Nimbus often wished Celestial was wrong (which hardly ever happened), because it meant that he was never right, which got tiresome fast. But he had never wished it more so than in this instance. They had searched their inspirational home high in the clouds twice over and not found so much as a feather from their Brethrens’ wings. They brooded in the Chamber of Greats, slouched on luxurious silk-covered day beds, usually occupied by the Most High as they held council. Celestial was clearly on the verge of panic.
“Oh, where can they be?” She picked-up a golden pillow and peered hopefully underneath.
“Well unless they have suddenly become pea-sized, they won’t be under there,” Nimbus said helpfully. Celestial threw him a glare to sizzle a lesser being. “You know, there is one place we haven’t been…”
She stared expectantly, her brow furrowed. “Where?”
“Huitaca’s.”
“Of course! How could I be so stupid!”
Nimbus wondered if he should supply an answer, but opted for dignified silence. Celestial was on the edge right now and he did not want to push her over. Huitaca was the South American Goddess of Drunkenness; equivalent to an embarrassing distant relative, who told off-colour stories at parties, and usually ended up doing a jig on the table with a lampshade on their head. She was not favoured by the Elders.
Nimbus however, liked her very much. She was always laughing and dancing and could do excellent tricks with rainbows and moonbeams. She lived high on a hilltop at the outer edges of their Realm. Bacchus visited her often and they could be heard some nights singing together loudly and very badly. Zeus often sent a quelling lightening bolt their way to stop the awful racket.
“What are we waiting for?” Celestial asked with a renewed sense of purpose. In a blink they arrived on the porch of Huitaca’s home.
Sure enough, evidence of a particularly rowdy night on the cocktails was scattered about: half-eaten fruits from the Horn of Plenty, delicacies from the Land of Milk and Honey, and dirty glasses with dregs of ambrosia covered every patch of marble. Celestial was clearly horrified by the mess, but Nimbus sulked.
“If they had a party, why not invite me? I can mingle.”
“Because you’re underage. And I think the better question is, why have we been given such an irresponsible bum for a Guardian? Look at this spectacle! It’s like the Four Horsemen galloped through. Let’s find Bacchus, I’m looking forward to aggravating his headache.”
“As if,” Nimbus grumbled. “The Four Horsemen are far too trendy for our Realm. And if they did show-up, I’d be the last to know.”
They entered and were immediately greeted with a chorus of snores punctuated by the odd hiccough. Huitaca was nowhere in sight, but Bacchus was spread-eagled on his back on the litter-strewn floor. A full wine glass on his large, hairy belly rose and fell in unison with his snorts. He resembled a slovenly walrus. Celestial was about to empty the contents of the cup over his bald head, when Nimbus grabbed her arm.
“Listen!” he urged in a whisper.
A high-pitched cackle echoed up the hill, and with it footsteps coming their way. Nimbus risked a peek out the window and groaned.
“It’s Jomjael and Ramiel!”
“How in the names of all Saints did they get in here?” Celestial’s eyes went wide in alarm. “Gabriel banned the Black Angels from ever setting foot on the Ethereal Plane! Oh, what are we going to do?”
“Don’t get your halo in a pretzel, Celestial. I have an idea. Help me move Bacchus, will you?”
This proved an ordeal. Bacchus was very heavy and stubbornly limp, and much bigger than the Cherubs. They pulled and pushed, grunting with exertion and painfully aware of the passing seconds. Nimbus briefly lost his grip and Celestial’s face was pressed into Bacchus’s sweat-ridden armpit. She eventually surfaced coughing and spluttering, her nausea-filled face a shade of puce. Nimbus mouthed ‘sorry’ and received a look to make his blood boil (if he actually had any).
Finally, after much un-Angel-like language and uncomplimentary mutterings about the need for Bacchus to embrace personal hygiene and go on a strict diet, they succeeded in propping him against a back wall. Nimbus snapped his fingers and Bacchus became the most unattractive statue ever carved. Celestial draped crumpled robes over his shoulders in the hopes he’d be mistaken for a coat rack.
“Strike a pose!”
She looked warily at him. “Will I ever recover from this?”
“Thanks for the faith. It’s more a parlour trick anyway.” Nimbus prayed this was true.
Celestial did as she was told, holding both hands out, palms face up, and he was grateful for the trust. He clicked again, making her a convincing book-stand. He lay open the book Bacchus had slept on across her hands, and then shrunk himself, taking the guise of an artfully placed Cupid on a side table. He finished the ruse just in time.
Jam and Ram, as they were known to their ruffian gang of Fallen Angels, entered, scanning the room with distasteful expressions. Ram wore only a loin cloth, his counterpart tight black leather pants. Their bodies were toned and powerful, their faces misleadingly beautiful. Unlike the Cherubs, their eyes were ebony and hair dark.
“What a dump! Who’s the decorator, Chaos?” Ram let out a mighty burp and Jam giggled manically, his huge grey wings jiggling.
“My thoughts precisely.” Jam lifted a leg to fart long and forcefully.
Nimbus was flabbergasted he didn’t blow his own leg off. A foul reek filled the room and it was all they could do not to vomit. The stench made Bacchus’s underarm odour rose-water by comparison.
“Get a load of this grotesque thing!” Ram moved over to inspect the stone-bound Bacchus. “Make’s the boss’s gargoyle collection look like Helen of Troy!”
Nimbus thought his assessment a bit harsh, but did not have time to dwell on it as he was hoisted into the air.
“Mmm, Helen of Troy,” Jam said with a smarmy grin, turning his attention to Nimbus. “Ugh! This is worse.”
Now, Nimbus was truly offended. He thought he made a lovely Cupid and resented an insult from such a ponce, who obviously spent too much time smooching himself in the mirror. Jam used Nimbus’s extended foot to pick his nose, slime oozing his leg. Nimbus mentally shuddered, working very hard not to lash out and kick Jam in the eye.
“I think it would look better without its head.” Ram reached over his back to extract an evil-looking curved sword from between glossy brown wings.
This was an unfortunate development. Maybe now was the time to go against his own advice and panic. Jam dropped him to the table and hopped excitedly from foot to foot in anticipation of wanton destruction. Ram raised the sword and Nimbus knew he had no choice but to reveal himself, and probably his friends, by re-materialising. Then the hunt would be on. Just as the sword began its downward sweep, a quiet voice issued from the door.
“What are you doing?”
The blade stopped a millimetre from Nimbus’s neck and Ram fumbled guiltily to hide the sword at his rear like a child playing pick-a-hand.
“Y-you know.” He trembled with fear. “We’re searching for the Book.”
Jam nodded madly, his alarm obvious. It was one of the leaders of the Fallen. Known as Azazel, he was a creature of immeasurable spite. He wore a black gossamer tunic and a crown of black opals and pearls, massive pitch wings shining.
“It seems to me, you were indulging a spot of vandalism. Perhaps, I should inform the Great One and he can provide you with a more appropriate outlet for your games.” He spoke softly, yet menace radiated in his tone. Nimbus could only imagine fearfully what punishment in Hell consisted of.
Ram went white. “No, no, no. That won’t be necessary, Master. We have scoured this place! The Book is not here,” he grovelled untruthfully. Jam shook his head energetically, stressing the point.
“I want the Book of Lore, no excuses. You are not to return without it. We can hold the Elders for three days, no more. That is the time you have and I warn you not to fail me.” He vani
shed, a hint of sulphur on the air.
Jam and Ram were invigorated by his departure and started searching in earnest. They overturned chairs, upended bookcases to examine the books and toss them onto a pile in the middle of the floor, ripped upholstery and rifled drawers. Celestial was bumped in the process and the book in her hands fell unnoticed to join the others heaped on the ground.
“It’s no use! It’s not here,” Ram said, his shoulders slumping dismally.
“But we have searched everywhere,” Jam whined. “I hate it here. It’s too … clean.” He moved to Celestial, viewing her up close for the first time. Reaching out, he lightly touched her cheek. “Wow, this one’s stunning!”
“Will you focus? I do not fancy an eternal journey through Beelzebub’s intestine as a tapeworm, which is probably the best we can expect if we don’t find that Book! We have to start over. We’ve missed it somewhere along the way.”
Jam grumbled under-breath, agreeing half-heartedly. He picked Celestial up in a bear-hug, carrying her towards the door. Nimbus was torn between stopping him or rescuing her later, after an extended period free from lectures.
“What are you doing?” screeched Ram.
“I like this. I’m taking it with me.”
“How in Satan’s boils do you propose to carry it and search at the same time? Unlike some, you only have two arms! Leave it. You can come back for it when we’re done.”
Jam saw sense in the suggestion and gently placed Celestial on the divan. He licked her long and sloppily on the cheek. And then they were gone. Celestial and Nimbus re-animated in parallel states of agitation.
“Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom!” She gagged convulsively and flapped her hand at her spit-stained cheek.
“You got off easy!” Nimbus hopped gracelessly on one foot with his snot-soiled leg extended. They made the doorway in a tangled wedge of feathers and limbs.
“Don’t let it touch me!” Celestial shouted, attempting to distance herself from further contamination. “I got Bacchus-germs as well.” After much shoving and cursing they burst through, to soak themselves in every last drop of Huitaca’s disinfectant.
“Wake up! You worthless dung beetle,” Celestial yelled a short while later. She amplified the message by crashing a large pair of cymbals next to Bacchus’s head.
Nimbus stuck his fingers in his ears. Bacchus’ eyes flew open in shock, his face ruddy. He favoured the monk style of hairdo and had a thin circle of ginger hair ringing his head. Apparently, that was not the only thing ringing as he blearily rubbed his assaulted ears. He sat in a messy slouch on the lounge, his grubby robes leaving nothing to the imagination and looking almost as worse for wear as he did.
“Really, there’s no need to shout my dear.” He gestured for her to tone it down and primly adjusted his clothing.
“Too little, too late,” Nimbus griped, the lingering and most unsavoury image of Bacchus’s man-boobs floating in his head. Celestial clapped the cymbals again and Bacchus winced theatrically. Unprepared for the clash this time, Nimbus lost his patience.
“Give me those!”
He tossed them into the air where they evaporated. Celestial crossed her arms and looked crabby. Bacchus glanced around.
“Things must have got a tad unmanageable last night. Although I do not recall making such a mess. I had the most disconcerting vision,” he said, as he massaged his sweat-shined cranium. “I feel a bit stiffer than usual.”
“With the barrels you put away, it’s astonishing you have any memory cells left at all!” Celestial retorted waspishly. “And it was not a vision!”
Bacchus sniffed indignantly. “There is nothing the least bit wrong with a civilised sup between friends. Purely medicinal, you understand. It’s good for the constitution.” He patted his rotund belly as if this proved the point. It sounded to Nimbus like the sloshing of a wine-filled gourd. He interjected before Celestial’s pious streak kicked-in.
“Quit quibbling. This is an emergency! The Fallen have the Elders imprisoned somewhere and some of them are on our plane, searching for the Book of Lore as we speak, or argue as the case may be. We have three days in which to locate the Book and… I don’t know… Stop the Fallen in their task… Whatever it is!”
Nimbus shuddered as an unpleasant vision of being shoved up a giant nose to drown in mucus came unbidden to consciousness. He vowed to be prepared at all times and materialised a snorkel for just in case.
Celestial eyed him suspiciously. “What is that you’re holding?”
“Security,” he muttered, hiding it in his robe.
“Back-up, Nimbus!” Bacchus spluttered. “The Elders and the Book are lost?”
“So it seems,” Celestial answered sullenly, still smarting from the premature loss of her cymbals.
“But I had the Book with me last night. Here, in this very room!”
Celestial and Nimbus looked at each other. With a potent waft of pine-scent, they simultaneously dropped to their knees and scrambled through the mess on the floor, seeking the book bumped out of Celestial’s hands.
“Got it!” Nimbus triumphantly held up a plain, red, leather-bound specimen.
“I knew there was a good reason the Elders did not RSVP. Confinement against one’s will is a suitable excuse for non-attendance.” Bacchus rambled to himself, seemingly unperturbed by the growing calamity.
“Now what?” Celestial ignored Bacchus’s infuriating diversion from the point.
“Well, considering your oaf of a boyfriend will return soon to whisk you away on a romantic date at the zombie carnival, probably complete with maggots and body parts, I’m in favour of leaving here as soon as possible.”
“Ahh, young love.” Bacchus stared off, paying the barest attention to Nimbus’s words. “I must tell you about the time I developed a soft spot for Medusa. She’s really not a bad as they say. Such prejudice over a few asps! To avoid being turned into stone one simply needs to focus on her feet…” And, like so many occasions before, he launched into one of his lengthy meandering stories as the Cherubs readied to flee their beloved sanctuary.
***
Chapter Three
A Visit to Jinx