Bones of Angels Read Free

joints ached with the recent change in the weather. The Archbishop’s residence beckoned with the promise of a glass, maybe two, of twenty-five-year-old Macallan scotch.
    It was his only vice.
    He loved the daily ritual of it. The sound of a single ice cube dropped into his favorite crystal snifter. The heavy aroma of earth and peat. The tingling warmth that radiated into the limbs of his aging body.
    When he finally reached the front door of the residence, Connolly had almost succeeded in convincing himself that tomorrow would be a better day.
    Quietly whistling a fugue from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Ave Maria to calm his frayed nerves, he opened the door and stepped into the foyer. A pantheon of saints eyed him warily from within gilded frames.
    Abruptly, his whistling ceased.
    A sound emanated from somewhere above him.
    “Hello?” he called out, advancing two steps up the staircase. His knees ached badly.
    The greeting went unanswered.
    Connolly crept up the staircase. He reached the second floor landing as the grandfather clock on the first floor struck eight o’clock.
    He sat down behind the desk in his study and poured a glass of the Macallan scotch, a gift from an old friend. It warmed his throat as he swallowed. A folio of brittle parchment occupied the center of his desk. With arthritic fingers, Connolly delicately turned a page and began to read. His lips silently mouthed the words.
    Blessed is the one who reads the words of this prophecy, and blessed are those who hear it and take to heart what is written in it, because the time is near.
     
    A faint noise broke his concentration. He rose and stepped into the hallway. It was dimly lit and empty. At the end of the corridor, a large window overlooked the gardens below. Outside, a Yashino cherry tree stood in dark silhouette. A wayward branch reached out from the tree like a gnarled finger. It scratched on the windowpane, stirred by the night breeze.
    “Ah,” he said to himself. “The vague imaginings of an old man.” 
    The lines of his long, angular face deepened as he smiled to himself. Wisps of thin gray hair on top of his head gave him the appearance of a battered scarecrow.
    He retraced his steps down the hall. It was filled with medieval religious art. A boyish angel smiled at him from a Caravaggio painting, Amor Victorious.  
    Seated again at his desk, he continued reading from the folio.
And I saw a mighty angel proclaiming in a loud voice, "Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?" 
     
    He once again heard the sound of the tree, plaintively scratching the windowpane, as if it were seeking admittance.
    Connolly simply smiled. He supposed he was a silly old man afraid of shadows.
    But Connolly also knew that even silly old men, if they still had their wits about them, contained a lifetime of wisdom in the aging synapses of their brains.
    And Connolly was most definitely still in possession of his wits. Indeed, he intended to beat his diagnosis of liver cancer. He had been through a grueling day of chemotherapy, but he hadn’t lost hope.
    Gazing at the wall across the study, his kindly eyes focused on an old painting — an El Greco reproduction — of Christ on the cross. The grossly elongated figure of Christ reminded Connolly of his own body. The Archbishop’s frame was thin and gaunt, crucified by cancer and what seemed like barbaric, medieval treatments — toxic chemicals flowing through his bloodstream to kill the tumor.
    But God would protect him, as would His angels. Connolly quietly recited by heart the last few lines of Psalm 103:  “Bless Yahweh, all his angels, heroes mighty to enforce his word, attentive to his word of command.”
    Bronze statues stood in two corners of the study opposite the desk: Saints Michael and Gabriel.
    Archangels.
    “Servants to enforce his will,” Connolly said softly.
    Connolly took another sip of scotch. Yes, all would be well.
    Whittington Manor
    Long Island, New York, 2011
     
    Charles