A Special Guest
Note: this story appears by special permission
from the Editor-in-Chief of
Something Good To Read.
Note: this story appears by special permission
from the Editor-in-Chief of
Something Good To Read.
It was a Thursday afternoon in June, and in the one of the studios of Channel Nine, they had concluded the taping of yet another episode of “The Livingston Report.” The major networks were still drooling with envy over the ratings being attained by this investigative-news-style show. Analysts were divided on the issue of whether it was Mr. Barclay Livingston’s superlative abilities or his screen appeal. Women liked his handsome appearance – the rugged chin, the gleaming gray eyes and hair just slightly awry – and his rich unaffected speaking voice. Men admired his feats of daring in “on-the-spot” work, and his honest and thoughtful approach to reporting. The crew had to work hard to keep up with his pace, but they, as well as the producers, found him to be absolutely devoted to them: he had twice rescued cameramen from certain death, simultaneously obtaining remarkable footage which broke all ratings when it was aired. But his wife and seven year old son wished they didn’t have to turn on the television to see him.
Barclay nodded to his director. “I’ll be in at nine to see the edited version.”
The director’s eyebrows raised. “Going to sleep in?” Barclay usually demanded that the viewing start at 7:30.
Barclay replied, “I’m going out with my wife tonight. It’s our anniversary.” Actually it was last week, but he had been out of the country.
“Well, have a good time, then.” The director watched him walk out of the studio, then made a notation on his clipboard: “BL viewing, 9 AM.”
An assistant director was at his side. “Did I hear Mr. L. say ‘nine’?”
“You did. It’s great to get a break once in a while.”
“He must have forgotten about the interview tomorrow at eight.”
“What interview?”
“Didn’t you check the schedule?”
“I’ve had my hands full with this... You mean he has something scheduled for tomorrow?”
“Yup – in Studio One, too.”
“What the...? Studio One? We’ll be up all night getting that ready. Here, let me see that schedule.”
The assistant handed him the paper. The director looked it over. He shrugged.
“Well, let’s get to work,” ordered the director. Then he looked at the schedule again. “Wait a second. This is strange. There’s no name indicated here.”
The assistant looked uncomfortable. “I know. Should I have asked?”
“No; but it’s odd. Even when he has to keep the identity secret, he puts down a pseudonym.”
The director handed the schedule back to his assistant.
“Who on earth can it be? And Studio One. Studio One, for crying out loud!” He walked out of the studio to find the set manager.
* * *
It was the most expensive restaurant in the city, on the top floor of the highest building. Candlelight allowed the maximum appreciation of the civic constellations. Wine, bread, Caesar salad, a dish of pasta, chicken breasts in a lemon-wine sauce, fruit and cheese... The dinner was fantastic. But Barclay’s wife shook her head for the dozenth time.
“Dear, I can’t believe you can’t take a day off once in a while.”
“You were going to take him yourself, can’t you? I don’t have time tomorrow to go to the zoo, and this weekend I’m going to Washington.”
Hannah Livingston frowned, candles gleaming in her bronze hair “Dear, this dinner is amazing. I’m happy even when we only have minutes together – or when you call. But what about Toby? He misses you.”
“Toby.” He exhaled, and his face wrinkled. “What can I do? My work...”
“He’s your son – why can’t you take him with you sometime – not all of your work is overseas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But he was thinking about today’s taping, and his next assignment. He sipped wine and stared out the window. His wife sipped hers, too, and her eyes were closed, but her inner sight was aimed in another direction.
“Dear, I can’t believe you can’t take a day off once in a while.”
“You were going to take him yourself, can’t you? I don’t have time tomorrow to go to the zoo, and this weekend I’m going to Washington.”
Hannah Livingston frowned, candles gleaming in her bronze hair “Dear, this dinner is amazing. I’m happy even when we only have minutes together – or when you call. But what about Toby? He misses you.”
“Toby.” He exhaled, and his face wrinkled. “What can I do? My work...”
“He’s your son – why can’t you take him with you sometime – not all of your work is overseas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But he was thinking about today’s taping, and his next assignment. He sipped wine and stared out the window. His wife sipped hers, too, and her eyes were closed, but her inner sight was aimed in another direction.
* * *
Livingston strode into the director’s office. “Well, you got me up at six o’clock and for what?”
The director glared at him. “You’re the one who left the orders. Studio One, yet.”
“What do you mean, I left orders? I wanted a 9 AM viewing of our taping. What’s this about Studio One?”
“See for yourself.” He handed his livid star a clipboard.
Barclay stared at the top document. There was his signature, ordering an 8 AM interview shoot in Studio One.
“This is some kind of prank, isn’t it?”
The director put out his hand for the clipboard. “If it is, it’s your prank, not mine.”
Livingston shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”
The director was silent. He was certain this was some kind of put-on. “Look, Barclay, keep your questions for the interview. But just tell me one thing: Why did you have to pick Studio One? We had to work all night to get it ready.”
He went over to the coffee-maker in the corner and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Livingston replied, shrugging. Whatever all this was, it would soon be cleared up. “I’d just like to know one thing, too. Who is this person I’m to interview?”
“Well, the talk among the crew is that it’s Doctor Stanley – remember, he vanished almost a year ago in some African jungle.” He sipped his coffee. “They said he’s discovered some fantastic things: birds, insects, I don’t know. Someone says it’s a dinosaur, and that’s why we need all the space.”
Barclay took a swallow of coffee. “And how do they deduce the connection between me and the eminent zoologist?”
“Oh, on general principles. Your three months last year in Africa, your interest in ‘missing persons’ stories, hints in your conversations...”
Barclay Livingston nodded. “Hmm. Oddly enough, it makes sense. It’s quite reasonable, in fact. Except that I haven’t the faintest idea where Dr. Stanley might be, or how to get in touch with him – and he certainly hasn’t been in touch with me.”
The director looked at his watch, then finished off his coffee. “Well, we’ll all know soon. You had better get moving.”
“Right.”
The director glared at him. “You’re the one who left the orders. Studio One, yet.”
“What do you mean, I left orders? I wanted a 9 AM viewing of our taping. What’s this about Studio One?”
“See for yourself.” He handed his livid star a clipboard.
Barclay stared at the top document. There was his signature, ordering an 8 AM interview shoot in Studio One.
“This is some kind of prank, isn’t it?”
The director put out his hand for the clipboard. “If it is, it’s your prank, not mine.”
Livingston shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”
The director was silent. He was certain this was some kind of put-on. “Look, Barclay, keep your questions for the interview. But just tell me one thing: Why did you have to pick Studio One? We had to work all night to get it ready.”
He went over to the coffee-maker in the corner and poured himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Livingston replied, shrugging. Whatever all this was, it would soon be cleared up. “I’d just like to know one thing, too. Who is this person I’m to interview?”
“Well, the talk among the crew is that it’s Doctor Stanley – remember, he vanished almost a year ago in some African jungle.” He sipped his coffee. “They said he’s discovered some fantastic things: birds, insects, I don’t know. Someone says it’s a dinosaur, and that’s why we need all the space.”
Barclay took a swallow of coffee. “And how do they deduce the connection between me and the eminent zoologist?”
“Oh, on general principles. Your three months last year in Africa, your interest in ‘missing persons’ stories, hints in your conversations...”
Barclay Livingston nodded. “Hmm. Oddly enough, it makes sense. It’s quite reasonable, in fact. Except that I haven’t the faintest idea where Dr. Stanley might be, or how to get in touch with him – and he certainly hasn’t been in touch with me.”
The director looked at his watch, then finished off his coffee. “Well, we’ll all know soon. You had better get moving.”
“Right.”
* * *
When Livingston came into Studio One, he noticed that there seemed to be a larger crew than usual. Of course the sheer size of the studio required more people; Barclay’s typical interview might be done with only three, or even two cameras, and the minimum number of other technicians. But here there seemed to be enough people to handle a feature film – and even stranger, most of them seemed to be busy. The backdrops were all of a dark but definite blue. There were two empty tables at one side.
There was Livingston’s usual desk and chairs, hauled down from Studio Nine. At the right of the desk was another chair. He had never seen such a large one: either they had scoured the city for it, or, more likely, it was custom built in their shop. It was rather simple looking, comfortable enough, but, well, larger, than anything he had seen. By an odd twist of his mind, induced by one of the rare romps with his son, he concluded that it looked to him as an adult chair must look to a child. He wondered who would be sitting there.
Barclay glanced over at the master clock. In twenty minutes he would know. He rarely came to the set this early, preferring to have a few minutes to himself to organize his thoughts on his interview. But without the most critical fact – the identity of his subject – it was impossible for him to prepare, and so anywhere was good enough. Besides, he was too curious to sit in his dressing room, and it was his curiosity which had made him what he was.
A sound man, came up to him. “Since you’re here early, we’d like to do the sound check now.” Barclay nodded, and went over to his desk. The technician clipped an almost invisible microphone to his lapel. In his stage voice he began the Gettysburg Address, and the control room signalled approval.
An assistant to the assistant director brought a tray with a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses. She placed it on the desk, and smiled warmly at Barclay.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. What luck – the crew seemed to be in good spirits. Usually he had to beg someone to bring water. He looked around. He couldn’t count the number of cameras that were arrayed around the set: they must have dragged over every single one in the place. There were even a couple of his field crew there with hand-helds. Other technicians stood around, adjusting things, helping with things. There was none of the all-too-common jostling and shouting. He wondered who was up in the control room: it all depended on who was in on this stunt, and who the director had informed.
As if responding to his thought, the director came up to him. “Well, Barclay, it’s your show. What do we do now?”
Livingston looked at him uneasily, wondering how much all these people were costing. “I presume we’ll wait until eight for our, er, guest.”
“I rather hope he’s here a little earlier, so we can do a sound check, see if he needs some water, and all that.”
“Ah, well, I guess whoever it is, will be here in sufficient time for that sort of thing.” He reached out and poured a glass of water. “Sam, this set seems... well, it’s a well-run set... when did you ever see such harmony in the crew with ten minutes to go?”
The director looked around the set, completely missing the paradox of his usually glib star struggling for words. “You know, you’re right. I’m not sure when I’ve seen this kind of – it’s almost too quiet, like we were in church...”
Then the voice from the control room broke in: “Hey, who’s playing with the lights?” The already bright studio lights were getting brighter.
A chorus of “not me” broke out, but the lights continued to increase.
“Joe, shut down the lighting mains,” ordered the control room. The studio heard the snapping of the great switches, but the glow did not dwindle. Everyone had closed their eyes; some had put their arms in front of their faces. The cameramen had shifted their cameras to point at the ground. But then the light seemed to grow more local, and slowly reduce back to the normal bright studio lighting.
“Hey Joe, I thought I said to shut off the mains.”
“They are off.”
Then a new voice was heard. “That’s right, they are off. You won’t need them.”
When Barclay opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was a gigantic ball of fire hovering above the large chair by his desk.
“What on earth?” he cried.
“Peace!” came the voice. It was such a voice: it was quiet but penetrating. It was as clear as an adult’s, but light and happy, as a baby’s. It carried a certain quality of tone, as if each word spoken was actually a lyric to some greater song. There was also the sense of something incomplete, as if the voice was part of a choir, from which only one voice could now be heard.
Then the voice chuckled. “I always wanted to say that. And I mean it too! Don’t worry, I won’t set anything on fire.”
Barclay was sitting only a few feet from this amazing sight. He noted that the flames seemed to come radially out from the center of the ball. Mostly they seemed to be a yellow-white, but there were touches of orange and red; a faint bluish ring looked almost like a sash...
The sound man walked over, microphone in hand. He was only a couple of feet away from the fireball. He reached out his hand, then noticed a slight warmth, which increased as he got closer and closer. “Ah, sir, ah, would you mind putting this on your, er, lapel...”
He held the microphone out, then let go. It fell to the floor.
“Never mind,” came the unflappable voice from the control room. “Just use the boom.”
Two other sound men wheeled it over, and lowered the microphone to just above the firey ball.
The fireball said,”I’m ready, Mr. Livingston, whenever you are.”
“Sound check OK,” came the voice from the control room.
The director nodded. “Barclay? It’s up to you.”
Barclay took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was no conceivable stunt. He couldn’t even imagine how that fire ball could be sitting inches away from a wooden chair and not set it and the whole building ablaze. And it wasn’t a visual illusion, either; when the lights had brightened he had felt a wave of warmth, more like the noonday sun in the Sahara...
“I’m ready; our guest is ready; Sam, it’s up to you.”
The director glanced around the studio. Everyone was alert, the needles pointed to correct settings, the video tape recorders were ready.
“Let’s roll, people.” He waved a hand in the air.
Barclay eased into a smile. “Good morning. I’m Barclay Livingston, and today, I’m interviewing a very special guest.”
The camera zoomed out from Barclay’s face to include the desk, then wider, to include the large chair and the fireball hovering above it.
“Good morning,” came the mature baby voice.
“Please tell us, if you will, what are you?” Barclay barely kept his voice under control.
“I am a seraphim, an angel from the ninth choir, closest to Almighty God.”
Applause came from all of the crew who had their hands free. Smiles and looks of “I told you so” were exchanged.
Barclay’s eyebrows raised. “You are... an angel?”
“That’s right, Barclay.”
“You can see... God?”
“Sure.”
“You can, like, fly, and move mountains?”
“Only when I have permission.”
The crew laughed at that. It sounded familiar. Barclay wondered if they were stand-ins for an audience – usually they would be utterly silent.
“Can you tell me – who invited you?”
“You did, or, rather, your wife. But actually I was sent on a mission – however, I think we’ll go into that a little later.”
“But how was this interview, here at Channel Nine, arranged?”
“I had a lot of assistance from other angels. They had orders.”
Barclay thought about this. He poured water into his glass, and was about to offer the angel some – then he thought it would put out the fire.
“No thanks, I’m not thirsty. Angels don’t get thirsty. And no, you can’t put the fire out. I could jump into the ocean, and not even notice.”
“Would it bother you?”
“No. Nothing natural can bother me.”
“Er, I always thought that fire was associated with, er, the other place...”
The angel laughed; there is no stranger sound in the universe. “Oh, what books you must read! No, that place is cold, though it might feel like fire to a human; I don’t know. But what you are seeing isn’t something outside me – it’s myself.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Aren’t there all kinds of songs which talk about being on fire with love? Even humans grasp that much about love. That’s what you are seeing.”
“I always thought that angels had wings and harps.”
“Some do have wings, but while we all sing, all the instrumental music in heaven was imported from earth. Though I seem to recall we have a stock of brass instruments lying around somewhere or other.”
Barclay shrugged; he had not read the Apocalypse for years. “Why don’t you have wings?”
There was a flash and the sphere was now on Barclay’s left. “I don’t need wings. In your language, you even say ‘spreading like wildfire’ when you mean something travels quickly. That’s how seraphim travel.” The fireball went back to the large chair.
Barclay scratched his head. “But only when you have orders, right?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of orders are they?”
“Angels have all kinds of duties, but we excel at the carrying of messages. That’s when we are called ‘angels’ – which only means ‘messenger.’ You see, angel is a description of a job, not a kind of being.”
“Messages? What kind of messages?”
“We carry all the messages from humans to God and from God to humans.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I will, later.”
Except for the brilliant glow, which lighted the set and the entire studio equally, and the almost incredible fact that the source of that glow could speak, the interview was proceeding normally. Barclay was beginning to recover a little.
“No harps? I guess I’m glad to hear that. It always seemed to make heaven a bore.”
“Oh, my, no!” came that strange voice. “It’s never boring. We’re very busy. But the work is more relaxing than any kind of vacation you can imagine. For one thing, you don’t run out of energy.”
The crew snickered at that, and even Barclay smiled. “That’s easy for you to say; you’re a ball of fire.”
“That’s how I appear, yes. Some humans are even brighter than I am. Remember, for some of you love is an awkward word. But in heaven, love is just another name for energy, or light.”
“What’s heaven like?”
Again came the strange sound of angelic laughter. “You can’t even guess, and I don’t have enough time to tell you about it. But I can tell you this: it’s worth the effort – and it’s even better than anything you’ve ever guessed at.”
“What about the other place?”
“It’s worse than anything you’ve ever guessed at. The worst part is being alone.”
“How do you know?”
“We know. We had a test, too, you know.”
“A test?”
“Don’t you think that life is a test?”
“Sometimes it seems that way. But angels have a test?”
“We did. Some passed; some failed.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No; you’re not watching the time.”
And indeed the director was signalling “five minutes.”
The seraphim continued: “You haven’t asked me about my message.”
“You have a message? For me?”
“Yes. Here it is. God wants you to go to the zoo today with your son.”
And for once the glib and unflappable Barclay Livingston was speechless. The crew laughed, but in a friendly fashion, as friends will, when their friend is reminded of a forgotten but pleasurable duty.
“You mean – you mean God sent a seraphim – disrupted this whole station’s morning work – got me up early – just to tell me to take my son to the zoo?”
“That’s right,” giggled the seraphim. “It’s not quite the type of message I often get to carry, but it’s one of the funniest.”
The crew burst into fresh laughter.
“Besides,” noted the seraphim, “if you look around, you’ll see that the station is not disrupted. In fact...” the glow suddenly increased, and Barclay saw that in corners and behind equipment were standing everyone who worked for the station, “this morning, this station looks a lot better united than most other organizations of 1,325 people.”
Barclay looked around at all the faces, thinking about the variety of people there, and all the work it was to put on a TV show. He laughed.
“It’s funny for a reporter to be brought a news flash.”
The room exploded in laughter.
The seraphim chuckled. “That’s a little of what heaven is like. We angels have other jobs besides carrying messages: we have our duties in the choir and the army – and now I’ve got to go on to my next assignment.”
“Well, then, I guess I had better conclude this interview, and go pick up my son.”
“I think that would be wise,” said the seraphim. Then the glow suddenly increased, and when the lighting came back to normal, the fireball was gone. But in the air there was a burst of angelic laughter.
There was Livingston’s usual desk and chairs, hauled down from Studio Nine. At the right of the desk was another chair. He had never seen such a large one: either they had scoured the city for it, or, more likely, it was custom built in their shop. It was rather simple looking, comfortable enough, but, well, larger, than anything he had seen. By an odd twist of his mind, induced by one of the rare romps with his son, he concluded that it looked to him as an adult chair must look to a child. He wondered who would be sitting there.
Barclay glanced over at the master clock. In twenty minutes he would know. He rarely came to the set this early, preferring to have a few minutes to himself to organize his thoughts on his interview. But without the most critical fact – the identity of his subject – it was impossible for him to prepare, and so anywhere was good enough. Besides, he was too curious to sit in his dressing room, and it was his curiosity which had made him what he was.
A sound man, came up to him. “Since you’re here early, we’d like to do the sound check now.” Barclay nodded, and went over to his desk. The technician clipped an almost invisible microphone to his lapel. In his stage voice he began the Gettysburg Address, and the control room signalled approval.
An assistant to the assistant director brought a tray with a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses. She placed it on the desk, and smiled warmly at Barclay.
“Thanks,” he said, and smiled. What luck – the crew seemed to be in good spirits. Usually he had to beg someone to bring water. He looked around. He couldn’t count the number of cameras that were arrayed around the set: they must have dragged over every single one in the place. There were even a couple of his field crew there with hand-helds. Other technicians stood around, adjusting things, helping with things. There was none of the all-too-common jostling and shouting. He wondered who was up in the control room: it all depended on who was in on this stunt, and who the director had informed.
As if responding to his thought, the director came up to him. “Well, Barclay, it’s your show. What do we do now?”
Livingston looked at him uneasily, wondering how much all these people were costing. “I presume we’ll wait until eight for our, er, guest.”
“I rather hope he’s here a little earlier, so we can do a sound check, see if he needs some water, and all that.”
“Ah, well, I guess whoever it is, will be here in sufficient time for that sort of thing.” He reached out and poured a glass of water. “Sam, this set seems... well, it’s a well-run set... when did you ever see such harmony in the crew with ten minutes to go?”
The director looked around the set, completely missing the paradox of his usually glib star struggling for words. “You know, you’re right. I’m not sure when I’ve seen this kind of – it’s almost too quiet, like we were in church...”
Then the voice from the control room broke in: “Hey, who’s playing with the lights?” The already bright studio lights were getting brighter.
A chorus of “not me” broke out, but the lights continued to increase.
“Joe, shut down the lighting mains,” ordered the control room. The studio heard the snapping of the great switches, but the glow did not dwindle. Everyone had closed their eyes; some had put their arms in front of their faces. The cameramen had shifted their cameras to point at the ground. But then the light seemed to grow more local, and slowly reduce back to the normal bright studio lighting.
“Hey Joe, I thought I said to shut off the mains.”
“They are off.”
Then a new voice was heard. “That’s right, they are off. You won’t need them.”
When Barclay opened his eyes, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was a gigantic ball of fire hovering above the large chair by his desk.
“What on earth?” he cried.
“Peace!” came the voice. It was such a voice: it was quiet but penetrating. It was as clear as an adult’s, but light and happy, as a baby’s. It carried a certain quality of tone, as if each word spoken was actually a lyric to some greater song. There was also the sense of something incomplete, as if the voice was part of a choir, from which only one voice could now be heard.
Then the voice chuckled. “I always wanted to say that. And I mean it too! Don’t worry, I won’t set anything on fire.”
Barclay was sitting only a few feet from this amazing sight. He noted that the flames seemed to come radially out from the center of the ball. Mostly they seemed to be a yellow-white, but there were touches of orange and red; a faint bluish ring looked almost like a sash...
The sound man walked over, microphone in hand. He was only a couple of feet away from the fireball. He reached out his hand, then noticed a slight warmth, which increased as he got closer and closer. “Ah, sir, ah, would you mind putting this on your, er, lapel...”
He held the microphone out, then let go. It fell to the floor.
“Never mind,” came the unflappable voice from the control room. “Just use the boom.”
Two other sound men wheeled it over, and lowered the microphone to just above the firey ball.
The fireball said,”I’m ready, Mr. Livingston, whenever you are.”
“Sound check OK,” came the voice from the control room.
The director nodded. “Barclay? It’s up to you.”
Barclay took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was no conceivable stunt. He couldn’t even imagine how that fire ball could be sitting inches away from a wooden chair and not set it and the whole building ablaze. And it wasn’t a visual illusion, either; when the lights had brightened he had felt a wave of warmth, more like the noonday sun in the Sahara...
“I’m ready; our guest is ready; Sam, it’s up to you.”
The director glanced around the studio. Everyone was alert, the needles pointed to correct settings, the video tape recorders were ready.
“Let’s roll, people.” He waved a hand in the air.
Barclay eased into a smile. “Good morning. I’m Barclay Livingston, and today, I’m interviewing a very special guest.”
The camera zoomed out from Barclay’s face to include the desk, then wider, to include the large chair and the fireball hovering above it.
“Good morning,” came the mature baby voice.
“Please tell us, if you will, what are you?” Barclay barely kept his voice under control.
“I am a seraphim, an angel from the ninth choir, closest to Almighty God.”
Applause came from all of the crew who had their hands free. Smiles and looks of “I told you so” were exchanged.
Barclay’s eyebrows raised. “You are... an angel?”
“That’s right, Barclay.”
“You can see... God?”
“Sure.”
“You can, like, fly, and move mountains?”
“Only when I have permission.”
The crew laughed at that. It sounded familiar. Barclay wondered if they were stand-ins for an audience – usually they would be utterly silent.
“Can you tell me – who invited you?”
“You did, or, rather, your wife. But actually I was sent on a mission – however, I think we’ll go into that a little later.”
“But how was this interview, here at Channel Nine, arranged?”
“I had a lot of assistance from other angels. They had orders.”
Barclay thought about this. He poured water into his glass, and was about to offer the angel some – then he thought it would put out the fire.
“No thanks, I’m not thirsty. Angels don’t get thirsty. And no, you can’t put the fire out. I could jump into the ocean, and not even notice.”
“Would it bother you?”
“No. Nothing natural can bother me.”
“Er, I always thought that fire was associated with, er, the other place...”
The angel laughed; there is no stranger sound in the universe. “Oh, what books you must read! No, that place is cold, though it might feel like fire to a human; I don’t know. But what you are seeing isn’t something outside me – it’s myself.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Aren’t there all kinds of songs which talk about being on fire with love? Even humans grasp that much about love. That’s what you are seeing.”
“I always thought that angels had wings and harps.”
“Some do have wings, but while we all sing, all the instrumental music in heaven was imported from earth. Though I seem to recall we have a stock of brass instruments lying around somewhere or other.”
Barclay shrugged; he had not read the Apocalypse for years. “Why don’t you have wings?”
There was a flash and the sphere was now on Barclay’s left. “I don’t need wings. In your language, you even say ‘spreading like wildfire’ when you mean something travels quickly. That’s how seraphim travel.” The fireball went back to the large chair.
Barclay scratched his head. “But only when you have orders, right?”
“Correct.”
“What kind of orders are they?”
“Angels have all kinds of duties, but we excel at the carrying of messages. That’s when we are called ‘angels’ – which only means ‘messenger.’ You see, angel is a description of a job, not a kind of being.”
“Messages? What kind of messages?”
“We carry all the messages from humans to God and from God to humans.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I will, later.”
Except for the brilliant glow, which lighted the set and the entire studio equally, and the almost incredible fact that the source of that glow could speak, the interview was proceeding normally. Barclay was beginning to recover a little.
“No harps? I guess I’m glad to hear that. It always seemed to make heaven a bore.”
“Oh, my, no!” came that strange voice. “It’s never boring. We’re very busy. But the work is more relaxing than any kind of vacation you can imagine. For one thing, you don’t run out of energy.”
The crew snickered at that, and even Barclay smiled. “That’s easy for you to say; you’re a ball of fire.”
“That’s how I appear, yes. Some humans are even brighter than I am. Remember, for some of you love is an awkward word. But in heaven, love is just another name for energy, or light.”
“What’s heaven like?”
Again came the strange sound of angelic laughter. “You can’t even guess, and I don’t have enough time to tell you about it. But I can tell you this: it’s worth the effort – and it’s even better than anything you’ve ever guessed at.”
“What about the other place?”
“It’s worse than anything you’ve ever guessed at. The worst part is being alone.”
“How do you know?”
“We know. We had a test, too, you know.”
“A test?”
“Don’t you think that life is a test?”
“Sometimes it seems that way. But angels have a test?”
“We did. Some passed; some failed.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No; you’re not watching the time.”
And indeed the director was signalling “five minutes.”
The seraphim continued: “You haven’t asked me about my message.”
“You have a message? For me?”
“Yes. Here it is. God wants you to go to the zoo today with your son.”
And for once the glib and unflappable Barclay Livingston was speechless. The crew laughed, but in a friendly fashion, as friends will, when their friend is reminded of a forgotten but pleasurable duty.
“You mean – you mean God sent a seraphim – disrupted this whole station’s morning work – got me up early – just to tell me to take my son to the zoo?”
“That’s right,” giggled the seraphim. “It’s not quite the type of message I often get to carry, but it’s one of the funniest.”
The crew burst into fresh laughter.
“Besides,” noted the seraphim, “if you look around, you’ll see that the station is not disrupted. In fact...” the glow suddenly increased, and Barclay saw that in corners and behind equipment were standing everyone who worked for the station, “this morning, this station looks a lot better united than most other organizations of 1,325 people.”
Barclay looked around at all the faces, thinking about the variety of people there, and all the work it was to put on a TV show. He laughed.
“It’s funny for a reporter to be brought a news flash.”
The room exploded in laughter.
The seraphim chuckled. “That’s a little of what heaven is like. We angels have other jobs besides carrying messages: we have our duties in the choir and the army – and now I’ve got to go on to my next assignment.”
“Well, then, I guess I had better conclude this interview, and go pick up my son.”
“I think that would be wise,” said the seraphim. Then the glow suddenly increased, and when the lighting came back to normal, the fireball was gone. But in the air there was a burst of angelic laughter.
* * *
The director watched the door close behind Livingston. “That was amazing.”
His assistant nodded. “What some people won’t do to get the afternoon off.”
“You think so? I can’t wait to see those tapes, and see if any of it will be visible – or audible.”
Suddenly one of the stage hands cried out, “Hey, Sam! Come and look at this!”
The director, his assistant, and a number of others came over to the chair over which the seraphim had hovered. The seat, back, and arms were charred black.
His assistant nodded. “What some people won’t do to get the afternoon off.”
“You think so? I can’t wait to see those tapes, and see if any of it will be visible – or audible.”
Suddenly one of the stage hands cried out, “Hey, Sam! Come and look at this!”
The director, his assistant, and a number of others came over to the chair over which the seraphim had hovered. The seat, back, and arms were charred black.
* * *
No one could see the seraphim at the zoo. It would not have fit into any of their tidy categories. But Barclay could hear that strange angelic laughter when his son turned and hugged him, crying out, “Thanks, Daddy, this is so much fun!”
All text and pictures copyright © 2008 by Dr. Thursday
1 comment:
Seriously consider sending these stories to magazines!
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