Gabriel Eris (Chapter 5)

CHAPTER THE FIFTH


Lunch had come, some sort of brown, clumpy thing, but Gabriel asked and was rewarded for his trouble with a shiny, red apple. Before asking, he had prayed for some time on the matter. He had been unsure as to the orthodoxy of asking, rather than simply receiving whatever was freely given. His natural tendency was towards meekness, and he would much have liked to receive with thanks whatever was set before him, brown and clumpy though it was. Yet, somewhere within himself, he could not silence the faint rebellion which insisted (albeit faintly) that to request fruit, in place of brown clumps, was not at all an imposition, but may well be a dictate given him by God. Of course, God was not so easily adressed and understood down here as he was in His heaven. Consequently, Gabriel had to craft his prayer with far greater dilligence than he had been accustomed to. Oddly enough, he chose to place himself directly in the path of sunlight beneath the window where Mr. Crenshaw had formerly stood. There, he clasped his hands, raised his eyes towards heaven, and, bringing this question with him, listened intently for an answer from God, which he knew would come, even in this strange, terrestrial place.

After about an hour and a quarter in this position, his stomach growling more fiercely with every passing minute, the Lord assured him inwardly that, yes, it was perfectly fine to request the apple; that he himself would be a better minister of the Word if well nourished, and that the request might even do something to nudge the hospital administration in a healthier direction for the sake of all patients. The Lord did suggest, however, that, after having partaken of this nourishment, he would do well to fast from food for a period of several days, to purify himself from certain unsavory energies which had begun to accrue around his aura during the short time that he had spent among worldly people. In addition, the Lord counselled him not to take his prayer life so lightly, for things on earth were not at all as they were in heaven. Here, divine help was not given unless wholeheartedly sought. Though an angel, he would almost have to begin from scratch, apprenticing himself to the examples of saints and holy persons, whose words and lives had been recorded for no lesser purpose than this.

"Pardon me," he said to the head nurse, in the most deferential tone the dear woman had ever heard, "But would it be possible to obtain a bit of fruit, or a vegetable, perhaps, in place of the usual offering?"

While the nurse was thoroughly accustomed to odd behaviors and patterns of speech, she was not at all prepared for the spectacle which Gabriel presented. Though it would be difficult to say exactly what it was about him which struck her as so unusual in this already unusual place, or what elements -- his tone, words, demeanor, etc. -- had combined to produce the effect, nonetheless, the sense was undeniable and acute. Something was different about this man. Normally, she might have made some offhand remark about the meal; that it was good enough for the others, or that somewhere, in that murky, brown stew (of sorts) there was to be found a smattering of onions; a serving of vegetables. Perhaps she simply liked his face, because her customary attitude did not arise or even occur to her.

"Let me see what we have here," she replied, and, disappearing into a farther room, returned a moment later with the apple in her hand.

Gabriel's eyes lit-up from within, his cheeks glowed, and a truly magnificent smile broke out over his face. He had no doubt whatsoever that his prayer had been handsomely granted. "Thank you. Thank you," he said.

The nurse smiled back, her heart warmed. She felt as though she had really done something for him, and not merely acquiesced in the performance of a simple favor. She resolved, half-consciously, to set out some apples and oranges during mealtimes, if only for the benefit of this singular patient, to whom she had already developed a peculiar attachment which she dared not attempt to explain, even to herself.

Two other patients, upon spying Gabriel's apple, suddenly wanted one for themselves. After all, there was not much variation in daily life here, and whenever some new thing seemed possible, it was immediately seized upon by at least one of the patients, purely for the novelty of it. Neither of these men cared much for apples, but the variation in protocol was just too attractive to resist. The nurse was happy to oblige them.

Gabriel said another prayer, taking his time as he did so, then proceeded to devour the apple in the same, patient and deliberate way. When he had finished, he went back outside and took a seat on the bench beside several other patients who had also finished their meals, and were now eagerly enjoying their smokes. Here, he attempted to place himself in a reflective mood, and to become aware of the holy presence which infused, sustained, and surrounded all things. Never, while in his former habitation, had his sense of the holy presence so much as waned. yet, ever since he arrived here, his connection to the presence had begun to shrink and slip away. To be without it was a new experience altogether, and not a pleasant one, by any means.

A few curious or scoffing looks were thrown his way, but he did not so much as notice them, and for the most part the other patients left him in peace. After some hours of sitting there in perfect stillness, during which time he could feel his nerves and muscles rebelling, and his back aching terribly, he was, nonetheless, able to silence his thoughts just enough so that a slight breeze of the Holy Spirit could be felt passing delicately through his mind. There was God. No, He had not left him, though He would be difficult to discover in this place. Now, the air, the sky, the leaves, and everything around him took on another, more vibrant, piquant flavor. So palpable was the effect, so unmistakably reminiscent of his homeland, that for an instant Gabriel believed he was being carried back up to heaven. Indeed, he was, but not in the way he imagined, and not so quickly as he would have liked.

Weeks passed in the hospital. Doctors came and went. They had dozens of questions for him, and questionaires for him to fill out. They were most insistent that he take his medication, which he did. The pills made his mind fuzzy and his body heavy. They made him drowsy, so that he slept a great deal more than he wanted to. What is worse, in the hours that were left for prayer, they continued to impede his spiritual progress, as if attaching little hooks and weights to his soul, preventing it from rising above the circumstances into which he had fallen. He had seen two men, on two seperate occassions, resist the orderlies' attempts to administer the medication, and had not seen those men again for some time. When they returned, they appeared considerable altered, and shuffled rather than walked, like men more dead than alive. After the second week, Gabriel began slipping his meds under the bushes, and his faculties soon returned to what they had been. Only Carrot had seen him do it, and warned him to be careful.

"They'll test you," he said. "They'll test your urine, to make sure you're taking them. If they find you're not taking them, -- oh, boy. Then they start giving you the injections. Thorazine, maybe. And if you still won't cooperate, they've got a machine back there. They'll stretch you out on a hard table and pump you so full of electricity, you won't know yourself anymore. Not for a while, anyway. They did it to me once, and I've been a good little boy ever since."

Gabriel resolved then to find a way out, somehow. Hiding pills was a form of deception, and this alone had him feeling very uneasy. Now, he knew, he would probably have to lie to the doctors, or they would never believe he was sane, and never let him out. All of this was so sordid, and he agonized over which course to take. For days, he prayed and prayed until he fell asleep on his knees, ever hopeful that the Lord would send a miracle and open up a wall for him to walk through, but no such miracle came, and he began to lose faith, not in God, but in the portion of goodness which God had granted him. Was it not enough? Had he been careless with it, so that it stagnated and would not grow? It seemed as though he would have to lie, after all, so he used his last prayers to beg forgiveness for what he felt he had to do. Then the doctor called his name and he was led, as he had been several times before, into a small room at the end of a long hall.

"Let's see, where were we?" The doctor shuffled his papers, squinted at them, clapped them on the table and looked at the wall. It was not his custom to look at the patients, and certainly not in their eyes. "Still think you're an angel?"

"Archeangel," said Gabriel. Then, remembering he had to lie, "But, no. No, Sir. The pills you've given me have been most effective. It seems I owe a considerable debt to modern science, for your methods have cured me, Sir."

"Is that so?" The doctor was examining a small tear at the end of his cuff, and thinking about stopping to pick up some new shirts on his way home. "You no longer think you are Gabriel, the voice of God?"

"Ha, it's silly, isn't it? I've no idea how such a notion could have lodged itself in my brain in the first place. I imagine it must have been some trauma brought about by my strict religious upbringing. I would certainly like to continue therapy for as long as it takes to get to the bottom of this delusion. Luckily, though, I am free of it now. My name is Harold. I remember that, but nothing else. A blow on the head, perhaps? I've heard such things are possible. But now I must endeavor to reclaim my life, under a new name, I suppose."

"But not 'Gabriel, the angel of the Lord'?"

"Oh no, no, of course not. You see how silly it sounds. Well, it sounds just the same to me as it does to you, Sir. Pure nonsense."

"Good, good. It sounds like you're making progress... Harold. Let me run this by the board and we'll decide what to do with you. We may want to keep you just a little while longer, for observation, but it looks as though you could be going home very soon. Sound good?"

"Oh, yes, Sir. I'd like to go now, if I may."

The doctor suppressed a minor chuckle.

Shards

Proud is the oak, honest is the fire, humble is the ash.

My art is the best part of me, the gold-plating on a cast of lead.

Bodies orbit the sun, souls orbit the abyss.

I am grateful for my broken heart, and for this love which suffers, and refuses to die when unrequited. Without them, I could never understand the heart and love of God.

Christ is seemingly the most current and, to my mind, most perfectly developed example of a crucified god; the most human and the most divine. Whether these avatars emerged from the virginal wombs of our ancestor's imaginations, or incarnated in a more corporeal sense, it is clear they have collectively occupied a position of the highest importance for the development of souls through time. So numerous are the prototypes, we cannot doubt that this symbol is something more than a symbol; that, even more closely than a son reflects his father, this symbol reflects an imprint on the deepest part of the soul of a man, and on the history of mankind. We may call it an archetype, but the word is academic enough to lack the significance and potency which is due. For my part, I have chosen to call it God, since that is precisely what it is to me; the surest, deepest imprint of my soul, and the great abyss around which I am sustained in constant orbit.

Exponentially increasing complexity is seemingly built into the system. Our institutions abhor simplicity. It was never true efficiency they sought, but to preserve themselves at our expense, by keeping us perpetually busy. To occupy a vast number of people for the majority of their time is the true aim of industry. It is inefficiency which keeps us employed.

If what persons of genius assure us is true, -- that their understanding is so far above the heads of most, that it is hard for others to see and, consequently, faces formidable opposition and doubt, -- then it must equally be true that the greatest persons of genius are of an understanding so far exalted beyond our own, that it is entirely impossible for us to see. We would instantly pronounce them unworthy of our time, and pause only to decide whether they were imbeciles, invalids, criminals, or lunatics. Then the greatest minds of all time are among those lost to obscurity, so broad was their vision that it could find no setting within the scope of the age. If they are, as we might expect them to be, maladapted in other ways, despite their inestimable gifts, and though far ahead of their times, they will hardly have survived the world as it has been.

Every genius knows that genius is nothing, and sanctity is all. 

Without impeccable goodwill, cleverness is less of a blessing than a curse, and may become a great power for destruction. With impeccable goodwill, cleverness becomes unnecessary, even extraneous, like an odd, unusable appendage, which only exists to get in the way.

It is our nature to court rules, but Nature herself is fond of exceptions.

Without intuition, the words of the wise would ensnare and befuddle us even more than the words of fools. Where we expect to find clarity, we are shocked to discover confusion, for the limits of words do not become apparent, nor do they significantly hinder us, until we attempt to go beyond them. Only intuition reads between the lines and circumferences the unspoken. This is why Moses first perceived God in the light, then later, as he progressed, came to see Him in a cloud, and, finally, "face to face" in darkness. For the Infinite cannot be perceived in the well-lit world of appearances. The mind is first illumined, but rises into a higher confusion, until the soul lets go of it altogether and comes to dwell in the silent places of the heart. There, where the knowledge of finite things is lacking, the knowledge of infinity takes its place.

Words are magical items, yet we use them so capriciously, so carelessly. Like the sorcerer's apprentice, we create a great mess of words, all sounding at once, as if to clarify matters, but only creating more waste and disarray.

If God waits for us in darkness, and if our most pressing work is in darkness, then we do little more than dally in appearances, and this well-lit, external world really is as nothing.

The residue of a sinful life crusts and clouds over the lens of the heart, so that we cannot see beyond ourselves, to love more than ourselves. Only by abstaining from those things which distract us, and giving prayerful attention to whatever leads us back into the Holy Presence, can the heart-lens be cleansed; that we might see as He sees.

God's love is poured out over the world, but there is far too much for any one soul to contain, so, whenever a man feels his soul filling up with this love, he rushes to gather as many souls together as he can, in order that all may share in the infinite abundance.

The entire search for wisdom is, in fact, an excavation of the psyche; a process of expression.

Applause is a sauce to be sparingly poured. Careers have crumbled, talents turned soggy, under a swelling crowd. The approval of an audience can produce an opiate effect; believing he has expressed himself masterfully, and more than accomplished his task, the artist does not strive for something more. He dissolves into complacency. His work suffers. No doubt, he could easily discover all the flaws in his work, if he really wanted to find them, and only took his time. It is because he flatters himself that he needs a teacher, to provoke him into seeing what he only half-sees, not wanting to see. The nature of patrons is to flatter us, but of a teachers, to keep us humble.

Charles Fort was right. There is more anomalous than accepted evidence. Our paradigms are local constructs, while the universe looms, and everywhere seeks an in. Even our most objective scientists have agendas, ideological or economic, conscious or unconscious, which undermine their fidelity to science, preventing us from discovering wherein we are mistaken. More than anything else, their assumptions determine the parameters of investigation and experimentation, as well as what data is to be discarded or retained. The institutions we erect to serve us (and end up serving) are staunchly and constitutionally opposed to any kind of progress which advances at faster than a snail's pace. Everywhere, the new and inexplicable is ridiculed, passed over, or damned violently to the dustbin before it has a chance to see the light of day. And only because it is new, or seems new; nobody having reported or dared to make much of its previous appearances. Truly, more has been kept from us than has ever been shown.

It's true that aphoristic thinking is lazy, but what does this prove, after all? One easily grows lazy by performing what is beneath one's strength. Contemplation itself ranges far beneath aphoristic insight, and the aphorist walks, as Nietzsche's Zarathustra says, on peaks, for which one must have long legs. How lazy do giants become, with the world always beneath them? We hear of them sleeping. They must nap often, and take pleasure lying close to the earth, with nothing much to do up there in the clouds. Nothing but walk, and take mountains in their stride. And carry themselves to distant regions before they know what's what.

As far back as the deepest shadows of history, when man emerged from the forest, he emerged in symbiotic relationship with the vegetable kingdom; at any rate, with that part of it which he ingested, mostly through eating, but much of it through inhalation, external application, and other means. Man could not live without ingesting at least some of these plants, nor could he prevent his neurochemistry, and his consciousness, from being affected by the compounds, and spirits, contained in all of them. Sometimes, the changes in consciousness were so rapid as to be striking, evoking potent insights occasioned by the abrupt juxtaposition of the two states of consciousness; one preceding, the other following, ingestion of the plant. Others plants were more subtle in their actions, and while their effects might ultimately be no less profound, they took place so gradually as to go unnoticed, or, at least, unaccounted for. Each plant established its relation to mankind by providing him with certain nutritional requirements, evolutional advantages, and/or pleasure incentives. The chemical processes, biological and neurological, set into motion by the various compounds contained in these plants were of considerable variety. The processes to which they corresponded, the benefits and deficits they conferred on man, were many. Some processes, it seems, were more overtly spiritual than others, and the psychedelic experience certainly appears to have been one of them. Indeed, religion, in its deepest origins, and wherever it still flourishes today, seems to be nothing more nor less than humanity's attempt to preserve and institute the overwhelming insight, ecstasy, empathy, mystery, awe, love, and inspiration which are all common aspects of the psychedelic experience; extreme states of consciousness which may be accessed or approximated without the plant, but, which we might never have uncovered or bothered to attain without the initial assistance of the plant. The aim of religion, then, is not to turn our backs on the natural world, and on the substances, or spiritual allies, which first evoked the spiritual experience within us, but, rather, to learn their lessons so completely as to become independent of them. If the teacher is never abandoned, the lesson is never completed. Man must take what he has learned and put it to use in his life. Religion is simply man's effort to carry water from the sacred well, and, though much has been spilled, much more has been preserved and put to good use. Men who had never heard of plants with psychedelic properties nevertheless heard about religion, and while many of them were misled by false interpretations, many of them understood and made no mockery of the instruction they found. The biographies of mystics testify to the success which devoted people have had, in every century, making use of religious language and symbolism for the purpose of anchoring the spiritual experience in their own hearts. 

Have you ever noticed that when you are calm, grounded, and relaxed you don't tend to offer up the usual easy answers to people's problems. You aren't so impatient, in such a hurry to offer the first solution that comes to mind, or so likely to cry "excuses!" when your first bit of hasty advice isn't received. You don't blame others, but realize that, if you took yourself down a notch, and did your own spiritual work, you would be in a much better position to help. You begin to acknowledge the complexities. You don't expect them to "snap out of it". You realize that what may come easy to you in this life may be another person's greatest challenge. You realize that people have formidable defenses and vulnerabilities around these sore spots of theirs, so that you must speak to them with great tact if you don't want them to shut down and become more isolated and hopeless. You become attentive, listening more than speaking. You become a different person; kinder, gentler, humbler, less self-absorbed and ready to respond to the needs of others. It's amazing. All our restlessness, the thoughts we can't put down, the search for some kind of release, -- these things preoccupy us to the point where we can't see anybody else clearly. We really need to be still and breathe. Let our mad selves go. Let them go on ahead with their drama. We can always catch up later. Now we need to sit here and allow ourselves to be calm, so that we can actually respond in a rational and supportive way.

We killed God and he didn't flinch. He agonized and sweat blood, but he didn't flinch. Not him. Not his spirit. Not his love for us. God's is the love that does not flinch, even in the mouth of hatred; even in her very bowels; in Hell. So that there is no more hell, -- for love in hell is no hell. We broke his body, we even broke his heart, still, he goes on loving us with his broken heart. Offering this gift we shattered. Many diamonds that were One.


What we want is a spill of insights, a continuous flood of waves, each following so closely upon the other as to share some part of itself, while yet preserving its own sharp crest.

Gabriel Eris (Chapter 4)

"I read you, man. I know what your whole thing is. You're doing the innocent thing. I dig it. I know what that is."

The gentleman speaking was very thin and excited. The angel was just lying on his bed, thinking about God, and feeling a little homesick when the man approached, speaking to him with tremendous animation.

"What do you mean," asked Gabriel.

"I-nn-o-cence. You're playing innocent. Acting all sweet and naive. But you're just like the rest of us here. You're weak. That's okay.  Like I said, I dig it, right? You gotta do what you gotta do. This place is a freakshow. And I don't mean THIS place. No, this place is good enough. No, I'm talking about the world, man. The world is gone. It's a stinking jungle out there, brother. It's war. Half the people you meet are pirates or smugglers or something. You know what I'm sayin'?"

Gabriel got up from bed. He had decided to listen to these people the way he had listened to their prayers when he was in Heaven.  Up there, you couldn't make out all these words and you didn't need to know them. You just felt what the person was feeling, and the appropriate response would come. All these words down here were just confusing him. But if you didn't pay too much attention to their words, people's hearts were still easy to see.

"It's true, Earth is not what I was expecting to see, exactly. But I have felt human prayers for thousands of years. I am surprised at my own foolishness. I knew there would be challenges, but I imagined I would be better prepared for them than I am. The people are indeed weak, as you say. They are frightened, and now I am one of them. I do not want to be frightened. What is this place?"

The thin man was grinning and nodding to himself, extracting a cigarette from a tired-looking pack and putting it to his lips. Instead of lighting it, though, he took it out of his mouth and began pointing at Gabriel as he spoke.

"Ha, ha. So you're like an alien, is that it? Ha! Great. No, that's great. I dig it. Hey, if you can make that work, make that work. Right, guy? Yeah, no, so you're like this crazy stranger here and you don't know anything. I like that. Hey, how's that working for you? People take pity on you, or what? Wow, they must think you're bonkers. But I bet you're not. You seem real slick to me, kid. I'm no fool."

"I'm not an alien, exactly," Gabriel explained, "but a celestial being, one of the principle emanations of God. I don't know how I ended up all the way down here on Earth. I don't remember receiving a mission like this. The last thing He said to me was, 'Go forth, and spread my word.' I had no idea He wanted me to come this far. Usually, I just whisper in the ears of poets, philosophers, and priests."

"Ha, ha, I get ya. Hey, I'll play along. I bet that's what a lot of people do, huh? I bet they do it just to mess with you, right? The pretend like they believe your story, but then they just mess with you. Hey, but I'm not messing with you. Straight up. I'll just help you get your story down. If you know it really well, they'll think you believe it. Hey, you might even start believing it yourself. And more power to you, if you do. Man, it would be swell to go crazy, right? Like, to really believe you were an angel or some great thing like that."

"It does feel good, to know that I am so close to God, and that I am wonderfully made to do His will. There is nothing like it in this world."

"Right, right. I'm with ya. So, like, what do angels do?"

"In Heaven, we fly from perch to perch, prompted by the leadings of God. According to the purpose for which He has fashioned us, we perform good works. My position is to hear and respond to prayers for insight, inspiration, help with communication, and removing obstructions, so as to facilitate more freedom of movement. It is strange, though. I have never had difficulty communicating from my perches. Only now can I truly understand the difficulties these poor people were having with language. If we are not careful, it gets in the way. We have to give it only one ear, and save another for spiritual hearing."

"Spiritual hearing, eh? Ha ha, you're alright. You really got this stuff down. I bet you practice this all the time. Maybe you don't even remember who you were before you started playing this role. Hey, now that would be great. Just totally lose touch and drift off. Man, I'd love to be crazy like that."

"No, you don't want to be crazy. The best thing is to be exactly what you are. Did you know, humans are even more beautiful in the eyes of Christ than angels? Your frailty, your suffering, the ease with which you can be corrupted and the glory of winning your souls for God: these things all make you infinitely beautiful in His eyes. All our labours are directed to making and keeping you good, so as to glorify the Creator of goodness itself. We celebrate in Heaven, every time you feel or think or say or do a tender thing."

"Uh-huh. Wow, you really know your stuff. I bet you love this. You'd probably do it even if nobody was looking. It's kind of who you are now, isn't it? Man, this is trippy. You, like, created this character and you're just living it. Ha ha! Man, you're classic. Hey, but, like, you know you're not an angel, right? C'mon, you can tell me. 'Cause I don't even care. I ain't judgin' nobody. But tell me the truth, right. Are you really crazy, or do you just like playing an angel and gettin' all these saps to play along?"

"I am an angel," said Gabriel.

"Ha, ha. Never break character, right. Yeah, maybe you're crazy, or maybe you just ain't about to level with anybody. I don't know. I don't know. I guess it's kind of the same thing, though. I mean, if you really want to be an angel, and you really commit to the part, then you gotta be a little crazy, don't you. I mean that's not normal. Hey, but I ain't about to judge. You do your thing. Hey, this is cool, I'll just like talk to you as if you was a real angel."

"Okay," said Gabriel.

"So, what kind of angel are you? What's your name?"

"I'm Gabriel, the herald, the revealer of truth."

"Yeah, wow, hey, that's a mouthful. Cool name, though."

"I am called by many names."

"I bet you are, I bet you are. Hey, I just might call you Gabe. How do you like that? I used to have a rusty old dog named Abe, and that's pretty darn close to Gabe. So, here's what I'm thinking. You're gonna be my new dog. No, listen, I'm not messing with ya, promise. I loved that dog. He was my best friend, like they say, you know? But you can be, like, my guardian angel. So, it's kind of the same thing."

"Dogs are especially blessed animals. With their love and service to mankind, they share a particular likeness to Our Lord."

"I always said that! Well, not like that, exactly. But I always said dogs was special. Something about them, I don't know. Love and service, like you said. They're like that. Man, they're alright! Too bad we can't get no dogs in here."

"Why are there none?"

"In here? Heck, man, where do you think you are? This is lock-up, my man. You're in an institution, in case you haven't noticed. They don't let dogs in here. No way."

"Well, let's go out, then, and find a dog."

"Ha ha, find a dog. You're alright. All this talk about dogs, eh. You want to go find one, he. I bet you're serious. Yeah, I'd like to go find one, too. I was just thinking that. you must have read my thoughts."

The man winked at Gabriel. He had his arms crossed confidently, with the cigarette sometimes between his lips and sometimes in his hand, but never lit. They didn't allow the inpatients to carry matches.

"Come outside with me," he said, "There's an enclosure. We're allowed to smoke out there. A nurse will light this for me. Come on."

Gabriel followed the man outside where a nurse lit his smoke.

"Thank you, nice lady," said the man.

"You're welcome, Carrot. Now behave yourself."

"Ha ha. You know it!.. That's my name: Carrot. That thing everyone's trying to get. Ha ha, whatever it is. That's me."

Gabriel smiled. He felt love for the man, but at that moment he would have much preferred a real carrot. Nevertheless, in his heart he spoke the words, "Thy will be done."

Several people were sitting on benches arranged in a circle surrounded by hedges. Most of them were smoking. Some of them took a mild interest in Gabriel, because we was new, or because he had a curious look about him.

"So," began Carrot, "What was it you were saying to Mr.Crenshaw, to make him smile like that? I saw you talking to him. He's been standing like a statue under that skylight every day since I got here. Now he's playing backgammon with Mr.Wells in his room. So, what's the deal? You say something to him? You cure him?"

"I told him sunlight was not wasted on the floor."

"Not if somebody's finding it beautiful, right. Yeah, I heard what you said. Something about beauty. Hey, but nobody's in there looking at it right now. Just a puddle of sunlight nobody gives a rat's --"

"The floor is being warmed. In a moment, one of the patients here is going to walk over and sit down on the warm tiles."

"Is that so? Yeah, we'll see. I just don't know how saying something about beauty or whatever got Mr.Crenshaw to change his habits.  People been talking to him, trying to get him to come away from there and do something every single morning and afternoon for weeks. You say something and he's playing backgammon."

A bald man with a red beard could be seen inside through the windows. He was walking over to the skylight. A moment later, he sat down in the small patch of light underneath it and turned his smiling face up to be warmed by the sun. Carrot saw it and gave Gabriel a suspicious look.

"You think you predicted that?"

"I saw it. God showed it to me."

"Uh-huh. Look, I don't know if I like you. This whole thing you're doing. You think you're foolin' anybody? You ain't crazy, and you sure as hell ain't no angel from outer space or wherever. You're just some punk tryin' to put one over on everybody. Hey, I get it, I get it. I said I got it, didn't I? Life's hard. You gotta cope. Find your place. Make an angle. But, man, you don't know when to let it go. Like, I ain't no danger to you. So just tell me the truth, right. Tell me who you really are. I won't tell nobody, promise. But just don't go playing me like I'm another one of these fools around here. I ain't like them."

"Sometimes it is better to risk being foolish, in order to believe. What if I am an angel, after all? Would it not be preferable to keep an open mind, and wait a while before passing your judgement -- that is, if you are determined to make a conclusion, regardless of the evidence, or lack of evidence, for, or against, my claim? To leave the matter unsolved, or to investigate further; that would be a healthy skepticism. But to categorically dismiss the possibility, without serious investigation or experimentation --  that is simple cynicism, unworthy of the scientific attitude."

Carrot listened. "Whatever," he said, tossing his half-smoked cigarette over everyone's head. "Only a moron believes in angels. A real sucker. Or a total weakling, you know. Somebody with a psychological need to believe."

"I don't think it's unlikely, at all, when you really take the time to imagine how it might be possible. But if you spend all your time thinking up the reasons why it could never be, it will surely seem impossible to you. The interesting thing is that, if you begin by considering what may be possible, then you are essentially beginning on solid ground, with what you already know. But if, on the other hand, you are making all sorts of assumptions about angels based on things you have heard from so many different sources -- most of which cannot agree with one another -- then you are beginning with a phantom. You may end up disproving the phantom; showing how much nonsense it amounts to. But you have not so much as begun to look for the real thing, and to imagine, within the bounds of what you know, how such a thing might yet be possible. And, I assure you, it is entirely possible. Even if I were not living proof, I would still believe this. Nothing is more natural than that love and wisdom should be embodied somewhere; their holiness enshrined in living temples. For, if virtues come to life in man, why should higher virtues not come to life in beings higher than man? What is holiness, if not the essence of a virtue; its highest and purest type? If we say these things are not beautiful, we are brutes, but  if we say they are not holy, we are only mortal. Truly, we confess our kinship with the higher elements, when we confess the holiness  of virtue. If love and wisdom are not holy things, then God is not God. But we who know them deeply know these things are holy, and their holiness is the proof of God."

"Uh-huh," said Carrot.

Diamonds Without Settings

Aphorisms hardly walk, but leap, and lunge, and hit the mark.

Thoughts are surfaces. Deeds are depths. But thoughts are only surfaces before the real thinking starts. As Aesop says, words may be deeds. It is work, after all, to excavate the mind. Real digging. A pain in the neck and an ache in the back. And it's not all dirt in there, either. There are rocks as well. Heavy thinking is heavy lifting.

Test the quality of time.
Wet your noetic thumb and hold it in the space of time.
Learn the direction and speed of spiritual winds.

Clouds cannot hide the sun or the moon.
Only lack of imagination does that.

Knowledge is a burden only action can unload.

Nothing is more primal than banging a gavel.
Always, a brute sits on the bench.

If words scarcely outlive their subjects,
speak of mountains, not merchants.

To think of him is to be in his presence.
When you call him to mind, he really comes.

If I planned it, I'd never get it done.

Not all Muslims want to kill you,
and not all Christians think you're going to Hell.

Genius is rare in the market, but common in the madhouse.

We owe adversity the greatest debt.
Atlas does not lift the world because he is strong,
but is strong because he lifts the world.

Cynics demand, by way of proof,
that we walk upon our wings,
and flap our legs into flight.

We are prosecuted by the Justice of God, defended by His Mercy.
Is it any wonder, we always end with a hung jury?

I take up the book, and find myself taken up.
I grasp the truth, and feel myself in its grip.
I give my approval, and watch myself go.

False modesty is squirming out of a higher calling.

I've populated my consciousness with the denizens of my unconscious;
given faces to the invisible, and names to the unknown.

The intellect is a playpen, or child's room, -- 
a place to work things out, and just begin to test our strength;
but the will is the great adult world.

More than anything else,
you are afflicted by the thoughts to which you give credence, but no life.
If you believe it, you must live it, -- or die of it.

If you can't say something new, say it better;
if you can't say it better, say it quicker;
if you can't say it quicker, don't bother.

All this world can offer us,
as far as objects and experiences, will be taken away.
But the yearnings of the soul will go on as they have done.

We must pass by many devils, to keep company with angels;
and many angels, to keep company with God.

If I could save only two books of the Bible, I would save Luke and Romans.
If I could save only one book, I would save John.

To discover the reality of divinity, first learn the divinity of reality.
The wisdom of the earth is lofty in the underworld.

A wealthy person can never be charitable, for he is always a debtor. If he gives, it is to give back, and he never repays but a fraction of his debt. On the other hand, he who contents himself with only what the Lord has made is the most charitable of men. Everything he does not take, he already gives away.

God is found in silence. When we choose silence, we choose God; when we turn away from silence, we turn away from God. That's all we're doing, every moment; choosing the deep silence of sanctity, or choosing to distract ourselves with lesser things. That's all this life is. True goodness, inexhaustible calm, depth, strength of character -- all of this is available to us when we sacrifice the empty chatter, the internet, the television, the noise, and anxiety these things promote. If we don't chose silence, we chose all of this. We choose all of this.

"Be still and know God" -- means stillness is the only requirement in order to become convinced of, and acquainted with, the Holy Presence. Those who scoff at the notion of a divine reality are essentially, though unwittingly, confessing to never having experienced a moment of genuine stillness; never allowing their bodies, minds, and, finally, their souls to relax into the warm bath of sacred potential which surrounds us at all times. They are always running from one place to another, but think they know what is directly here. They are thinking only of the past and future, but think they know what happens now.

If the ascetics are hard, it is because we are soft. Thinking of our bodies, we call ourselves too weak for solitude, but thinking of their souls, they call themselves too weak for civil life. They abandon the world to enter the way. They are those who escape into war.

All this greed and superficial industry. How many see the absurdity? Countries on their way to war, waving white flags. The expert worse than the novice; schooled in mischief. The Stepford wives have wed, and bred, and spread over the globe. They're shopping at a store near you. And while wisdom is in short demand (rare as it is), everyone but the sage is employed. Now its the parasite who would lead us to paradise. Hounded and shut out from sight, our sage grows twisted in the rain. His every insight a gripe. Its only due to his inner light, that he insists on calling ours a Dark Age. And why not? Grandeur, now, is in the gutter, viewed askance. Our teeth are set against him who would preserve her. Our pitchforks ready at hand. All his splendor is repulsive to our eyes. Here, he gives us the philosopher's stone, and we stone him with it. There, he speaks to us of freedom, and we lock him in his coat. The world is ironwork, but he spins the stuff of dreams; esteems virtue herself, or in the subtlest dress. What do we know of his distress?

In our time, the general tendency is towards justice, and away from mercy. Nearly everywhere, the belief in freewill is carried so far as to assume that every man is a perfect master of himself. In reality, none of us are entirely in possession of ourselves. We often lose control, and a great many of us are like automatic weapons in the hands of infants; we can scarcely hold onto ourselves when we start "firing". What we call a lack of motivation, or a refusal to act, or an insistence upon following destructive patterns of behavior, can all be symptoms of an inability to train and focus restless energies upon a definite object. Even when we can pursue a particular aim to its end, we frequently discover that our aim was misguided from the start. Whether we believe it or not, we are infinitely bigger than ourselves. We do not know what makes us happy, or what is good for us, or what is right. We are the most complex machines we have ever encountered, and we don't even know how to work ourselves. Cosmic energies barrel through us, and we do our best to seem unperturbed. Without the common belief in man's ability to be responsible for himself, our whole society would crumble, like a face only held together by the mask it wears. This world is already in chaos, but the belief that our species is, at least, in control and holding it together (even if we don't always use our power in the best and wisest ways) prevents us from discovering this chaos, and preferring ruins. We ought to prefer ruins. Whether it is sooner or later, all human activity must someday reorient itself in an entirely new direction. We must learn humility. Developing a deeper respect for the power of fate would lead to a correspondingly wider sense of compassion, sympathy, mercy, pity, and love for ourselves and one another. This much may be within the scope of our power. We cannot remain in love much longer with the idyllic image of ourselves as the conquering hero. Nor can we hold to the reverse of that coin, which is our hatred for the enemy whose villainy we likewise imagine in caricature. We are fools, both. He knows not what he does, and neither do we. There is free will, yes, but far less than we like to suppose. Destiny has never lost the upper hand.

I imagined what I might say to God, and it occurred to me God might say many of the same things to me: "Accompany me," "Do not forsake me," "Be always in my thoughts," "Come quickly to my aid," "Have mercy on my infirmities," etc. For God, too, has thoughts -- exalted thoughts, which occupy a sphere of blessedness, and which we must endeavor to lift ourselves up into, in order to be cleansed of falsehood and iniquity. God, too, has infirmities and need of aid, for, as Christ, he is spread out upon the earth, in the form of the sick, the hungry, the lonely, and all those tormented and tested by dark spirits. In humility, God has made himself a servant, and even a patient in our care. What can we ask from heaven, which we cannot give to the least of our brothers and sisters on earth; and, thereby, give to God? He has privileged us to be healers and redeemers in our own right. He has granted us the supreme favor of walking in the footsteps of Christ, in order to uplift and encourage one another. If the Divine Power remains hidden from us, it must be a sign of the deepest respect and faith which He has for us; since He consider us worthy to perform His work in the world; to be His hands, His heart, His smile. The greatest gift He could have given us is to withdraw Himself, so that we might become like Him, in loving and serving one another.

Atheists resort to specific definitions, the conditions of which, they insist, God must fill, in order to exist. Then they speedily conclude that no God exists, when reality does not conform, in the most obvious ways, to these conditions which they themselves have insisted upon at the outset. Rather, let them begin in reality, and not outside of it. If they would base their notions of Divinity on solid ground, and begin exactly where they are, they may discover in the experience of the present moment, that there is nothing here which should not be deemed holy, -- or which is not protected and infused with an aura of holiness; a tenderness which seems to well-up from within and around all things, so to shower a kind of divine mercy upon them. It has the likeness and quality of mercy, because it blesses whatever seemed to lack blessings; alone, it imparts the dignity of blessedness to objects and entities which would are inauspicious in themselves, incapable of exalting themselves beyond the prosaic. It is only in the space of stillness that we begin to perceive all reality embraced and infused with God. Far from being a dream state, this is the peak of the waking state. As we grow still, we turn inward and attend most closely to the movements of visions and sentiments within. These grow increasingly beautiful, nuanced, delicate, refined, and full of significance. A fleeting sensation speaks volumes of scripture, and these holy sensations become the sole objects of our study. From the most concrete experience of what surrounds us, we end by speculating on the reality of something inherently subtle, fluid, dynamic, elusive, abstract, and remote. Something right under our noses, yet nowhere to be found. By imperceptible steps, we are drawn inexorably toward those joys which are more peaceful and expressive of meaning. It is enough to contemplate virtues, like flowers exhaling the subtlest perfumes we have come to love; sensations of purity and wholesomeness unmatched by any offering the vulgar world can make. Though, once, God could readily be found everywhere in the world, now, our customs are even too swarthy in the church (which is generally locked, whenever it is not filled with people all talking at the same time and saying little that is relevant to the ocassion). It is necessary to find oneself an isolated chapel, or, more often, a quiet closet, or a corner. The only altars left are in darkness. Society has become so loud, so hurried, clumsy, aggressive, and overloaded with self-important business. All our passion and ambition runs us ragged. Our minds work over barren ground. Is it any wonder, if even God has gotten kicked and overlooked, in this frenzy to make something ourselves, and to make something of ourselves? We can only learn stillness, to see what God makes, and makes of us.

Gabriel Eris (Chapter 3)

CHAPTER THE THIRD


He awoke to a spider. It was a terrifying spider, with long, shiny, thin, black legs. It was crawling along his cheek before he brushed it absentmindedly to the floor and never noticed it at all. He only knew that something tickled him and he awoke.

In "the common room", as they called it, most of the patients were already awake and doing their own thing. Beneath an open skylight, stood a man with his head back, his eyes shut, and his mouth open wide, as though he were lying in a dentist's chair. By the far doors, a pale young man was sitting in an odd position, rocking himself endlessly back and forth. Another man was taking his fingers for a walk along the windowsill. He had a long grey beard and his eyeballs were a pinkish-white. Gabriel went and talked to him.

"My name is Gabriel," he said, offering his hand.

The fingers stopped walking. The man looked up. A crooked grin snuck across his face and he winked one pinkish-white eye. A moment later and he had turned away, while his fingers continued their walk.

Gabriel was no longer surprised to find himself so confused by the actions of these people. Their entire world was so different from his, and he knew so little about it. All he really knew is that he was in no position to judge anyone here. If he was going to survive, he would have to learn a lot more about this world, and forget a part of the world from which he had come.

Next he went to see the boy by the far doors. The boy was rocking. You couldn't say he was rocking fast, and you couldn't say he was rocking slow. He was just rocking. His eyes were staring, but not at any thing in particular. Not anything in the outside world, anyway. He seemed immersed in something of his own. The angel was not at all reluctant to disturb him, but he knew somehow that God wanted him to speak to this boy, if only to learn more of this world.

"Hi there. I'm Gabriel."

The boy continued to rock and stare, but he spoke. His voice was quiet and soft and a little bit squeaky.

"Gabriel is the angel of the voice of the Lord; that is, the voice of truth," said the boy, "Are you that one? Are you he?"

"I am," said Gabriel, whose reputation preceeded him.

"You are the first. The messenger. The one I've been waiting for."

"Then you knew I was coming?"

"I summoned you with my prayer. You have a message for me, or you would not be here."

"It's true, I have a message always. But I never know what it shall be, or what God shall cause me to say. It is as if He had entrusted me with letters I could never open on my own. Only when the time comes, and I have found the one to whom I am to speak. Then the letters open by themselves. My mouth opens by itself, and the Word is there. But I have no message for you."

"You have none because you've delivered it. What you said is what I needed to hear. All I do is think, and plan, and speculate on a trillion things that I will never know. You are telling me to live in the moment, and that somehow, when the moment comes, I will know what to say, and how to act."

"If I planned," said Gabriel, "I'd never get it done."

The boy stopped rocking and looked up at the angel. He was tall, handsome, with delicate features, almost like a girl's, and eyes as innocent as a newborn's. He seemed not to realize the profundity of what he said. And yet he called himself the voice of God, because that is what God called him. He must have trusted God to put wisdom in his mouth, but as his mind worked-out whatever God had given him to think and speak, he could not see the profundity of it himself. He always spoke as though it were only dawning on him. Like the thought had only just been born, and even he had no idea what it's nature would be.

The boy stood up and embraced him. It was not something he ever would have done, if he had given himself a moment to think about it, but it was nonetheless something he wanted to do.

"Well, hello," said Gabriel, cradling him.

"Speak to me again, angel. Tell me one more word of the Lord."

"He's listening to us, now," answered Gabriel.

The boy knew what he meant. The words he had spoken were a prayer. God was listening, and would answer them.

"You need to stop seeking now," said the angel, "And, anyway, you can never find God. He can only find you. First, you must stay in one place. He is never very far behind you, so, if you will wait a little, He will meet you here."

"I need to calm down," said the boy.

"Stop looking, and you will see clearly."

"But I want so badly to know so many things at once."

"There is nothing to know," said the angel, "Or, rather, there is only one thing, and that is to be present with God in this moment. All the rest will come to you. The knowledge, the answers, are all within you. You cannot see them before it is time, but you must trust that they are there, and they will come."

The boy's shoulders visibly relaxed.

Gabriel smiled, then went to see the man beneath the skylight. He was standing in the same position as before; head back, eyes closed, mouth open wide. When the angel approached he changed. He looked at Gabriel, spread his legs, and raised his fists.

"Don't come any closer," he said.

"I won't," said Gabriel, even backing up a step.

"This is my window. I stand under it."

"All the time?"

"No, not all the time. What do you think I am? I stand under it when the sun comes through. To catch the sun. I have to catch the sun when it comes through. Don't you get that?"

"Why do you have to catch it?"

"What do you mean," the man cried, growing more agitated, "You want the ground to get it? You want it to end up all over the floor?"

"No," said the angel, "not if you enjoy catching it."

"I have to," said the man.

"But you don't have to. Not if you don't enjoy it. Don't you think the floor would appreciate it more than you? Why would you keep the floor from being warmed."

"The floor? The floor!?"

"Why, yes. The floor has feelings, too."

The man looked at him in the most befuddled way. He looked back at the long shaft of sun spreading over the blue linoleum.

"It's beautiful," he said.

"It's alive," said Gabriel, "because it's beautiful."

The man looked back again at the angel. The phrase seemed to contain something. In his mind, he wanted to dig it out, like the bottom of a peanut-butter jar.

Gabriel Eris (Chapter 2)

CHAPTER THE SECOND!



When Gabriel awoke, he was rather worse for wear. His back ached, as it had never done before, and he was more hungry than ever for some real food. He quickly sprang up from his cot, despite the pain he felt, and headed back out into the street. One of these trees had to have fruit on it, and he was determined to find it.

He had his head all the way inside a young maple tree when the officer spotted him.

"Sir... Excuse me, Sir," said the officer, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Gabriel pulled his head out of the tree. "I'm looking for fruit," he said.

"You're looking for fruit. In a maple tree?"

"Yes. Well... I don't know what manner of tree it is, but --"

"Look here, Pal. Are you some kind of wacko or something? Because if you are, I'm supposed to take you in and process you and all that? So, what's it gonna be?"

"Process me?"

"Yeah. You look like either some kind of vagrant, or some kind of mental patient, or both. I don't know. But you're actin' real strange here, and I got a job to do."

Gabriel could only understand a portion of the words, but it seemed some explaination was required of him.

"I'm looking for fruit," he repeated.

"Alright, that's it," said the man in uniform, getting out his handcuffs. "You'd better turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"Pardon me?"

"Turn around. Now!"

Gabriel turned around.

"Hands behind your back!"

Gabriel did as he was told, and felt his wrists gripped by cold circles. After that, he was being dragged, then pushed along the sidewalk, and finally slammed against some sort of object. The object opened. Gabriel was thrust inside, and into a sitting position. It was like the structure he had slept in, but much, much smaller. Soon, the officer was in the front and the object began to move. Faster and faster, it sped down streets, and around corners, while Gabriel struggled to stay upright. His wrists began to really hurt from the circles behind his back.

At last, the car came to a stop. The door openned and Gabriel was again being dragged and pushed down the sidewalk, then hurried up a huge flight of stairs, and into another building.

"Got a live one here."

"Oh, yeah," said another man behind a desk.

"Yep. And it looks like we're gonna need a psych evaluation for this one."

"Callin' in the doc," said the man.

Gabriel was forced onto a hard seat and told not to move. He sat there for what seemed like hours before a short gentleman in a brown hat arrived and offered to shake his hand.

"Oh, excuse me," said the man, "I see you're still in handcuffs."

After a while, they were taken to another room, where they sat down with a small table between them. The man removed his hat and set it to the side. He smiled and offered his hand again, which Gabriel was now free to accept.

"My name is Dr. Wassman," he said, with a warm grin.

"They call me Gabriel."

"Pleased to meet you, Gabriel. Yes. They tell me you were talking to a tree on the sidewalk, is that right?"

"I was looking for fruit."

"In a tree on the sidewalk?"

"Of course. Where else?"

"Well, if you want to find fruit, you have to go to a fruitstand or a grocery. Yes. Fruit trees aren't planted on the sidewalk, you know."

"They're not?"

"Of course not. That would defeat the whole purpose."

"The purpose of what," inquired Gabriel.

"Well, fruit costs money, of course. And we can't have fruit trees growing on the sidewalk, where just anybody can eat from them. Do you see?"

"I don't understand. Isn't that the purpose of fruit trees?"

The doctor removed his glasses and polished them. This was an odd case.

"You think fruit should be free, is that it?"

"Free?"

"You don't think you should have to pay?"

"Pay?"

"Look, it's very simple..."

The doctor proceeded to explain, in the simplest terms he could think of, the basic concept of economics. He even explained words, when he had to.

Gabriel was astonished.

"So," he began, trying to wrap his mind around it, "you lock away the fruit?"

"Yes, we -- What have I been saying? Look, the farmer grows the fruit. And he deserves something for his efforts, doesn't he?"

"But God grows the fruit."

"No, no. God does not grow the fruit. The farmer grows the fruit."

"Because all the fruit trees are on farms."

"Precisely! On farms. And then the farmer sells them to the grocer, who houses them along with all the other food, and he sells them to the consumer. That's you. And you come in, and you pick out a nice piece of fruit, and you pay for it. Yes."

"With money."

"Yes, with money you've earned."

"How do I get this money?"

"I explained this, didn't I? You have a job of your own, just like the farmer, and just as he gets money for growing the fruit, you get money for doing what you do. Yes. Now you understand?"

"I think so. Where I come from, we also have people who take care of the trees. But they do it because they enjoy doing it, and they don't ask us for anything before letting us try the fruit. The trees do not belong to them."

It had taken Gabriel a while to gather the gist of this word, "belong", but he was begining to understand. Somewhat.

"Look, it's very simple," said the doctor, "What do you do?"

"I am the voice," replied Gabriel.

"You are a singer?"

"No, I don't sing, although we do have singers. I speak the truth."

"You speak the truth?" This was indeed getting interesting.

"The Word of God."

"I see," said the doctor. "And I suppose God speaks to you."

"He tells me what to say."

"Yesss."

It was less than an hour later now, and Gabriel was being led into yet another building. This one had white walls and white ceilings and pale blue floors. It was full of people, all acting on their own. None of them seemed very interested in any of the others for very long. Gabriel was led to take a seat by a polite young man, who shorly thereafter returned with a couple of pills and a glass of water.

"I don't understand," said Gabriel.

"You take these."

"What do I do with them?"

"Swallow them."

Gabriel did as he was told. Obedience was a great virtue in Heaven, after all.

Gabriel Eris

Don't all truly beautiful, -- 
I mean, shamelessly beautiful, -- 
stories begin the same way?


CHAPTER THE FIRST

Once upon a time...

An angel fell to earth, and his name was Gabriel, the voice of God. As he had fallen with nothing but his voice, -- not even his wings, -- and as he was subject to the same needs as mortal men, he had quickly to find some food for his belly and some place to rest his head for the night. He was sure this would be easy.

Now, Gabriel did not know of labour, for in the Kingdom of God, from which he had come, there is no work to be done. Nor did he understand the concept of money. You see, in Heaven, everything is shared in common. The fruit of the trees is more than enough to satisfy the appetites found there, and there are no fences or hidden boundaries to discriminate between what belongs to one soul or to another. In fact, Gabriel didn't even know about shelter. He had always simply slept on clouds under the stars. Oh, sure, there were cold places in Heaven, too. But nobody slept there. Souls multiplied slowly in Heaven, so there was always enough room in the warm places for everyone. But now Gabriel was getting cold.

He knew something was wrong. He was not quite where he should be. He had to find the warm places soon, but he was sure they were not far. All he had to do was discover their direction.

"Kind Sir," he said, approaching a rather worn-looking gentleman with some bundles in his arms, "Won't you tell me the way to the warmth?"

"Huh?" the man replied, clutching his bundles tighter and shrinking away.

"The warmth. The place where it is warm. I seem to have lost my way."

"What the --?"

The man hurriedly stormed away, almost afraid for his life, and sure he had just come into contact with a genuine madman.

"Oh, dear," thought Gabriel, for the first time.

The sun was gradually setting behind the rooftops, and snow was beginning to fall ever-so-gently on the heads of all the people in the square.

"At least there are so many people," Gabriel thought, and cheered.

He mounted the pedestal of a nearby statue, and with a sweeping gesture of his arm, called out to the people all around,

"Gentle people of the square," he called, "I have lost my way and am in need of some direction. Won't one of you be so kind as to tell me the way to the warmth?"

Many of the people went on as though they had not even noticed him. Some of them shook their heads, while others nodded, as though they had understood. All but a few of them went on their way. The ones who stayed were merely curious to see whether the man was a lunatic or a fool. Not one of them answered him.

"I say," called Gabriel, "can anyone tell me the way to where it is warm? I am tired and the sun is setting. How shall I sleep in the cold?"

Just then, a small child was passing by with his mother, giving serious attention to the icecream cone in his hand. But when he saw and heard the man, he forgot his treat and stopped in his tracks, pulling violently on his mother's hand, so that she, too, came to a most abrupt and unusual stop.

"Hey, Mister! Don't you have a home?"

Gabriel looked at him, a little puzzled. "A home," he asked.

"Yeah, you know. Ain't you got a bed, or what?"

"A bed?"

But the mother pulled harder than the boy had pulled her -- harder than he could have pulled her -- and soon they were out of sight, lost in a flood of shoppers on their way home for the night.

"A home... a bed," Gabriel repeated to himself. This place was certainly stranger than he'd first supposed. New words had to be learned. New things.

"Good people," he called out once more, "It is cold and I have nowhere to sleep! Could one of you show me where I may find a home, and a bed?"

A girl, about thirteen, approached him now.

"You look funny," she said.

"Pardon me?"

"You look like a child, but you're not. What's wrong with you?"

But her father, who had only just now discovered her absence, was not pleased to find her talking to this strange man. He shot Gabriel a look the angel had never seen before. It was the oddest look. It tore through him and hurt, as though he had fallen a second time. Surely, the man had not intended to look at him that way.

"Hello," said Gabriel, with the tenderest smile.

"Weirdo!" replied the man, and he quickly disappeared back into the crowd with his daughter at the end of his arm.

"Another new word," thought Gabriel, but he was growing cold and had no time to be interested in learning new words or new things. He really had to find some place warm for the night.

"Good people," he called, "I have no place warm to rest. Can one of you help me, please?

Just then, a fragile gentleman, much bent-over with years, approached the statue where Gabriel was standing. His face was pink and wore a large smile.

"Young man," he called back, "Come down from there."

Gabriel climbed down and approached him, at once.

"What on earth do you think you are doing," asked the old man.

"I -- I need a warm place for the night," said the angel.

"Oh, very well. Come with me, and I'll take you to the shelter. You don't look like much of a threat, after all."

And he led him down the cobble streets, through the cold and the snow, which had gathered force, it seemed, rather suddenly. The dark, too, had gathered much quicker than the angel was used to.

As they walked, Gabriel realized how hungry he was, so he studied the trees along the sidewalk. Not one of them had any fruit! Not so much as an apple, and even apples grew in cold places. Now, along with the hunger, Gabriel felt something entirely unknown to him. A sense of concern. Something he could not yet put into words. Something decidedly bad. But he didn't yet know what bad was.

"I'm hungry," he said to the kind, old man.

"I'll bet you are," came the reply. "Unfortuneately for you, they must have stopped serving soup some hours ago. But, then, perhaps you are in luck, after all," and he produced a napkin from his pocket, which he proceeded to unfold. A small bun, round as a fruit. There were so many words the man had spoken of which he was unsure, but Gabriel understood that this must be food the man was offering, and he took the bun with a tremendous display of gratitude.

"Alright, alright," said the old man. "Geez, it's only a stale dinner roll. You'd think it was the king's pheasant, the way you're carrying on."

Gabriel bit carefully into the bread. No, it was not like fruit at all, though the inside was softer than the outer part. It was hard to chew, had no juice, and hardly any flavor. But the man seemed to agree that it was food, so Gabriel did his best to get it into his belly, and to be grateful still.

Before long, they came to the shelter. The old man showed him in, wished him well, and then he, too, disappeared back into the stream of shoppers outside. Gabriel approached the desk, where a large, round man sat looking at him.

"Need a room, Bud?"

"A place warm to sleep," said Gabriel.

"All the way to the end. You'll see it," said the large, round man, as he made a jabbing motion with his arm.

Gabriel walked past many rows of cots, each divided from the others by dark blankets, which hung from the ceiling like thin walls. In each "room", someone lay snorring, or tossing in their sleep. One man sat up, shuffling a deck of cards. Finally, Gabriel came to the last cot, which was empty, and he lay down at once. It was nothing like a cloud.