Continued...
Mosun’s disgust for the figure seated in front
of her had no comparison. Tiamiyu Aregbe, was a saint to the public and poison
to the church. On her husband’s death bed, Gbenga had divulged all the
clandestine activities of some of the executive members of the organization
instituted to ensure that worship ascends to Zion as at when due.
Tiamiyu, looked
unusually distraught as against the cocky bigot she was accustomed to.
“Why am I here,
sir?” She asked him
“There’s no need
for the animosity Mosun,” Tiamiyu responded. His attempts at a calm veneer were
crumbling from obtrusive thrusts of the memory of his last meeting. That young
man knew things that even his wife didn’t know and his wife knew everything
about him; well, everything he wanted her to know.
“Let’s not make
this another long session,” Mosun’s spite was fast flooding the room. “What do
you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
Tiamiyu smiled sheepishly. “I want us to organize, a memorial for Gbenga. It’s
been two years since he left us, and we just want to celebrate the great
worship--"
“End this
hypocrisy right now!” Mosun yelled. “And don’t you ever bring up my late
husband in any conversation.”
“Mosun, why are
you so bitter?”
“The nerves to
ask me that,” Mosun spat. “Gbenga was focused on ministry until you elected him
into this sham. And then his focus switched from serving Elion to fame and
personal gain. Look where that landed him.”
“The decision
that he took, gave this organization the clout it needed.” Tiamiyu’s composure
returned. “He is the reason why we are where we are today and I want us to
celebrate that--"
“--you are
insane.” Mosun rose. “And if you go ahead with this your memorial service, be
sure to read about your gang in the papers.”
“Are you willing
to soil your late husband’s reputation?”
“Does his
reputation on earth matter anymore?” Mosun walked over to the door. “You should
worry about yours.”
***
Huntoel sniffed
the scent that wafted through the walls of the duplex. His claymore was
sheathed but his hand was on the hilt in case they encountered any emissary
from Hades.
“What’s that
smell?” Sanctiel asked from behind him. They were concealed within the walls of
the fence and observed the building for any signs of movement.
“If you say one
more word out of turn,” Huntoel hissed, “you will be reassigned. That smell is
the waking-rosanderine. An angel two
classes above you is within sniffing range. Now, silence.”
Sanctiel chewed
the next question he had to ask. This trip has been the most educational, yet
most constrained he’d ever made to earth. Huntoel was a cool guy, but he was
too quiet, except he needed to show Sanctiel a new trick or teach him. Sanctiel
wanted to learn, but he also wanted to hear stories about Huntoel’s feats.
A blaze of light
sliced the dim living room and Huntoel nodded at him. He pointed to the skies
and signalled a descent. Sanctiel understood the wordless instructions. He tore
off in octane speed towards the clear skies and descended even as Huntoel
glided, without as much as a whisper, towards the living room.
***
Demiel heard the
descending zing and looked up to see a class-one-light tearing towards him. The
lattices of the first floor and the roofing did nothing to conceal the blaze.
He quickly tucked the glory vial into the sling satchel that hung across his
chest. He unclasped his spinning bayonet
in case this resulted in a clash of weapons.
Before the
bayonet’s weight dropped his arm, a clumsy-stomp
spun around his torso and tossed him to the ground – a clumsy-stomp was short series of knotted lassos wielded only by
unclassified angels. Demiel knew misfortune had visited him on duty. His hands
and feet were bound by the stomp. He
tried to turn over to his back but he felt the tip of a claymore hold him down.
He couldn’t hear the zing anymore and could not smell the scents of the angel’s
that had captured him at first.
Then he smelt it
– the Chayil worn by only the
unclassified. This meant he could only hold back any information he had at the
risk of losing his voice. Elion had set rules in Zion and cadres among angels.
The unclassified could not be disobeyed. He couldn’t see his captors but the
scent was unmistakable.
“Who sent you
here?” Huntoel affected his voice to a deeper tone.
“Yazael of the 9th
battalion, under Jahaziel commander of the legion battling Balrog’s in quadrant
1.” Demiel couldn’t make out the voice but he was compelled to obey the scent.
“Does Jahaziel
know you are here?” Huntoel asked. Sanctiel kept mute in all of these and even
Huntoel was surprised.
“I doubt that,
sir.” Demiel responded. “I simply obeyed the instructions of my commanding
officer.”
“What did you
come to get?” Huntoel noticed the bulge in Demiel’s satchel.
“To collect the
vial of glory in my satchel,” Demiel answered.
“To what end?”
Then Demiel
divulged all he knew about Luciel’s plans.
“Tell no one of
this occasion.” Huntoel said when Demiel finished his account. He cloaked
himself and Sanctiel, then removed the clumsy-stomps.
Demiel rose,
looked around and saw no one to his astonishment. The scent was gone too. Holy
dread overwhelmed him as he searched around frantically. He was bound by
Huntoel’s instructions and he was bound to obey his commanding officer. This
was the first time he had found himself in a morass – obeying command and
upholding what he discerned was Elion’s truth.
He knew what
Yazael and Luciel were planning was not in line with Elion’s precept, but he
could not gain audience before Elion unless summoned and he could not disobey
his commanding officer. After arranging Mosun’s living room to erase every sign
of disturbance, he sliced the dimness with his fluttering glory and was gone.
Sanctiel made to
throw off the cloak but Huntoel restrained him.
“Don’t be so
trusting.” Huntoel said as he spun the ring on his wrist. The translucent slid
out and he dialled Mackel.
“What’s he up
to?” Mackel asked immediately he showed up on the screen. There was no time for
banters.
To be Continued...
Image credit: courtesy pqhobbit.wordpress.com
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