Twelve
The light streamed in from the window of her father's study, casting square panes of light on the dark green carpet. Tiny dust motes sparkled in the air, whirling in a dervish of unconstrained movement, appearing and vanishing at will.
Isha sat behind her father's desk, gazing at them. It was here she sought refuge at times of great confusion, when she felt most flagellated by unfamiliar emotions. It was here she felt comforted, surrounded by books about history and science—among the things that were known and understood.
Mr. Hastings had upended her whole identity. That one kiss completely derailed the safe, predictable groove her life marched in. She didn't know what to make of it. She'd heard of secret admirers. But silent ones?
He told her so in the carriage ride home. All these years, all this time she'd spent in the library. He'd become sweet on her through the cold winter nights when he smuggled her a cup of tea from the staff office; during the long discussions when she passionately proclaimed that animals should be accorded rights under the law; when she kept him dashing around for obscure books to help her contribute material to her father's lectures. The times he made her laugh when she would ask what time it was, and he'd answer something like, "It’s the square root of twenty-five o'clock." Never did she imagine that he was inclined to feel anything warmer toward her than friendship. And never did she think she was even capable of capturing a man's interest the way she did Mr. Hastings's.
Mal-Luck's words swam in her head, pounding her with their portentous meaning. He practically predicted Mr. Hastings's profession of love. How could he know? And how was he capable of orchestrating the events that brought about this revelation?
Isha shuddered. Everything about him was a mystery, and there was nothing she hated more than mysteries. If there was anyone who was capable of dispelling the haze surrounding a mystery, it was her father.
Sir Rupert Elmwood had been a historian and professor of biblical literature. He was renowned for his contributions to the understanding of early civilizations. Sir Rupert's greatest gift, however, was in making people understand not just the when's and where's of historical events, but the why's. He could make his students not simply know the events of the past, but to smell and feel them too. His ability to make the past come alive was one of the reasons he could hold Isha in thrall for hours. His publications were on the shelf of every member of the clergy in the whole of the British Commonwealth, and on the syllabus of every university student of ancient history.
But of all her father's many volumes, Isha's favorite was his private journal. It was in that worn, leather-bound book that he recorded his thoughts and speculations, his personal observations, and his life's most important events. Several pages were dedicated to his knighthood by the monarch, and how undeserving he felt of such an honor. But the thing he was most proud of, the person most extolled in the pages of his journal, was Isha.
Their relationship transcended mere parent and offspring. Sir Rupert delighted in Isha. Their conversations would sometimes last several hours. He simply enjoyed her company. Her father was the only man ever to celebrate Isha's intelligence and curiosity, and encouraged her to retain those special qualities even if other men thought less of her. He was the only one to ever call her beautiful.
Until the man in the red cravat.
Isha opened the desk drawer. The smell of aged wood, mixed with notes of pipe tobacco, wafted up from the drawer. She pulled out her father's journal and placed it reverently upon the table.
The wrinkled leather cover folded over easily, revealing the first pages containing her father's scholarly scrawl. His was not the easiest script to read. His ideas came to him at a lightning pace, and it was all he could do to get them committed to paper. But there, in his own hand, he lived still.
Isha turned the pages slowly, remembering each one from the many times during the past two years that she'd read them. Passages jumped out at her, ones she could recite in her head. Barely legible notes in the margins highlighted his afterthoughts. Isha smiled wanly. His mind, his will, and his personality existed in the haphazard scrawl.
The light from the window dimmed as a parade of thunderclouds marched across the sky. And now, Isha arrived at the saddest place in the journal…the blank pages at the end. They reminded her of those endless days filled with loneliness after Sir Rupert passed away, when the pneumonia finally triumphed over his frail body. Absently, she kept turning the blank pages, recalling the day of the funeral…the burial…the endless stream of letters and visits of condolence…the long silent months without her beloved father.
Then something jumped out at her, drawing her faraway gaze back to the journal. Nestled among the white, unwritten pages she found a few scribbled lines. It was her father's penmanship, she'd swear to it. How could she have overlooked this entry? She straightened in her chair and breathed in deeply, reading each word as if it were a map pointing to buried treasure.
Of the greatest tragedies to befall mankind is the shortness of a man's life. His years are gone in a breath, his days are but a sigh. Yet it is not the length of his life which makes it tragic, but his incurable itch for all-encompassing understanding. Even if a man were to dedicate each day of his life to the study of Scripture, the days he is given are not enough.
As I lie here on what is surely to become my deathbed, my greatest regret is not how much I failed to study and teach, but how little time I spent with my family. My adoring wife, my lovely Isha, my little Maryan. They—not the books or the honors or the achievements—are my best and most lasting legacy.
Oh, that man could possess the wisdom of the aged in his youth! He would surely understand as I do now—that Creator God is far too complex and intricate for one man alone to comprehend, and that his infinite and variegated nature is reflected in a small way in each of His creations. One man may possess God's love for animals, another His gift for art, yet another His desire to minister, and so on ad infinitum. To know God is to appreciate His facets in each of His people around us.
My body grows weaker with each day that passes, and I can sense that these labored breaths of mine will grow harder and harder to draw. Although I will soon fulfill my lifelong ambition to meet my Maker, how I detest the thought of being separated from my beloved girls! I only wish that God would grant me a malak who will come and assure me that they shall be well taken care of.
Isha bolted upright, unaware of how heavily she was breathing. She was swimming with emotion, her father's final words giving her both elation and melancholy. And in the center of it all was that enigmatic word: malak.
The word rapped on her brain like a familiar memory, but its meaning eluded her. Malak, malak, malak. Blood pounded in her ears as she went to her father's shelves. Was it Greek? No…Hebrew. She pulled the well-thumbed Hebrew textbook from its place on the shelf. She tore through the pages, searching for the word.
And there it was. Malak.
Angel.