The theft of sixty kilograms of Holocaust ashes to make an unholy paint. A depressive painter forced to work on a hellish parody of Dali's The Last Supper, aimed at blasting apart a fragile European accord with waves of nationalism, old resentments and ancient antipathies.
The instruments of Heaven intervene; the forces of Hell are waiting: demons clothed in human flesh, hired thugs, and contract assassins.
Inevitably there are casualties. A young skinhead boy, Snake, is killed in an explosion intended to destroy an angel. His brother Spider, a skinhead leader infatuated by Nazism, lends his gang to the forces of Heaven to help wreak revenge. "Messy" is the only word to describe the final confrontation.
Rubble is scattered over the pavement, over the lifeless bodies of skinheads, over the dented bonnets and stoved-in roofs of cars parked nearby. Lit by the dying flicker of the hellish flames, Oskar is coughing and rolling on the ground, his apricot trench-coat in ruins but no longer alight, his fist bloodied from breaking the glass of his Mercedes' rear window to make his escape. He pushes himself up and looks around.
The skinheads who had fled the rifle fire now return, subdued. Their stubbled scalps are lit by the ruddy glow as they stand bewildered amid the destruction. Some shuffle their feet as though wanting to get closer, but still afraid. Others pluck at the dead or writhing figures on the road. They seem in shock.
Somewhere off to the side, the bulky form of Oliver stumbles from the shattered building, half-blinded but apparently uninjured. Winds that scream and whirl about him flutter the torn, painted canvas in his hands, and whip the tattered flames. Of Justinian, the painter, the demons and the bodyguards there is no further sign.
Oskar coughs again, groans and turns his head. He crawls toward Phillip, who lays unmoving atop Spider. Tentatively Oskar touches Phillip's shoulder. The prone man's back is blackened and blistered, and blood bubbles in his breathing. His head lolls, then rises.
The Mercurian is alive, and will heal.
Not so the skinhead beneath. Oliver can see Spider's eyes open and staring, the blood soaking his shirt where the assassin's bullet struck. As Phillip opens his mouth to speak, Oskar lets out a soft sigh, "He is dead, mein freunde. By a bullet, before the bomb." More gently, "It's not your fault, Phillip. You couldn't have known. He joins now his brother."
"Nooooooo!" Speckles of blood fleck Phillip's lips, his eyes refocus on the body beneath him, as if denying the words will change the truth.
Rolling off the body with gritted teeth, Phillip shakes the still form. He throws off Oskar's placating hand. "There was hope for him Oskar", Phillip speaks in a husky voice, still gazing down into Spider's unseeing eyes, "And its my fault he's dead."
He straightens and a steely cold strength enters his voice, "But I will not let them have him.", He pauses, his head cocked on the side, "Heal his body and get us out of here. I'm going to get him back."
Even as Oskar opens his mouth to protest Phillip collapses beside Spider again, as still and lifeless as the corpse.
Oskar sighs in frustration, stoops to touch Phillip's cheek, then straightens. He looks around for Oliver, but the Cherub has retreated into the flames. To find Justinian? Or to seek the ashes of the painter's pigments? He's not sure, but with his protective wind-shield, Oliver seems is in no danger. Oskar glances at the milling skinheads, the wounded, dying and dead forms on the ground. He sighs and looks down at Phillip again. As he stoops a shrill chirruping comes muffled from his pocket.
He unfolds a compact, black mobile telephone. "Oskar Wolfram... Muriel? Ja... Of course, some trouble. ... Nein, I am all right... Ja, mit the Seraph... Ja, all right... Really, but.." Oskar looks at the ruins of his Mercedes. "We need a lift. Quickly, please."
Tyres screech seconds later, and a blue and white tow-truck skids around the corner, flames spitting from its roaring exhaust. The dazed skinheads scatter as it pulls to a halt in front of the devastated building. Oskar blinks as Muriel throws open the door and stalks out, evidently angry. A distant siren wail is joined by another seconds later. The red-headed mechanic flicks a mismatched orange-and-green glance at the plumes of grey smoke billowing into the sky from the gutted shell of the shop.
"You'd best come with me."
Oskar scoops Phillip up easily. The limp angel's eyes are open. He doesn't move.
* * *
If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then why is it so hard to rescue a damned soul?
Buoyed with love, lit by mercy, Phillip's spirit battles like a bubble to sink through the strata of despair, anguish, anger that fill the space between Earth and Hell. All about him, winking, lost, like a fleet of drowned ships sinking into a black sea, the flickering lights of a thousand damned souls fall away from this world. Shocked by the terrible beauty, Phillip schools his attention to the one soul he seeks.
Winged and blazing with light, his gaze ever upon the retreating light below him, Phillip's raw will smites the thickening darkness, wresting it asunder, battling the treacherous currents as the ether around him thickens and solidifies, becoming stone...
...a vaulted cavern, vast, and gloomy. A floor worn smooth by the passage of countless shuffling feet. And all about the whisper of skin against rock as grey figures mill about.
Spider shuffles there, a frightened child among frightened children, alone and lost in a grey press of damned humanity. He rubs shoulders with a former comrade, struck down the same night by gunfire, but does not see. His eyes are wide in the blackness. Blind in the dark and thinking himself unseen, the fear is naked in his body.
Phillip pushes toward Spider. The young man has not yet seen his soul-light, but others have, and all about the angel, frightened eyes blink and stare. Some cry in silent voices, and reach toward the angel. Fear has bound the throats and tongues of these doomed souls, and now they stumble over one another, mouths and eyes wide, groping for succour that for them has come too late.
Ahead, Phillip can barely make out the looming figures of the twin, dark Seraphim guarding Hell's Portal. Spider is no more than a dozen paces away now, but the press of souls, the clutch of need, of fear, of anguish is tight about the bright angel. A forest of hands and arms rise before his eyes like prison bars. Arriving behind in a steady stream, the press of the newly damned sweeps him forward.
Two dozen paces ahead now, and twenty feet high each, the Seraphim stand still as statues, studying each soul implacably as it shuffles past. Unseen by the damned, their gaze is scornful, their lips compressed with disdain. They pay no regard at all to the Mercurian caught in the throng.
Stumbling among the souls, time and again losing sight of Spider, swept by the tightening press, a slumping Phillip broods that this is surely the blackest moment of his existence. If to save even one of the damned is so difficult, how can an angel hope to redeem the many? Never has he felt smaller or less capable, or more like sinking into the stone. Lost in his despair, he stumbles yet again, and almost falls.
As the throng of the damned threatens to carpet Phillip like moss, it is this sense of insignificance that finally girds him, refocussing him on Spider's plight. We can only help those whom we are given the time and ability to help, he reflects. This too is part of the Symphony, and none of us is above it.
Rising once more to full height Phillip shoves through the crowd now, his head held high. He collides roughly with the souls around him, ignoring their pleas. Only the tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks give the lie to his indifference.
"Spider!" Catching sight now of the skinhead's back, Phillip's clarion voice cuts the cavern's hushed darkness like a knife.
Spider stops and between the pillar-like figures of the two angels guarding the Portals, he turns. Figures are jostled past him, and beyond, a faint red glow flickers. He squints into Phillip's bright soul-light, without recognition, staring past the silhouettes of hands and heads and bodies. His mouth opens and closes silently, but the words are written on his face: `Help me...'
Elbowing and shoving, Spider fights against the stream of damned shuffling past. As the press sweeps Phillip toward him the gap closes until Phillip can almost touch his outstretched hand.
But then the throng flinches like a single body. Silent souls cower, melt, bunch apart. Fear beats like a raptor's wings among the shuffling press.
A short figure steps between the portals of Hell and into the parted sea of souls. It is pale with a piercing brown gaze. Once human perhaps, it has been mutilated in the Habbalah fashion, and is human no longer. A rain of swastika tattoos cascade from the corners of its eyes. Its head is spiked with a crown of barbed wire. A Luger pistol is embedded by the barrel into the right side of its head. A small, steel grill connects the demon's nose to its upper lip, in the form of a square moustache. Large calibre bullets pierce its palms, and barbed wire coils around its ankles. A bayonet is lodged in his side. Its need, its hunger, flows like treacle. It turns Spider's head without effort. The demon reaches out to put a hand on Spider's shoulder, but stops a hair short, glancing up at the towering angels above. When it drops its gaze, it is to regard Phillip.
The demon's voice is sweet and dark. "It is a precious moment when a young man meets his father. Why do you interrupt our reunion?"
Ponderously the pale head of a guardian angel turns. Undistracted, the other continues its tireless task of scanning each soul as it passes through the Portal.
"Father?!", Phillip doesn't even try to keep the abhorrence from his angel-song. "Father of mindless slavery to hatred, lies and destruction. Father of perversions in the name of purity! Though you seek to mock the Christ's great sacrifice you merely wear your corrupted soul for all to see."
Phillip's grimace of distaste and loathing shifts to a feral grin, "But you weren't going to try and take him before he entered the portal of hell, were you?" he glances fleetingly at the towering Seraphs before returning his gaze to meet the demon's, "Or has your lust to possess overcome your cowardice again, Adolphus?"
Phillip turns his attention to Spider, talking directly to him with love and hope naked in his voice, "Spider still has one choice he can make. He can descend with you into the darkness and suffer for eternity. Or he can choose to embrace the light and God." Spider blinks, turning back to Phillip. The angel ignores all else, speaking earnestly and fervently, "Turn your back on the darkness Spider, come back with me." He clasps the soul's cold hands and draws him away.
The demon smiles back, predatory. "You overstep, Mercurian. the body is dead; the life is ended. He has made his fate. He is Mine now. Release him, lest we punish you too for your transgression."
Pale and smooth as a statue, one of the great Seraphim speaks, "It is not as you believe, demon. The body is whole. It is his to claim if he chooses."
The demon spits. "Healing a dead man? That is an intervention. He is Mine to punish, as is My right."
"Immaterial, in this case", replies the Seraph. "The soul is not yet claimed."
"You said he might choose", snarls the demon. "Then let him."
"Release the soul, Mercurian", commands the Seraph.
Phillip stops, already half a dozen paces from the portal. He fights the flow of souls with grim determination, and only with reluctance releases his grasp on Spider.
The demon opens its arms and smiles. The metal on its body blazes with blue fire, and waves of love, safety, kinship wash out from the habbalah. "Spider... do not fear my form. I suffer so because of those who have abandoned me. Do not add to my pain. I am all the father you have ever had. I am the strength that has protected you. I am your guidance and your salvation. You are my son, and i love you. Come, my boy. Join me. Accept my love. Receive your reward."
As though entranced, Spider takes a step forward.
"You compel him", accuses the Seraph.
"Immaterial, in this case", smirks the Habbalah. "I'm not touching him, and I'm still within Hell."
The Seraph falls quiet, watching Spider's return expressionlessly.
Phillip pushes after Spider and places a hand on the young man's shoulder. "See as I see." Essence flows from the angel, and Spider blinks, then stares at the demon. With a cry, he recoils in revulsion, turning back toward Phillip, burying his face in the angel's shoulder. Phillip's wings curl about Spider protectively.
The Habbalah growls at the Seraph. "Unfair! You saw him give Essence to the boy. Like candy to a child!"
"He did", answers the Seraph. "Unorthodox, but permissible."
"You are protecting the damned! There will be a reckoning!"
The Seraph straightens, its gaze returned to the flow of souls through the Portal. "You may depart, Mercurian.", it declares. "It is ended."
"Only for now", snarls the Habbalah. In the language of men it cries to the retreating pair, "Spider! I have your brother! He will pay for your sins until you return!"
The Mercurian's soul-light fades from the far end of the cave, plunging the Habbalah, the motionless Seraphim and the thousands of shuffling, damned souls back into darkness.