The Scent of an Angel Read Free

than a blaze of glory that whitened the night. I could not see it happening, for it was in me, of me, throughout me, a great holy heat and a fireball of comfort and a huge fierce peace beyond understanding and that scent, that scent, the very scent of light—for a moment it was my own, the scent of an angel, and white flame enough to encompass the world. Awash in that glory all around me, clubs dropped, knives dropped; I saw the folk of the mob swaying like trees in a high wind, their faces flat white ovals punctured by cavernous eyes and mouths as their screaming formed a muddle of words.
    “Fire! The dog’s on fire—”
    “That’s not a dog! It’s a—”
    “Wings! Those are wings, idiot!”
    “It’s a golden wheel!”
    “You’re crazy! It’s a man in a furnace!”
    “What furnace?”
    “Watch out! He’s got a sword!”
    “Back! I’m burning!”
    “Those are wings, I tell you!”
    They screamed, and shouted nonsense, and ran, and within a moment it was all over as if it had never been. They fled, every mother’s son of them, leaving darkness and silence behind. The old woman had dropped me, naturally enough, and the stars winked down just as always, and I lay panting on the ground, a tired little white dog again.
    But someone was patting me. Patting my head, stroking my back, caressing me with a warm, sure hand.
    And it wasn’t the old woman. She tottered nearby, gasping for breath. I could hear her.
    It wasn’t anyone human.
    It was—a heavenly scent in the air, aroma of sunfire, wild white roses, lightning. It was love and peace beyond understanding. It was a holy presence that spoke no words—yet with my whole comforted body I heard words. Well done, my good and faithful servant, that touch said to me.
    But I saw nothing. There was no one there.
    Stay with her a while, my master told me, until I find her another companion. An otherworldly hand rumpled my ears. Then my angel was gone.
    * * *
    I do not remember precisely how long I stayed with her—a month, a year? That was long ago. I do recall that she talked a great deal, and fed me milk and bits of juicy chicken, and gave me a velvet cushion to sleep upon. And I recall that the scattered weapons disappeared from the hillside, and the dead cat was buried by someone or other, and from time to time gifts appeared on the doorstep: fresh-baked bread, a poke of apples, a basket of brown eggs.
    Then, one day, in another basket, there appeared a peace offering of a different sort: a mewling kitten, calico and white.
    It was time for me to go.
    So I sniffed the kitten, licked the old woman’s dried-up hand, and trotted on my way.
    As I have said, that was a couple hundred years ago. I suppose I really am an angel’s familiar, for something has made me an exception to death. Horse and wagon have given way to automobiles and airplanes, but I am still here. I trot through culverts and factory lots now instead of lanes and fields, but I am still here. I follow the wind wherever it leads me, and sometimes I starve and sometimes I am kicked and sometimes I am able to be of help and comfort to someone for a while before I wander on my way.
    Always I have to go, to move on, because I yearn always for my master. Only three times in my long life since have I sensed that presence, but I must keep searching, for what else can I do? A waft of wild roses on a June breeze, a hint of lightning in the night air, and my head lifts, and longing takes hold of my heart, and there can be no dozing by a warm fire for me any longer; I have to set off again on my search. I am, after all, a dog, with a dog’s heart, love beyond comprehension. Even though I know it is all but hopeless, I must trot my weary way, seeking the scent of an angel.
    It is very possible that you have encountered me. That dirty little dog you saw trotting along the interstate yesterday, the one who stopped to lick the oil from the asphalt—that might have been me. That mutt you chased out of your yard