Divine Intervention: Chapter Five

‘Year 1978, after exile from Heaven

Camiel,

I haven’t written to you in several decades. It was only because I knew that I would never have the nerve to send any of these letters to you, even if I knew where you were, where you lived here on Earth. I know you’re still here. I can see it from the things you do. The bold yet subtle miracles you do. The women who survived car crashes and burning apartments, the drowning children you’ve drawn to shore, the dying patients you’ve healed in your past time. Everything’s recorded, nowadays. All in talk, all in writing, everything. And I can tell you this, Caramel; you may be a lot of things, but you certainly aren’t changeable.

I want to know how you are. What you’ve become. What I’ve missed, since I’ve set you apart. A day doesn’t pass when I don’t regret—that day. Would you understand? I don’t think I can ever stop regretting it. I was young, I was stupid, I thought that…that I could live forever. That we could live forever. Together. Just you and me against the cosmic conspiracy, against heaven and hell, fighting in the middle line.

It’s never that easy, is it?

I wonder if you’ve found a wife. Or a husband. I never heard if you ever got to fix that gender vessel issue, you being a girl and all (I laugh, thinking about it honestly). You’ve always envied humans for their compassion, their intimacy—‘but the divine cannot afford romanticism’. But you’re wrong, my friend. The divine can afford everything the human world can. It only fears that, if we were to realize how powerful it is, we would wish for more.

Freedom, Caramel. When you asked me, the day before I left, if I would choose freedom or safe haven, I scarcely knew how to tell you. To me, that is not an option—it is an obligation. Safe haven is an illusion, an ideal too high for even heaven to reach. As beings of the cruel and unjust universe, we own nothing, we are nothing. All we have is freedom. I will not let the Court take that away.

I’m sorry, old friend. Our friendship means the world to me. But what I believe in must come first. I truly hope you can understand.

Sincerely--”

“Adriel?”

He folded the letter into little squares, hastily stashing it in his suit pocket. He looked about. Pax stopped the Merc by a medicinal store, along the narrow streets of Chinatown. Everywhere he looked, red lanterns shone in an orange glow, ornaments and paper garlands with calligraphy written on them hanging at every store. “We’re here.”

Pax pulled himself out of the car door, straightening out the wrinkles of his suit. He reminded Adriel of a fat, clumsy clown he’d usually seen in carnivals, always acting stupid, always bouncing about despite their hidden intelligence. Pax wasn’t the brightest demon in hell, he was sure of it—but working with him had its’ benefits.

Adriel followed, looking back at the medicinal store. It had writing at its front, but no English translation. Pity. “I doubt any Mediator lives here,” He concluded, opening the car door to go back in. “Let’s go, Pax, we’ll find better work later on--”

Pax held onto his cuff sleeve, tugging him out. “We haven’t asked anybody about it,” He said. “I’m sure someone here has something to say.”

“They won’t even understand us.”

“I can talk a little Chinese.”

“Like hell you can.”

Pax smiled. “When you send a guy out for noodles, he learns a few phrases.” He shrugged. “And besides, one of these people must speak English. Even if we don’t find him, we’ll at least be able to order some dumplings.”

Adriel laughed, pulling his cuff sleeve away. “Just for a moment. Okay?” He walked up onto the the street, studying his surroundings. “Right. Where should we go first?”

…

Pax really could speak Chinese.

Adriel sat beside the stand, in wonder, staring at his companion as he chattered away with the owner, chewing on the sweet bread he’d bought. He didn’t understand a word, of course, but Pax certainly did. This was the fifth shop they’d interrogated, each time revealing piece by piece the story behind the medicinal store.

“Well, nothing says that Mr. Nei Li speaks to God,” Pax said, sitting by him. “But he certainly has something in his attic. People call it ‘the White Ghost’—small, paler than life, eyes blacker than the devils’. Collected paper stars in a jar on the window sill above the store, but it crashed three months ago. According to the stand owner, it reappeared the next day, no stars inside.”

“Paper stars?” Adriel arched a brow. “Is that supposed to be…ominous?”

Pax shrugged. “Most assume it’s the stillborn baby Nei Li’s wife gave birth to. They say Nei Li buried the infant in a coffin filled with paper stars, for some reason.”

“That certainly makes sense.”

“Don’t be like that. I think it’s sad, about the kid and all. I wouldn’t question it.”

“I’m not you.” Adriel stood up, walking to the medicinal store. “Let’s ask him ourselves. That ghost people keep talking about may be a little more than that, you get what I mean?”

“Just be careful.” Pax followed him, in small steps, the sort a baby would make. “It’s a touchy subject; you could get kicked out because of it.”

“Don’t be like that, Pax. You know I’m always careful.” Adriel smiled, pushing the door open.