbeat seems to stretch for ages. How pitiful that even their deaths linger longer than they should. I catch him neatly in my arms and proceed to carry him away.
The human does not seem to appreciate that, “Let me go, sire! I shall die on the battlefield!”
I roll my eyes, “You are not going to die, silly human.” I placed him above the trench, away from the line of fire. I climb out, pick him up and carry on. He keeps talking…and talking.
“Good lord, you are strong,” he mutters, his steely grey-blue eyes rolling in their sockets, “How are you carrying me so easily?”
“I exercise.”
“By lifting boulders?”
I pause, “By lifting boulders.”
“You…you no mere man,” his head lope to the side, his tongue comically poking out his mouth.
Perhaps he is delirious. I do not know and I do not care. I just have to make sure he does not die before I can heal him. I run the length of the battlefield, far from the front lines and soon I spot the long line of pitched tents. I sprint past the queue of the dead and dying that lay in neat rows in front the tents and barge into the chaos behind those flaps.
I must say, it was far worse to inhale the stench of this place than it is outside. Bitter herbs mixed with the iron heavy scent of blood, bringing tears to my eyes. And the moaning, ugh. It drones in a pitch worse the wailing of grieving women. At least my human does not whine so much.
I find the nearest empty cot and place him down. My presence is drawing more scrutiny than I would wish, unfortunately. I suppose I cannot blame them. If a seven feet tall black man marched in, I would stare. One must appreciate the marvellous work of God.
My lips twitch as I begin my work. I pull the soiled coat from the wound. Three clean holes bubble up in steady streams; he does not have much time. At least he’d passed out earlier, it would not do for him to see what’s about to happen.
I hover my hands over the wounds, close my eyes and pray.
There is not much you need to know after that.
It has been a few days since the battle and this place smells worse than it ever did. Flies have already settled into a feast on decaying flesh that spans the length of the battlefield beyond. All morning, the men have been gathering what remains of their comrades, piercing together fragments of lives to offer the earth. I’ve managed to secure a low hill that is far enough away that the stench of the dead cannot reach me but still close enough to witness the event below.
Funerals. I never quite understood the concept. They bury their loved ones in the ground with trembling hands, wetting the ground with their tears as each lump of dirt is piled over their vacant body. But why would dust mourn dust? The earth has swallowed billions before them, and it shall swallow billions more.
And yet… there he is. The human. He kneels among them, mud caking his knees as if he were no better than them. He speaks comfort, not command, to the listening ears of his brethren and they hang on to his every word as if clinging to their last lantern in the dark.
I wish I could scoff. Truly, I do. But even I cannot deny that strange fire in his eyes, how his strength bleeds into the men that surround him, each of them standing just a bit taller as if remembering they were men before they were soldiers. How curious…that a creature of dust could carry himself as though he were made something more enduring.
Later that evening, George had all the men gather for their customary toast for despite the gravity of their loss, they had since won the battle. Much to my surprise, I was personally invited to their party. I sit upon one of the unoccupied logs enclosing around the bonfire and I listen to the lull of conversation around me as they pass around cans of hardtack and small slabs of meat. My piece is handed to me by the blonde colonel beside me and I follow his wordless instruction as he picks a stick from the ground, skews his meat and holds it over the fire. All around me, the other men do the same.
As the meat begins to roast, the colonel speaks in a low voice over the crackling of the fire, his gaze staring deep in its embers.
“I’m from the hills of Connecticut,” he starts, his voice thick with homesickness, “At this time of the year, there will be preparations for Thanksgiving where everyone roasts the deer they catch and share with friends and family. I believe…this will be the third time my family will be doing it without me.”
He glances up and turns to meet the sober gazing of the men who fought beside him, “We lost a lot in this damn war but let us not lose the heart that remembers home.”
The men murmur in agreement and George, who sat on the other side of the colonel, places a hand on his shoulder, “Hold fast to that heart, colonel. And you lads as well,” he stared hard at them, , “Do not let the horrors you have said burnt out all that is within you. Do not fight for yourself but fight for your family who waits for you. Fight for your lost brothers. Fight for this nation.”
“AYE!” They roared in unison.
I frown at the strange new energy that runs unseen through these men. I have been wondering what drives the heart of men. Over the centuries of my service to the Lord, it has always puzzled me how men raise in spite out the endless strife they face in this world. What makes them get up and live another day? What is it about these humans that keep them persevering? I believe I am beginning to understand. With the unexpected help of this human George.
It is that word. Love.
I see it clearly in the laughter they share, in the tears they shed for their dead, in the strong guidance that George offers. It is their love for one another that stems from the pain they share. It is for love that they fight and die. In a world where everything is temporary, it is love that outlasts all.
I must admit, it is a little embarrassing that it took me this long to figure this out for I know that God is love. And these few, these now happy few, were made from that love. And though I may never understand love as they do, I understand that much.
Perhaps even dust can carry light...
I wait for the others to leave for sleep as the fire burns to a low flame. George stays by fire, feeding more wood into it. I watch him in silence. He is younger than I first thought. His red-gold hair thick upon his crown and the small whiskers on his chin barely made a beard. He is a little over twenty, I would say. A mere boy. And yet all his men looked up at him as if he were way old.
“Who are you?” he asked without looking up, “You are not one of my men.”
“It is true, I am not,” I confirm, rolling my stick absently in my hands, “Who do you think am I, boy?”
He still didn’t look up, “You are black man in the middle of a war. You rescued me from battle. You…healed me.”
“Aye, I did.”
Now he looks up, his grey eyes wide with confusion, “How?”
I lean in on my knees, a secretive smirk on my face, “That, boy, is not for you to understand.”
George shakes his head; a question burns in his eyes, but he says nothing.
I nod at him, “Ask your question.”
A sudden wind blows in, flickering the light of the fire. Shadows dance on the human’s face as he stares.
“Why?”
Only then do I smile. This, surprisingly, is not condensation nor sarcasm. No, I am…proud of him.
“Now that I can answer,” I stand to my feet, my shadow looms over him, “Come with me, George Washington.”
I guide him away from the tents, back towards the abandoned battlefield. In the gloom, it is harder to see the dark stains of the dead across the hard ground, but the wind still carries the scent and stirs the dust that covers the sunbaked trenches. George moves to my side, matching my stance and looking over the field.
“You asked me who I am and tell you plainly. I am an angel.”
George turns to me with a quizzical look, “Well, I do believe you have good merit. I do not see how-”
I laugh, the sound of it shocking even to myself. It was loud and ringing, it echoed clear though the empty battlefield. “Silly human.”
I move to stand before, spreading my arms wide and I watch his face as it morphs from bewilderment to confusion to finally awe. My wings unfurl around me like the rushing sound of water; the earth itself bent from the gust of their opening. The glow of the moon reflects over the hardened edge of each feather. They were neither white nor black but every hue knew to heaven, washing the place where we stood in alternating beams of rainbow. I give my wings a playful flap, laughing at how it blows dust in his eyes and hair.
I let the effect drag out. Oh, how long has it been since men witnessed the glory of God’s work? I truly missed that mouth drippling looks on their faces, it never gets old.
“You know, it is customary to bow for an angel,” I tease him and the poor fool, he kneels immediately.
“Listen well, George Washington, son of dust. The hand of Heaven has been preserved through fire and shadow, not for your sake alone but for the sake of a people not yet born” I gesture behind me, “One day all this destruction will be overlaid in green. And you are a key part of making that happen.”
George frowned. “I do not understand. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because” I say softly, “you asked. Few men dared to ask Heaven why. Fewer are prepared to bear the answer.”
He drops his gaze, not out of fear, but humility, “I am no king, I am barely soldier. I am just a man who tries.”
For a moment, I almost scoff-but something stills me. The way he says it is not false modesty. He truly believes it. Just a man who tries. Huh. Such simple words.
I see it now: this is why the Lord loves them. It is not their strength that impresses him, no, for what they call strength pales in comparison to His. It is neither their wisdom nor the work of their hands but that fragile courage that presses forward despite their flaws.
I step back, folding my wings, letting the night swallow their glow, “That is enough. More than enough.”
His eyes lift to me again, this time softer. “Whoever you are, angel or no. I thank you.”
I incline my head. Odd, this swelling in my chest-pride, perhaps? No, something gentler. Something warmer. I stretch out my hand to him and pull him to his feet. I believe he sees it in my eyes. That wordless goodbye.
“Are you not staying? My men could use the extra muscle.”
I let out a light chuckle and shake my head, “No, I have lingered long enough.” I release him, nodding back to the crackling fire back the way we came where its thin smoke reaches up to the stars.
“Go, your men will need you soon.”
George stared at him for a moment, nodded and turned to go. And as I watch him retreat and prepare myself to return to the world unseen, I speak one last time, just loud enough for him to hear, “Lead with wisdom, human.”
It is hard not to imagine him as the dawn, that simple light that would scatter the night, but I will end with this: I finally understand.
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