Archangels

By Anthony Nicolosi

A Gay Messiah. A Gay Lucifer. Archangels. A Powerful Love of God.

Do angels walk among us? Do they love as we do, or does their love exist on a higher plane, one closer to God?

Can two gay men accept their true spiritual path and navigate the awesome and overwhelming journey from ordinary human to archangel to ultimate communion with Jesus Christ?

When former street hustler and runaway farm boy Michael meets wealthy, sophisticated David, he finally feels truly loved for the first time. Soon, Michael begins to understand that David has an important destiny to fulfill; one Michael may have unknowingly been a part of from the very start.

From the lonely fields of the Oklahoma prairie to the gritty streets of Hollywood to the upper echelons of America’s wealthiest families, Archangels chronicles the compelling love story of two gay men brought together by the forces of God, Jesus and the archangels that oversee the past, present, and future of humanity. As Michael and David learn to trust and believe in one another, they find themselves facing a spiritual battle more fierce than they could have ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626758322

Book preview

GOD

SPHERE ONE – SERAPHIM

YUKON

DAVID’S PERSPECTIVE

I am – via my heritage on my father’s side – a direct descendant of King David: One Thousand B.C.E. (Before the Common Era), who himself was a descendant of Abraham.

In Israel’s religious tradition, the royal line – or the House of David – became a symbol of the bond between God and the Nation. The king was the mediator between the deity and his people. And, as in many ancient traditions, the king was thought of as both divine and human. Hameshiaeh (The anointed one) was the title given to the kings of the line of David. This is where the word, Messiah, comes from.

After King David, came King Solomon, who was King of Judah. A red, twenty-carat marquis diamond ring – brought to him by the Archangel Michael – symbolized this anointment. The ring became known as the Seal of Solomon, and one of the most fascinating abilities of King Solomon was his magical power: a divine force over all creatures, natural or supernatural.

MICHAEL’S PERSPECTIVE:

I was born and raised on a wheat farm in Yukon, Oklahoma, far, far away from anything remotely resembling civilization. I don’t know which is harder to believe; that I was literally born on the farm without a doctor’s supervision, that my birth took place in Oklahoma, or that Yukon itself was located far from civilization. Life was different back then, for me, for my parents, and for my two sisters. I can still see it through my inner child’s eyes... As far as I could see, from wherever I stood – whether it was on top of the highest hill, the large red barn, or the rusty old windmill that put me up three stories high – there was nothing but miles and miles of flat, open farmland. Man had made with the Earth what looked like a natural patchwork, a quilt of soil and seeds.

As a child raised on a farm, the natural world was all I had for entertainment; most of it derived from working as diligently as I could to get through the day. I remember an array of colorful horses and plump cattle grazing the rich, succulent green and brown fields, culling sustenance from what man had left behind after the harvest. Blue Jays, hawks and red robins soared through immense blue sky, singing everywhere around me in the trees, and searching the fields for fat mice or fat juicy June Bugs. The wind could blow gently and softly, but more often gusted harshly through the multifaceted patterns of wheat, corn and cotton; speaking a language only nature and I could understand. The smell of Sun-warmed sugar from the corn could be so strong; I yearned to take a bite out of the cob. The locust hum sounded like a lullaby, but sometimes I wished their violent clatter away so badly I thought I was going insane.

The drastic changes in the seasons only made the struggle to survive more desperate. Summer temperatures soared into the hundreds, the soup-like humidity the Sun’s equal in heat, and all of us losing skin to hot metals. I would get so hot and sweaty; I didn’t have the energy to do what needed to be done. The salt from perspiration stung my eyes and filled my mouth with the taste of rusted iron. Simply walking ten steps exhausted me. I couldn’t breathe because the air was so thick with red dirt; so intense, sometimes my mouth and teeth would be coated red with dust.

In this state of physical duress, I made palatable prey for the barking howl of coyotes, the screams from bobcats, and the screeches of the hawks and vultures falling from above onto pungent, stagnant, moss-filled ponds. It was the same way at night, the only difference being the nature of the sky predators – now I was easy quarry for the terrifying screeches of bats and owls.

Everything was easy prey in the summer and winter, but not so much in the crashing coldness of the fall; a seasonal shift changing what was once green to brown and golden, filling the autumn trees with brilliant reds and yellows. After fall’s visit, winter’s bitter cold came quickly; killing everything it could, or sending it south or beneath the ground for hibernation. All that remained was a blanket first with layers of metallic ice, then blinding white snow – deep in some places, as I was tall. The wind would blow, and blow and blow; howling in the night at sixty miles per hour, sending the wind-chill factor to sixty below zero, and freezing the fluid in my eyes. And once again I was vulnerable to lost skin – only this time it was frozen to icy metals.

And with the winter snows, a landscape of endless acres of white became quiet and still. I could hear the Earth spinning on its axis. This was the time I loved to sit and look out at the landscape. Winter, with its thousands of acres of brilliant white snow – as flat as the day is long – a soft pastel blue sky above with clouds as pure and white as the snow below; totally undisturbed by man or beast, nothing but white and blue, peace and quiet. You didn’t dare disturb it with your hands or feet, this world of total nothingness with its smell of burning firewood and the baby-like screams of deer as they raced away from coyotes and wildcats.

I’d wait as long as I could, but at some point, the intense desire to fill my mouth with snow and just go mess up that perfection would overcome me, and the biggest desire of my little heart would be to build snowmen or make snow angels. I yearned to throw snowballs at the cows or make my own artistic designs by stomping through all that white. I’d mix my tracks with those from deer, cows, and horses to create snow alien designs. I’d march out in the snow with a giant icicle in hand; throwing it like a spear made me feel like Thor.

After winter’s quiet came the hellish sounds of spring; frightening slashes of lightening, followed by crashing thunder. Tornadoes ripped trees from the ground by their roots, picking up cars and tractors and moving them to a farm three miles away. Clouds would come in so close you could reach out and touch them. And sometimes they would morph into evil entities of their own; their puffy gray, black and green formations arriving just before the rains came down to flood the fields and make rivers of red clay. The day could go from hot to cold in less than a minute, and the wind could change its direction just as fast. Instead of rain, the clouds would sometimes send down hail the size of golf balls – or worse, baseballs – shattering and exploding everything in their path; busting windows and denting the hoods of cars, even killing creatures that couldn’t run for cover. I’ve had my share of lumps on my head from hail.

But spring also brought one overwhelming aroma after another; an infinite assortment of prairie weeds, blue sage flowers and red buds, freshly tilled dirt for harvest (mixed with manure and fertilizer), barbecued beef, baked apple pie, and carbon monoxide from the tractors; and also the smell of my dad, who had the worst body odor imaginable. I loved dropping honeysuckle on my tongue; sometimes I’d rub it all over my body to keep from stinking like my dad. All the while, freshly cut hayfields and lawns would make me sneeze like a madman.

Will I live here forever? was my inner most thought. I had no idea anything else existed. The cuts I received from rusty old metal have certainly stayed forever, keeping their orange tinge, including the one under my right arm I got while carrying a piece of metal from the barn to the henhouse.

It would sometimes be a lonely month or two – sometimes even three or four – before I’d have the opportunity to see another person outside my own family. It was a rare treat indeed to get to go to town to buy something we couldn’t make or grow ourselves. But my chores would have to be entirely done before I was allowed to go to town. Often I was grateful when it came time to catch the large yellow bus for school, if for no other reason than it was somewhere else to go and be with people other than my own family. I don’t think they ever washed the red clay and dust off that bus; it was so thick, you could write your name on it (and I often did). It would always – and I do mean always – backfire in third gear and the exhaust would fill the cabin. The odor of lunchboxes could be disgusting most of the time, but every now and then I would crave someone’s freshly baked oatmeal cookies.

I was the best student there was in school, partly because I was so happy to be there. I was so appreciative of people who talked because no one in my family ever did. My dad yelled a lot, and my sisters cried a lot, but conversation simply did not exist. I loved to sit in the classroom and listen to the teachers tell their stories and give their lessons on life while eating apples. Mrs. Townley always wore perfume that smelled like a rose. She was so beautiful, with short blonde hair, and lime green eyes. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure Mr. Crow bathed in Brut. He was my fifth grade teacher, and he was always – and I do mean always – eating spicy beef jerky.

In the end, it didn’t matter how hot or cold those musty old, dark and dingy, body-odor-filled, turn of the twentieth century rooms were: I loved being there.

I would eavesdrop on my classmates’ conversations; standing in the loud and narrow hallways, crowded with overly enameled blue lockers, or in the schoolyard filled with pipe and iron swing sets, and squeaky merry-go-rounds. I was mostly curious about how much they had to say about their lives, to fantasize about how differently they lived. Most options sounded better than mine, naturally, but plenty sounded just about the same.

We had quite the variety of people in our school. They were the children and teachers living on farms, dressed like me in old dirty overalls and torn, and second-hand shirts. Most had the odor of hard morning labor, those necessary chores before school. We carried our basic lunches in brown paper bags, peanut butter, or bologna and cheese, one piece of fruit. If I accidentally bumped into them in the halls, they didn’t much seem to mind, and most did not seem very smart. No matter how hard the teachers tried to help them to formulate their words correctly, it always came out backwards.

Not me, of course.

Then there were the town-folk; the children and teachers who lived in the actual town of Yukon; children whose parents owned stores, or other businesses, anything besides farming. They dressed in polyester pants and starched white shirts. The smell of starch and baking soda circled in the air around them. Their lunches were always in tin lunch boxes, with thermoses full of something hot, like soup or hot chocolate. I was jealous. I always had to drink water. I’d had a thermos for milk, but I lost it and never got another one. Bumping into one of them brought a little more aggression, but if I apologized, they would pass me by. They were more adept at speaking in correct sentences.

Then there were the city-folk; children who lived in Oklahoma City, whose clothing always seemed new and brightly colored, and made of soft cottons and flannels. They also donned a variety of colognes and perfumes; flowers and woodsy – sometimes delightfully refreshing, but occasionally the scents were so thick they made me sneeze. They never carried lunchboxes or bags because they ate through the cafeteria line; something we could not afford. I was envious of their lunch options because the cafeteria had pretty decent food – pizza and hamburgers, fried chicken, and sausages. Now, if I accidentally brushed up against one of the city-folk, it most likely would turn into a brawl. I think the girls were worse than the boys: They couldn’t stand it that a low-life farm-boy accidentally touched them. Believe me, I tried not to make contact, but it could get extremely crowded in those halls.

The town-folk and city-folk, so remarkably different from us, would laugh at the way we dressed and talked, making us feel like we were dumber and poorer than them. And because my dad was an immigrant from Hungary and my mom was a Cherokee Indian from the reservation, I was often their favorite target.

"Hey, half breed! Are ya’ Hungary!" they’d call out.

Perhaps they were better than us, these city-folk. They had an easier life, or so it seemed, since they always had time to play things like football, baseball and wrestling, or going to dances. They celebrated the changes of the seasons like Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter: All that I was denied.

No fun and games for me, just work, work, and more work. However, riding the Jersey milk-cows, workhorses and pigs did make me pretty happy. I even rode our Heifer bull a few times; he didn’t like it much, and always pitched me off. Chasing piglets in the sloppy mud was also fun; though I’d usually end up smelling like them too. Talk about stank’n! Whoa! You don’t even want to know what’s thrown into a pigpen, and some of those suckers could bite, hard.

Halloween scared me. I was convinced I could become easily possessed by demons roaming freely on this one day. But every year, I still looked forward to the one piece of candy we would get from our teacher. Candy-corn was my favorite, but the one year I got a pair of waxed-lips I thought I had gone to Heaven. It spurred some ‘pussy lips’ comments for sure, but I didn’t care: they were tasty, with a flavor a bit like honey.

Overall, our family celebrations were low-key. Thanksgiving was just another dinner, and Christmas came and went with a small and simple prayer. If I had aunts and uncles, cousins – or some other form of family – I most certainly did not know them. No one came to visit us, and we never went on an outing to see relatives. No grandparents. No friends. No presents. No Christmas tree. Just a straightforward thanks to Jesus for being born and saving us from our sins.

My mom was short and dumpy; a squaw with long, straggly black hair that was premature gray, skin wrinkled from hours of hard labor while baking under the hot Sun, and a personal perfume of pungent fried egg. My dad’s appearance mimicked hers; tattered and worn, blue eyes instead of brown, and blond hair receding drastically from the front and balding in the back. He smelled like chicken piss most of the time, and his hands – like my moms – felt like sandpaper. When I was a child he seemed so vast and strong, towering over me with hellish eyes and commanding me to work, and work, and work until I’d feel like I just couldn’t do any more.

I was different. I always bathed. I never wanted to smell like them. Even if I had to dunk myself, clothes and all, into the Heifer’s watering trough, I made sure that I was clean.

I didn’t particularly care to go to church, but as Southern-Baptists, – the strictest of all religions – there wasn’t much choice. The preacher screamed from his warped veneered podium, yelling about God’s anger at our sinful ways. My parents continued the lecture all the way home, just to make sure I towed the line and did my chores. We went twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday, every week of the year, every year of my childhood. The only pleasant part was the deep-fried chicken and potato salad we’d always eat afterwards.

Church scared me, probably because of the harsh and violent tone of the preacher. He made everyone feel terrible about themselves, calling out sinners and such. Even more frightening were the crows that’d congregate in a towering oak tree outside the church. They’d sit – filling up the branches one by one – and by the time we got home, our own tree would be filled with them as well.

They move with determination and focus, and can teach us how to do the same, my mom used to say.

Mrs. Townley believed the crows were the ‘keepers of sacred law’. She told me the birds teach us that there are not one, two, or three worlds, but many.

Everyone seemed to talk just like the Preacher, picking up his words and cadence. In the parlor, my parents would mimic his speech; Get thee back into the bedroom, son! Until the Lord hath straightened out your evil ways! For years I thought this was the way people spoke, until I went to school and found out differently. Well, some were no different there; full of guilt, full of shame, spreading it around to make sure everyone had enough.

From the time I could walk, it seemed I was always doing chores. Every year, I’d grow older, bigger, and stronger, giving my dad permission to dump more duties off on me that he didn’t want to do himself; like cleaning the shit out of the henhouse, mucking out the barn, or digging the trenches in the impossible red clay of the field that he couldn’t get to with the tractor. It was me who had to break the thick ice in the water troughs so the cows, pigs and goats could drink in the wintertime, or trudge through the two and three feet of snow in the winter or the muddy rains in the spring, to bring in the cows that couldn’t find their way home.

I still think, to this day, that they knew their way home all along but just didn’t want to come back. Like me, they were happier with the elements of nature, no matter how harsh they could be. Compared to the wrath of my dad, Mother Earth was nothing.

My dad could never get me to kill any of the animals – like a steer, so we’d have meat, or a pig, so we’d have pork, or rip the head off a chicken. However, it would fall to me to split open their sweet and sour stomachs, gut them, and peel off their skin or pluck their feathers. This was always a lot of fun when it was hotter than hell outside: the stench would get so intense, sometimes I’d puke twenty times before I was done. It justified the tears that came in having heard their cries for mercy when my dad was killing them.

Sometimes I would bust my butt and work my fingers to the bone, and it still wasn’t enough. I would not just have calluses on my hands, but open gaping sores, and they would hurt. Sometimes my whole body would hurt, and sometimes my heart would hurt because there was always something else to do. It never ended. I’d pray for some sort of reprieve, and believe me, I prayed a lot because I had to, my parents forced me. But God never listened, and neither did the Lord. I always believed the silence was because my prayers weren’t for more hard work to save my soul, but for whomever ‘He’ was to lighten the load a little bit.

God was most assuredly out to get me when I went through puberty. Getting a raging hard-on was just one more painful thing that happened to my body. I thought this thing of mine would never go soft again. I’m serious. Sometimes I’d go outside and pee straight up into the air. Touching myself made me feel better, but I always had to do it in hidden places, finding it to be a pain that brought extraordinary pleasure, if only for a few brief moments.

Afterwards, I feared God was going to strike me down, or make sure I worked even harder, punishment for watching those dogs humping in the garden or the bull fuck the cows in the pasture, or having forbidden thoughts of some pretty girl sitting next to me in school. I cried, hysterically, for having thoughts for another boy in school after I’d heard him doing what I’d been doing alone, in the bathroom stall next to me. I didn’t dare make his same hot and heavy sounds. We both experienced the same erotic release, neither ever having known of the other’s existence.

As a child, you have no idea why you think the way you do. You just do. I wasn’t really hard all the time, but it sure felt that way, and it didn’t take much to make it happen. The right drafts of a horse’s scent, the cool breeze through my overalls, Mrs. Townley’s lime green eyes or Mr. Crow’s Brut. It didn’t matter. It didn’t have anything to do with them, especially Mr. Crow. He was at least a hundred years old. Mostly, I hated it, and it would be extremely uncomfortable while it was happening. But sometimes, I would stand right where people could brush up against me in the hall, just so I could feel someone else’s skin touch mine.

As I became a teenager, I realized the lives of other people in the town, including the children at the school, were not as unkind and unloving as mine. I knew other boys and girls had these forbidden thoughts as well, but they didn’t seem to be quite so fearful of them. I’d hate it, desperately, when someone tried to flirt with me, and it seemed as if almost everyone did, boys and girls. Even teachers, old ladies at the church and old geezers in the town would try. I would fight so hard inside myself to not respond, to not look at them, so much so, that I never talked to anyone. Sex scared me because, for me, it was something evil... or so my parents said.

As I grew older and became more aware of myself, I began to understand the reasons why people always directed sexual advances at me. Comparatively speaking, I fit the stereotype of what people liked to look at and lust over. I tried to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t true; mostly it scared me. I was somehow blessed with this thing called physical beauty. Personally, I think it was a curse.

I wasn’t just handsome, or good-looking, my appearance was striking and unique. My dad was a Gypsy and my mom a Cherokee, so I’m dark and look mostly Indian. I labored, physically, so I was naturally muscular and strong. Even as a little boy, I was nicely shaped and toned, with a well-defined chest, broad bricklike shoulders, and a stomach rippling to my groin. My buttocks, thighs, and calves curved perfectly as if drawn. I had big, dark brown eyes like a deer, and dark golden brown skin. My jawbone and cheekbones were chiseled faultlessly to match my nose. Thick, sandy blonde hair on my head, and just enough soft blonde hair on my legs and arms to make me look like a sugar cookie. I’m pretty sure I always smelled like honeysuckle, perhaps sometimes with a natural boyish musk.

My voice changed early, and quickly, so I spoke like a man, even though I was a little boy inside. This is what seemed to turn people on the most, the tone of my voice. It must have had the perfect pitch to make someone’s libido go nuts. Sometimes even my own.

It was all natural, and most certainly a gift from the heavens that brought me many lessons.

But most of all it was a curse.

You try going through your life with people staring at you and drooling, smirking, and fondling themselves in front of you. Always wanting to fuck you. Lust can be dark and seedy. It’s not pretty most of the time. I wish I could have held up a mirror a few times so people could see what they looked like when they stared at me. The sensuous noises that came out of them freaked me out altogether, sometimes making me dry-heave.

I’m grateful for my looks now, but I wasn’t then.

People generally liked me, I think. Those I’d come to know at church or in the town, the other children in the school. Old ladies and little girls would say I looked like a cherub. To me, a cherub was an angel, so being described like that never made much sense because I was convinced I had the devil inside me as my dad always said. My dark brown eyes could be sinister sometimes. They had a tendency to go coal black, which could scare people, and I’m sure that’s why my parents would say, You have the devil inside of you, boy!

They would go black because there was simply no light to give them color.

Some kids at school used to called me their protector, which I kind of got off on. It was my chance to put the devil inside me into action. I actually transformed into an angel in those moments – a sort of guardian angel. I’d heard everyone had one, except no one had ever told me that I did. I was never one to talk or play with the other kids, but I seemed, always, to show up when someone was being picked on or abused by the bullies in the schoolyard. I would always stop the abuser.

I don’t know why the bullies were so afraid of me because we never fought, physically. I would just show up, and they would stop. Oh, they would have their say as they were running away from me. Stuff like, Hey, faggot! Why don’t you meet us after school so we can beat you up? You’re so pretty you look like a girl! I bet you fight like a girl, too!

It didn’t bother me, the stuff they’d say. I’d become an angel in that moment, my eyes turning black, staring at them with evil. When I was alone, I would have fearful thoughts of being an evil angel, undoubtedly making God mad at me.

One time, I saw these two boys whirling this merry-go-round so fast the two girls on board were ready to puke. It was a cold, gray day, the air filled with the scent of burning timber, and the girls were screaming, Stop! Stop! They were hanging onto the railing for dear life, but the boys wouldn’t stop. I can still hear the metal grinding, as if it was ready to spin off its axis. My stomach rolled watching them. I stood up, walked over, and stopped the merry-go-round, quite abruptly. I was a hero as far as the girls were concerned, but the two boys vowed to make my life miserable at school. And they did, too, for several days.

Once, when I was walking in front of the school, the two boys snuck up behind me and knocked my books and lunch bag to the ground. The day was bitterly cold, with the wind blowing so strong it made me shiver, but I gave them one of my steady, evil stares. I reached down to pick up my stuff and saw that my peanut butter and jelly sandwich was ruined and my orange rolling off into the parking lot under a car. I knew I’d have to go hungry, and that this was God’s punishment for thinking I was an angel when I had evil in my heart. The wind was blowing pure shit from the stockyards; so pervasive it stayed in my mouth and nose.

I was trying to ignore the boys, who were calling me names like, Faggot! and Pussy Lips! and taunting, Now you will be ‘Hungary.’ But then one of them knocked my books out of my arms again and stood on them so I couldn’t pick them up, and I could not ignore them any longer. I stared at him right in the eyes before reeling back to slug him in the nose, hard and fast. He immediately started bleeding and crying. I just picked up my stuff and continued on my way to the classroom. One of the books due at the library, Thunderhead, now had a sizeable muddy red footprint on it.

I cut my right index finger on his tooth. I still have the scar.

In that moment, I felt empowered by something I didn’t know I had, and I liked the way it made me feel. I stood up for myself for the very first time, as opposed to standing up for someone else. It was also my first experience in expressing my anger, realizing, as a little boy, I had a lot of anger inside of me, and a lot of hatred. I hated them for teasing me, and I hated them for being able to play. I hated them for being better and richer than me. I hated not getting the love I needed from my parents.

It turned out I’d broken the little boy’s nose, and my parents were called to the school before lunchtime. The principle had already spanked me with the gigantic fat paddle with holes in it, and the second I saw my dad’s cold blue eyes I knew I was in for a strip’n and the belt. He did not say a word the whole way home, and neither did my mom. The car stopped at two stop signs, and I fought the urge to jump out of the car and run, but I didn’t dare move or disturb the pea-green vinyl bench seat. Their silence was haunting, and the growling from my hungry stomach scared me, making me fear the noise would just upset them further. A cold winter wind blew through a slightly cracked window, making the car so cold inside my teeth chattered.

My dad took me to the barn straight away, holding me by the back of the elbow, in that part that paralyzes you. I can’t believe God would give me such an evil child to raise, he said to me, slowly unbuckling his belt. I could hear it slip through the loopholes of his jeans. He kicked open the wooden barn doors, and threw me inside so hard I fell to the ground. Quickly I turned to watch him bolt the doors together, hearing them snap loudly into place. I felt nothing, but the damp and cold ground beneath me. The wind was howling through every crevice of the barn. Cat piss filled the air, like one of the tomcats had just marked the place as his. I knew the smell was going to make my dad even angrier. He hated cats with a passion.

I started crawling backwards as he slowly advanced toward me, methodically wrapping one end of the belt around his fist.

Take off your clothes! You child of Satan! The Lord has given me permission to punish thee! He became the devil in that moment; breathing loudly like a dragon, the hot air from his lungs smoking in the cold air. His lifeless, blue eyes pierced me, daring the evil inside of me to come out and confront him.

I stood, removing one piece of clothing at a time, first my shoes, then my jeans, turning my back to him. Turn around and look at me! he demanded, so I did. His eyes penetrated my soul, making every bone inside me shiver. I removed my shirt to reveal my bare chest, then my underwear to reveal my bare groin, and I watched his eyes shift downward to look at me there. I had the biggest hard-on for some reason, and it scared the shit out of me. I had no idea it was there until I looked at it. Our eyes came back together, instantly. My dad was horrified.

What is that! he bellowed, sounding like a demon in his tone.

I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. It just happens sometimes!

You Heathen! Slap.

You, Abomination! Slap.

He swung his belt, sharply, hitting both my dick and my balls so hard I almost passed out.

I screamed as if I was being murdered. And I was. My soul was.

He continued, violently hitting me across the waist with the leather strap, then my buttocks as I turned, my chest, my back, and my legs. I kept turning, not knowing what else to do. I couldn’t run, even though I wanted to. I just turned like a pig on a rotisserie for him to strike at me. Each time he swung he growled like a dog gone mad. And I screamed like a child with no mercy. I’d bitten my lip and tongue at one point, and the blood filled my nose and mouth with a hideous taste of iron and copper. The leather strap ripped and welted my flesh. It felt as if I was being slashed with a knife. The more I screamed, the more he hit me. The more I cried, the more he hit me. Not until I’d gone numb, and void of feeling, did I realize not doing these things would make him stop.

Finally, he did stop, leaving me naked in the frightening cold barn, all alone. I fell to my knees and rolled down to my side, crying like I had never cried before in my entire life. At one point I didn’t think I was going to be able to take a breath. I was sobbing so hard, I was gasping for air.

It wasn’t until one of the yellow tabby barn cats, whom I’d named Leo, came over to me and started rubbing on me and purring that I was able to lift myself up and start putting my clothes back on. It was indeed cold, but I felt nothing. As I put on my clothes, my gaze fell on the enormous brown eyes of our Buckskin colored workhorse, Sandy. She was staring back at me endlessly; wanting desperately to ask if I was okay. After putting my clothes on, I picked up Leo, holding his warm body close to my face, trying not to cry again. Leo’s claws were kneading into my skin, asking for more love and affection. I gave Sandy a small can of oats and dried corn, putting a handful of oats inside my mouth too, to suck on and soak up the blood before I spit it out.

I stood there for the longest time, watching Sandy savor every piece I had given her. I’d deliberately given her more food than her usual. It was the first thing I could think of to spite him, my dad, giving one of the animals more than their share.

I saw a picture of the ocean in the store the other day, I said, talking to Sandy. It’s a place called Malibu. I felt myself begin to cry again, uncontrollably. I want to run away there. I want to leave this place and go to the ocean, so I can swim in it. Slowly, I felt my anger and hatred subside, not in a calming way, just a suppression of my emotion.

It’s surprising how an animal the size of a horse, can find one tiny piece of grain, the size of a thumbnail in an empty bin.

After that, I let people walk all over me, no matter what they did to me. I never stopped defending other people though; no one seemed to punish me for that. I didn’t care. At least I was hitting somebody.

DAVID’S PERSPECTIVE

After King Solomon, only the Archangel Raphael can remove the Ring of Solomon, and place it on another chosen king’s hand. Any other entity, human or not, would be burned to a crisp in an attempt to remove it, including the king wearing it. The ring does not do anything miraculous in and of itself. Therefore, it does not make the king sacred, or keep him out of harm’s way. It does not give him any particular power, or powers, nor does it make him good or bad. Those abilities, and choices, are up to the king himself, in what he knows, who he is, and what gifts or talents he may have been blessed with. The ring merely increases any innate in power and ability.

These kings do have a choice whether or not to have the ring placed on their finger, but once it is on, it cannot be removed, except by the Archangel Raphael.

SPHERE ONE – SERAPHIM

MRS. WAGNER

DAVID’S PERSPECTIVE

Christ (Jesus) was also known as Immanuel (God is with us), and was a descendant of King Solomon. When Jesus left Jerusalem (after healing himself from the crucifixion), he moved to Tibet, where he continued to teach his knowledge of God, as well as the universal aspects of ‘Man’ (male and female) and spirituality. There, he was given the Seal of Solomon by the Archangel Raphael, symbolizing his status as God’s chosen king.

The ring was not given to him prior to the crucifixion because the lesson for Mankind – as well as He – required him to be as human as possible, a continuous lesson for Mankind. Although we are spiritual beings having a human experience, it is our human experiences that spark the yearning for us to know God.

MICHAEL’S PERSPECTIVE

There was this enormous pond in the far corner of our farm that took up about an acre. It wasn’t our pond, it belonged to the farm next to ours, but it sat on the border between our land and theirs. In the warmer seasons – especially the hot, wicked summer – whenever my parents were either asleep, or gone, or not watching me like a hawk to make sure I was working, I would run like crazy to the pond and go swimming. Not to play, but to cool off.

I have always loved to swim.

The water in the pond was never, ever clear. It was always the same color as the red clay you had to slide through to get to it. That’s all Oklahoma was, just one gigantic slab of red clay. Some areas were quite mossy and stagnate and smelled more like duck poop than anything else. It tasted like that too – duck poop and catfish. Sliding into the pond through the slick muddy clay was always a lot of fun, but trying to get back out again was a pain in the ass. I used to get the biggest kick out of watching the cows slide in for a drink of water. Some had it down to a science, but others would just say, Fuck it! like I did, and slide all the way into the red Kool-Aid. I would feel just as sorry for them as I did myself when they’d try and get back out.

I used to love sitting there and listening to the bullfrogs. Capturing tadpoles was my favorite thing to do; but never the bullfrogs, because they would always pee on me. Chasing my sisters with a toad was fun (though maybe not for them), except doing so usually resulted in a beating.

There was a part of the pond that wrapped around behind some giant oak trees, but I didn’t dare swim that way because hidden in the cottonweeds were cottonmouth moccasins, better known as water moccasins; poisonous black snakes that would chase your butt clear across the pond. You had to be real careful with these snakes, they were mean, and they owned the pond.

One time, this truly enormous one chased me – it had to be at least ten feet long – and I wasn’t even anywhere near the cottonweeds. I was kicking back, floating like a log, letting the cold water gently slap my face, when there was a flop like a jumping fish in the water next to me. I saw this ripple in the water, and when I looked, I saw a black and shiny water moccasin drifting beside me, returning my stare. I stayed utterly still, barely breathing, knowing that generally they’d leave you alone if they didn’t think you were a threat. But for no apparent reason this one was primed and ready to come after me.

I’m telling you, these snakes are extremely aggressive and territorial. I swam hard, knowing I’d better not stop until I hit land, kicking frantically, splashing and sucking in the air and mossy water until I got to the slick, muddy embankment of red clay. But I couldn’t get my footing, and when I turned around to see if it was still chasing me I saw it sliding back into the water just as it hit the embankment. God, I can still feel the fat slimy snakeskin against my flesh, my legs kicking at it as it tried to bite me. I think it wanted to eat me. I know I was screaming like a little girl.

I finally made it out of the mud, but that damn thing chased me all the way back to the barn. I swear. I was naked as a Jaybird; running through thick fields of wheat and into the pasture, cow shit squishing between my toes. I was sure as shit that thing was waiting for me when I snuck back to the pond later to get my clothes, jumping right out of my skin every time the wind blew or a bullfrog croaked.

About three days later, I dared myself to go swimming in the pond again. I was not about to let snakes keep me from the only acceptable getaway spot on the farm. It was extraordinarily hot and humid that day. The locusts were just screaming at me. I took off my clothes and slid through the slick red clay into the cool, muddy water. I kept my eyes open and swam like I owned that pond. I double-dared myself to swim to the back past the cottonweeds to the tall oak trees.

I swam so quietly past the cottonweeds, I couldn’t even hear myself in the water. I held my breath and swam as far as I could underneath the water, coming up silently for air. There were no snakes in the pond that day, only a couple turtles popping their heads up to have a look. At first they’d scared the shit out of me because I’d think they were a snakes, but the turtles just stared back, quiet and harmless. Meanwhile, the ducks – there were dozens of mallards on the pond that day and my dad had already shot two for supper – quacked at me as if to say, You stupid fuck. Get out of here!

I made it all the way back to the trees, and even got out to play on some big rocks up by the stream that fed the pond. Then came the question, do I walk all the way back around the pond to get my clothes? Or do I dare swim back by through the cottonweeds? In reality, I only had one choice. The cottonweeds stretched out beyond an acre and unmistakably abutted someone else’s land, and I’d been thoroughly forbidden to go near that grove (and I suspected I’d get shot by the old lady who owned the property if she saw me), and it was too far to go back the other way. So I decided to swim. It was still super hot and humid, and I’d already started to sweat again.

I think I was twice as quiet the second time around; knowing those snakes were watching me swim past the first time, probably hiding in the cottonweeds and laughing, We’ll get him when he comes back by. Three turkey vultures circled above, just waiting for the attack.

The water felt so good and cold that day.

As soon as I made it past the cottonweeds, and had a clear shot to the place where I’d left my clothes, I looked up and came face-to-face with one of the water moccasins. I am not kidding when I say that the snake was only a foot away, staring at me with the biggest lime green eyes I had ever seen. It was so immense; it looked like a giant black cat. I don’t remember how old I was, but I was old enough to know I was fucked. The ducks were quacking the same thought.

Suddenly, I heard a loud gunshot, and I jumped clear from my position in the pond, straight up out of the water, to stand stark naked on the embankment. I’m not kidding; I walked on water. More like ran. I looked back out into the water and sure enough, there was that big old snake, floating dead as it could be about the size of a pine log. The turkey vultures all screeched at the same time.

I turned toward the cottonweeds, and saw this little old woman walking towards me, carrying a rifle as long as she was tall. I hurriedly started putting my clothes on; planning a mad dash for the barn because I knew I was going to get into trouble for swimming in Mrs. Wagner’s pond. Although I had never met her before, I knew it was her: Older than Methuselah and – just like my dad had predicted – carrying a gun, ready to shoot anyone who trespassed on her land.

Hold on! Hold on! she hollered, walking up as I was grabbing for my shoes.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I yelled back, red catfish mud spitting out of my mouth. I thought she was going to shoot me next.

It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, she said reassuringly as she stood above me while I sat on the ground putting on my shoes. She smiled largely, her bright blue eyes kind and gentle. That damn snake was gonna get you! She laughed, and when she did, I knew there was nothing in the world to be afraid of.

I didn’t think it was funny, but I sighed in relief as she sat next to me. She had saved my life.

What’s your name? she asked as she watched three cows amble over to the pond for water.

Skip, I said, the wonderful nickname my parents had given me.

Well, Skip, I’m Mada Wagner. It’s a good thing I was out hunt’n rabbits, huh?

Yes Ma’am, it is.

She laughed again, so I did, too. It was incredibly strange to see a woman as old as she was – in her eighties, perhaps older – wearing blue jeans, with a hulking black western belt and silver belt buckle, black cowboy boots, and a blue-checkered cowboy shirt that looked more like something a man would wear. She was so old, her skin hung off her bones like linen hung out to dry on a forgotten clothesline.

She reached into the black leather bag she had strapped around her shoulder, and pulled out a silver flask. What my dad had said about her was true; she drank a lot. Later I learned to expect the scent of scotch, although, I swear sometimes she would soak in lavender. Other times, it seemed as if she’d bathed in rubbing alcohol.

I should swim out there and fetch that thing, she said. They’re good for eat’n.

Gross! You’d eat that thing?

Sure! They taste like rabbit. Ever eaten a rabbit?

Yeah. They taste like chicken.

Well, that’s what a snake tastes like. Chicken. You want some of this? she asked, holding out her flask. You still look white as a sheet.

I thought about taking it, but it smelled like ripe gasoline. No thanks. What is it?

Scotch. It’ll cure everything that ails you.

No. I’d get beat for sure if I drank that.

I won’t tell nobody.

You won’t have to. You can smell it a mile away.

You can? She smelled the top, and then took a large sip. I guess I’m too old to smell it.

Right then, a hawk beat the vultures to the floating dead snake, scooping it up off the pond like a brilliant butterfly.

Oops! Too late! she said, making us both laugh.

I just sat there and stared at her as if she was the most fascinating thing in the world. Hidden beneath her wrinkled up skin, you could still see a youthful maiden. Her gray hair braided behind the back of her head was as long as our horse Sandy’s tail, but thick, bold, and beautiful.

How about some cookies and milk?

I really need to get going. My dad’s probably looking for me by now.

You won’t get beat if you eat cookies, will you?

Probably.

Will you get beat if you drink milk?

No!

Then come on. I haven’t had anybody to talk to for a month of Sunday’s. We’ll have some milk and graham crackers. I won’t tell if you won’t.

What’s a graham cracker?

Oh my goodness! You’re going to love them!

This little old woman became the best friend I ever had. Now, instead of sneaking away to go swimming in the pond, I would sneak away to go visit Mrs. Wagner. Well, I’d usually take a dip in the pond first, and then go see her. She’d always be so excited when I’d show up at her door, or while she was working in her garden, hugging and kissing me like I was her own, except she didn’t have any children of her own.

This was truly the first time I had ever been hugged and kissed. I couldn’t begin to tell you how that made me feel, in my heart and in my soul. Perhaps being touched by an angel comes close.

Mrs. Wagner had this enormous garden; with just about everything you could imagine growing in it. I think it could actually have been the Garden of Eden. There were typical farm-garden variety of things you could eat, like lettuce, tomatoes, onions and squash. And there was also every kind of fruit tree imaginable; big luscious red and tart green apples, oranges, sweet tangerines, sour grapefruits, even an avocado tree. I had never had an avocado, and with her special seasoning salt, it was awesome. She even made a guacamole dip for me one day, which we ate it with some chips and salsa.

Her garden also had all of these exotic flowers and plants from all over the world. She had white orchids from China, and red poppies from Poland, even an African violet – all with an array of scents. She immediately started showing me how to take care of it all. I could listen to her for hours, but I couldn’t stay too long. I had to make sure my dad thought I was working somewhere.

Hey, dad! I’m going to look for cows! I’d say, before heading off to Mrs. Wagner’s. I swear, I even convinced those cows to stay hidden while I was gone.

She had all of these stories about where she’d been around the world: she told me about her life as a singer and a musician and going to school at Juilliard. She told me about falling in love with a General during the World War and marrying him, and how she’d gotten the news he’d been killed in action before they had the chance to have children. She said she loved him so much; she never once looked at another man. I found that so admirable as a child, and I knew I wanted to be like that – to find someone I could love so deeply, I’d never want anyone else.

Now and then she would talk to him like he was still there, and when she did I’d actually feel him in the room, and I’d catch myself looking for him. I didn’t feel sorry for her, she was so happy all the time, and nothing seemed to bother her. She never shooed a pesky fly or buzzing bee.

I got my fill of cookies and milk.

Her white wooden farmhouse was three times bigger than ours, but it was just about as old, worn down and tattered. But it was always clean, and filled with all the objects she’d gotten from around the world. Every piece of furniture or artifact had a story to it. Her entire bedroom set had come from the Captain’s quarters of a Sixteenth Century sailing ship, from the time she lived in Spain. It was made of thick rustic wood, with a mattress that was two feet tall. I didn’t know how she even got up into it. Her piano – all white and smooth and shiny – had been handmade for her in Australia when she lived there. Her dishes were also handmade in China, (but not specifically for her) and her silver was from Germany. Her stories went on and on, and everything she had felt so rich and heavy in my hands.

Listening to her was like listening to a song.

I loved hearing her tales of travel and adventure. She told them in a way that made me feel like I was right there with her. She was quite the storyteller, like a poet, or an actor. As she spoke, I could see it all happening in her eyes. I was particularly fascinated by her honeymoon in Africa, looking at the pictures and postcards, wanting desperately to have seen enormous elephants or lions and leopards, monkeys and giraffes. She had stunning hand carved woods and ivory. She allowed me to explore all of her jewelry and clothing, slipping the rings on my fingers and letting the clothing slide across my skin. She even allowed me to try on some of her husband’s uniforms. That was a lot of fun. I felt distinguished, like him. I felt like I’d already travelled with her after seeing her photos and even a few eight-millimeter movies.

Hearing her play the piano made me come alive inside. I’d hardly ever listened to music because it was utterly forbidden by my parents. Even when we would walk through town and hear someone’s car radio, they would say, Don’t let your ears take that demonic sound inside you. I had never heard anything, but the piano being played at school, which most certainly qualified as a demonic sound.

I knew there was a God the minute I heard Mrs. Wagner play; her music came straight from Heaven. Her operatic voice seemed like an angel’s sent to Earth to sing to me, making me totally forget I was doing anything forbidden by going to visit her. Once she played, what my parents had said about music did not hold truth for me anymore. It made me see that what they had said about life did not hold truth either. Hearing Mrs. Wagner play the piano, (Beethoven and Mozart), and sing opera and show tunes, made me want to learn how to play and sing, so she taught me. When I turned fourteen, she gave me her husband’s guitar – the greatest gift in the world. No one had ever just given me anything before (and I do mean anything).

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen; made of mahogany and rosewood, so smooth it felt as if it was part of my own skin.

She taught me how to play the guitar, the piano, and to sing everything there was to sing, including opera. I especially loved the show tunes, but it was opera that gave me a sense of soulfulness. It resonated through me, making me feel so close to Heaven. Mrs. Wagner said I was a natural born singer, and she trained me up to four to six octaves, as well as bass and baritone (and while I could get quite close, I can honestly say I’m not a tenor).

A little bit of scotch did help relax my vocal cords.

Together, we became the most unusual duet. We loved each other, and we loved to sing and play. She did nothing but applaud me. According to her, I was the best music student she’d ever had. She told me my voice was a gift from Heaven. She inspired me to want to become a singer, a musician, a writer of songs, and poetry. Because of her, I wanted to go to school so I could be as smart as she was, and maybe travel to all of the exciting places around the world she’d told me about.

Her house might have been a little worn down, slightly dingy and musty at times, but her light from within brightened my every day – along with the most magnificent buttermilk cookies I’ve ever had. Her skin may have hung off her like linen, and she may have been older than I thought, but in truth she was soft as silk and more alive than anyone I had ever met. I knew she loved me, and I loved her, too.

You are such an angel, Michael, sent by God to sing to us, Mrs. Wagner would say (she never called me Skip, once she learned my real name). I think this is what you should do for a living. Have you ever thought about it?

Yeah, but my parents would never let me.

Is it written on stone tablets somewhere that you have to stay with them forever?

No. I don’t think so.

Well then, one day you’ll have a life of your own, and you’ll leave that place, becoming a singer probably. I hope I’m alive when that happens.

You’re alive now, aren’t you?

Let me check. She pinched herself to make sure. Yep. I sure am. That hurt.

I would laugh at her so hard sometimes, I’d get cramps. No one had ever made me laugh before, ever. Animals would make me laugh, but not people. I was always too afraid to laugh when someone tried to make me, because whenever I smiled or expressed amusement, it opened the door to sexual advances. But Mrs. Wagner never did that to me, which is why I felt so comfortable with her.

You are so beautiful when you smile and laugh. Cherry cheeks, big white teeth. And your eyes look like giant golden saucers.

She truly made me feel like the only star in the universe.

Have you ever been to a place called Malibu? I asked.

Of course! I have a nephew that lives there.

I’d like to go there one day.

Oh, wait a minute. She walked into another room for a couple minutes, having something in her hand when she came back. Close your eyes. So I did. Open your hand. So I did, feeling her placing something like a rock in it and caught a whiff of alcohol. Sometimes she honestly did use too much.

Okay, open them.

I had never seen a seashell before, and I gasped loudly when I saw it. It wasn’t all that bulky, just large enough to fit in the palm of my hand like a one-dollar coin. It was soft pastel