'Israel,' he said.

Only it came out sound like, 'IS-RA-EL!' Big, booming. Portentous.

Basically, utterly unlike Prajapati as Ori knew him. No wonder he doesn't want to talk to these people, thought Ori.

The sound echoed across the sky. It was heard in The Penthouse, of course. It was heard by the hyperactive soprano section on The Staircase. It seemed to galvanise the heavenly host. Who did a curious thing.

They burst into song. Like most Penthouse numbers, it was very beautiful and in perfect harmony. Also like most Penthouse numbers, it went on for quite a while. Ophaniel got into the spirit of things, revolving and spinning wheels and flickering and giving off coloured lights. It was quite a show.

Ori, Hani, and Ya'akov were surprised, but for different reasons. Hani was surprised because the music seemed to be spontaneous and in Hani's experience, Samya and the choir didn't do spontaneous. Ori was surprised because the choir sounded particularly fine, possibly due to the acoustics over Mesopotamia, possibly augmented by the configuration of the hills, the ambient temperature, and the dryness of the climate. Anyway, it seemed as if the ensemble has really found its sound tonight.

Ya'akov was surprised because, frankly, he didn't realise anybody cared enough about him to offer him a serenade – let alone a whole angelic chorus. He began reevaluating his life choices.

Most surprised of all were the heavenly choir members themselves. Immortals that they were, all of them remembered, if they tried hard, that once upon a time there had been this Creator. You know, the One who made all of this. Nice fellow, never put on airs or anything. Pleasant to talk to, unassuming. They couldn't remember when it had happened, but He seemed to have gone away. He just wasn't there anymore. It hadn't made much difference to the heavenly host: they'd gone about their singing as usual. Over time they began to think of themselves as an autonomous collective.

Samya always chose the music, just as Ophaniel guarded the portals (and scared the living daylights out of anything that wasn't part of The Penthouse). Sami was the choir director, after all. But this time they'd all begun singing, spontaneously as it were, something the eight-winged conductor had not announced: an Amen, in fact. A grand signal of sidereal agreement that imported�what? That this puny, whining, manipulative, annoying human was somehow important enough to merit a whole choir number just for him?

What ruffled the most angelic feathers was the realisation that wherever or whenever Prajapati was in spacetime, He was still very much in charge. If He wanted an Amen he got an Amen. They were still coming to terms with this information as the last 'A-a-a-men' resounded from the hills of Canaan. Then all was still.

You could have heard a mouse squeak.

Hani let go of Ya'akov (Israel).

Ya'akov (Israel) let go of Hani – and stepped off the rock.

Without so much as a whoosh, a sigh, or a feeble 'Amen', the portal snapped shut. There was a tiny beat as all of reality adjusted to alterations.

Hani looked at Ya'akov (Israel) with a grin of admiration. 'Well, son, you got your miracle. Now go in peace. And try to stay out of trouble, will you, please?' And Hani offered Ya'akov a hand to stand up. Realising that he had been kneeling, Ya'akov accepted the hand. And groaned a bit as he tried to walk: he seemed to have developed a limp.

'Looks like you pulled a muscle there, friend,' said Hani. 'When you get to camp, heat a bag of salt and slap it on there. It'll help with the swelling.'

'How do you figure these things out?' asked Ori as the two angels flew away in the direction of the rising sun.

Hani combined a shrug with an Immelmann turn. 'I'm not sure. Probably comes from the same place the choir got that Amen. Which reminds me, old son: when were you gonna tell me He's been listenin' in the whole time?'

The answer was a laugh that echoed in both their heads. You're as bad as Ya'akov. Now he thinks he's important because he 'wrestled with God'. He thinks I pay more attention to him than to his neighbours. And you're worried I'm eavesdropping.

'Why don't you just talk to people?' asked Hani, flying upside down for the fun of it.

Because when I do, they hear bellowing like that, said Prajapati grumpily. We have to take things slowly. But tonight was a start, kids: thanks for your help. Hani seemed to be satisfied with that. The two angels flew on, enjoying the chance to stretch their wings and catch a cool breeze. They flew until they were out of sight of the scene on the ground. Ori was beginning to wonder how they were going to get back to their version of Mesopotamia and check up on the Ninevites, when they spotted a sight familiar to Ori.

'Oh, good, here's The Paternoster.'

'Wow. After you, bro,' said Hani. They took turns landing and by folding their wings both of them managed to stand inside the car.

Hani looked around. 'Kinda small.'

For answer, Ori took Hani by the shoulders, turning the other angel around. 'Ah,' Hani said, seeing the door. Ori opened it and they both stepped inside.

'Far out,' was Hani's only comment.

Ori gave Hani the grand tour: bedrooms with angel perches, the pool, the dining room ('for company'), the kitchen, the library, the music room with instruments of all kinds. They ended up in the large dressing room. Hani gave a whoop of glee and started trying things on.

'Holy fashion design! This is amazing! You mean humans all wear these getups?'

Ori shrugged. 'Somewhere, sometime, I guess. So far it's all been robes and such.'

'Do I want to know somebody who would wear this?' Hani mused aloud, holding up a feather boa as if it might bite. 'Looks like a birdsnake.'

Ori groaned and collapsed onto an overstuffed sofa. 'Don't mention snakes! Did I tell you about the time I got turned into a cobra?'

'No, you didn't,' replied Hani, holding up an ornate coat of embroidered finery. 'Do tell.'

And Ori related the whole saga in the mythical Garden, complete with voice impersonations of Eve and Adam. The impersonations were satirical and not very flattering.

'I can tell you're still sore about it,' commented Hani, still pulling out outfits and throwing them all over the place.

'Hey!' protested Ori. 'Less of that! Do you think we have maid service in here?'

Actually, you do, Prajapati broke in.

'There are other people here?' asked Hani.

A chuckle. No, not people. But I put in an AI for housekeeping.

'What's an AI when it's at home?'

Artificial Intelligence. The humans will think they invented it in a couple of millennia. It's just a sub-sentient form that performs certain automatic tasks, like dusting, pool maintenance, and putting clothes back on hangers, since you seem to be unable to do it.

Ori laughed. 'Haniel, agent of chaos.'

In reply Haniel threw a pile of clothes at Ori. The pile of clothes had been a neat stack of well-folded garments before Hani got to them. Ori examined them.

'Hey, these are nice! Look, Hani: these shirts are soft and comfortable. They sort of move with you. Not stiff like wool. Or scratchy. And not as wrinkly as linen. What is this stuff?'

Cotton, said Prajapati. The humans in Sumeria will figure it out soon. It's good stuff, you're right – as long as people do their own work and don't force others to do it.

'Always the way,' agreed Ori, who'd seen enough bad human behaviour to guess at Prajapati's meaning. Ori slipped on a shirt – easier than it sounds because angel wings, being dimensionally transcendental, are not stopped by things like mere cloth and simply permeate the material and settle themselves nicely on the outside. Ori's did. Ori took a look in the mirror and was satisfied. 'I like it. Try it, Hani.'

'I will, soon's I can get into these bottom parts,' said Hani. The trousers, made out of a heavier, blue cotton, were even more intriguing to the two angels. Hani managed to get one leg into the thing, which Prajapati explained was called 'jeans', but was having trouble with the other leg, and hopped around precariously, threatening to fall over at any moment.

'That jeans appears to be winning,' commented Ori, fiddling with the strange brass thing on what they assumed was the back. Ori slid the little square up and down, watching as it opened and closed by bringing the teeth together.

'Them jeans is tricky,' agreed Hani.

That's a zipper, explained Prajapati. It goes in front.

'Now he tells me,' said Hani, trying to turn them around – and promptly falling down.

It took a lot of wrangling – and considerable laughter – but eventually both angels were attired in t-shirts and jeans. Which Hani declared were the 'best clothes I've ever worn and I don't wanna take 'em off, ever. Besides, I've done forgot how that-there zipper thing works.'

Humans will often wear those shirts with writing on the front and/or back, Prajapati said.

Hani liked this idea. 'What will they say? Things like 'All Praise to Nudimmud'?'

Sometimes religious stuff. But mostly they will advertise their wares or praise their favourite musicians�

'Good,' said Ori. 'Musicians deserve praise.'

�or make jokes.

'Oh, no!' groaned Ori.

'I'm going to get the AI to help me print t-shirts!' announced Hani. 'I want the one about the dog.' Ori groaned again and threw a sofa pillow at Hani. This resulted in a pillow fight.

More jokes, a short nap, and a hot dinner later, the two angels discovered something else they liked about The Paternoster: it had a bowling alley. Prajapati explained the rules, Hani modified them to 'make them more fun,' and Ori figured out both how a bowling approach was supposed to work (by looking it up in the library), and, which was harder, how to keep score.

Ori and Hani enjoyed this new game. It was fun to watch the balls roll down the lane. It was satisfying when the pins fell with a loud crash. It was delightful to clown and pretend to compete and occasionally roll a gutter ball, accidentally on purpose, and generally act like a couple of human children. Best of all, it was a joy to relax, just be, and forget about the fate of the universe for an hour or two.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

07.08.23 Front Page

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