Gabriel, Messenger of God
It’s been almost three months since the helicopter crash.
Heinlen’s therapy sessions are getting longer, more grueling – and less effective. His left foot is actually dropping as he does his sideways shuffle-walk. His head aches constantly. His eyesight is becoming cloudy – or at least – less focused. He’s got to blink repeatedly to clear what he describes as “cobwebs” in his vision field. The edges of what he sees has what looks like heat emanations off the surface of a highway in a desert. He uses his fork (when he can get a good grab on it) to push pre-cut food morsels onto his spoon – and then tries to shove it all into his open mouth. He drinks through a straw – and drools. His speech is still slurred.
Andrjy helps him feed, clothe and wash himself. It’s humiliating. Andrjy’s always at his patient’s side when Heinlen shambles his way to the Gymnasium for therapy, groping the sides of walls as he goes.
Although he’s exhausted after today’s physical therapy session at the Gym, he catches a small meal with Andrjy at the kitchen commissary and makes his way to the Monastery’s main church, the “Katholikon” – or, as the Monks call it – “Old Russik”. Heinlen asks Anrjy to come back in a few hours.
There, amidst the fragrant incense and majestic Iconostas, the vibrant colors of the Icons and polished fixtures he settles into his usual prayer list, half-sitting and half-crouching on the centuries-old pews, he prays until tears form in his eyes. He stares a statue of the Divine Theotokos – Mary Mother of God – and visualizes his mother’s face superimposed on the exquisite sculpture. He always lapses into that habit – seeing her face instead of Mary’s. He doesn’t resist it or think it an irreligious or blasphemous act. In his heart, he knows that the first face he saw in this world is at least as sacred as religious interpretations of the Holy family he sees before him.
Heinlen grasps the edge of the pew in front of him, praying with all his might, anchoring himself so his dizziness won’ t cause him to fall face-first on to the floor. His left leg aches almost as bad as his head. He concentrates on the words of each prayer to keep his mind focused. He repeats each prayer over and over – ten or sometimes twenty times – as if he’s praying the Rosary or Stations of the Cross.
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, blessed art thou are among Women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus………”
His eyes sting from tears. He opens them long enough to daub them with the tissues he always keeps in his pocket – and then becomes aware of a presence.
A shadow.
Heinlen turns to his left.
Directly across the church center isle is Archangel Gabriel. Ten feet away. Dressed exactly as he was last time they spoke. He sits casually – almost bored – his arm balanced along the top of the pew. His fingers are long and perfectly manicured. His face is relaxed, almost bemused. His voice perfectly modulated but inquisitive – crisp and precise like a British acting troupe language coach. An Angelic James Bond.
GABRIEL:
“I’m curious – why do you conflate your mother’s face with that of the Holy Mother?”
Heinlen is shocked to finally see him again – but not cowed. He’s got questions.
HEINLEN:
“I loved my mother deeply. Conflating her face – your words – with that of the Holy Mother is a profound spiritual devotion that I offer up to the Divine Theotokos, the “life giver” to our Lord…
Now – may I ask you a question?”
Gabriel shifts ever so slightly in the pew, visibly stunned by Heinlen’s assertiveness. His face seems to darken a bit – but his voice is unchanged.
GABRIEL:
“Thank you for answering my question. Of course, if you have something you wish to say, I will respond.”
Heinlen reins in his pent-up frustration and softens his tone. He’s facing an Archangel. He’s a broken, sad sack of a mortal man with tears in his eyes wedged into a wooden church pew to keep his debilitating pain at bay. Hardly a meeting of equals. Still…he seizes this opportunity with all the strength he has. His mind is clear. He is resolute.
Their exchange is illuminating.
HEINLEN:
“Your indulgence is appreciated.
My question is this: I am not making progress physically or mentally. Isn’t there something you can do? I assumed that since Simon Magus designated me as his successor, I would be viewed in a favorable light by our Lord and blessed with the abilities and grace to fulfill his Mission”.
GABRIEL:
“You expect Heaven to rebuild your body? Your doctors have operated. Your body will heal…how it will heal. If your therapies succeed, you will once again regain whatever vigor you enjoyed before your injury. I do not give health…or take health away. Do not expect me to present petitions on your behalf to the Almighty.”
HEINLEN:
“But what of Simon Magus’ appointing me his successor? Doesn’t that carry any weight with God?”
GABRIEL:
“Simon Magus was condemned to his Mission centuries ago as punishment for offending Saint Peter. Saint Peter was seen as Simon Magus’ sponsor in Heaven. Longinus was a condemned to his fate by our Lord himself for his role in the Crucifixion.
Now Simon Magus has gone to his eternal reward, as has Longinus…they have earned their grace. They are beyond your call.
You, William Heinlen, have no sponsor or voice in Heaven.
When God has a message he wishes to make known, I am assigned the task of delivering it. I do not ferry responses back to God or negotiate outcomes. He orders me to do something and I do it.”
HEINLEN:
“So – I am on my own?”
GABRIEL:
“No more or less so than any other mortal.
The Message that I was entrusted to deliver to you today is this: the Mission of Simon Magus will not be entrusted to you by Heaven. I have reclaimed the SAEX blade. You may keep his wealth – but another mortal will be consecrated to slay Vampyres. You are too weak and broken. And your romantic dalliance with a Demon hardly speaks to your good character.”
Heinlen is almost bowled over by the Archangel’s words. He feels his blood pressure pounding in his ears and his hands shaking even more than usual. His pain is now amplified by anger and shooting like lightning bolts up and down his spine. Cold, defiant rage grips him by the throat. He wrestles himself back from the precipice of stupidity and forces out his response as calmly as he can, barely in control of his now white-hot temper.
HEINLEN:
“HEAR ME NOW, ARCHANGEL: I LOVE LEEDS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
She didn’t ask to be born the way she did. Does Heaven judge people on attributes they have no control over? Isn’t that a perversion of the Christian Doctrine against punishing innocents?”
GABRIEL:
“I’m not here to debate Christian Dogma with you. I’ve delivered my message and now I – cordially – take my leave.
Perhaps your Demon can help you more than I can.
Farewell, William Heinlen”.
Larnaca, Cyprus
The Cove in Pissouri Bay at Cape Aspro
She’s tired from the fifteen-hour commercial flight but keeps pushing. It’s Thursday – almost the beginning of the weekend in Cyprus and all kinds of touristy, frenetic action is starting to ramp up. It’s a playground for the rich and famous – no question. Everywhere are Porsches, Mercedes-Benzes, Bugattis – and, of course, bright red Ferraris. Not exactly the kind of seaside resort Leeds is used to.
She recalls fragmented images of Simon Magus’ beachfront paradise from a few cropped photo texts he sent to Heinlen – back when he asked her and Heinlen to move there and live with him. He mentioned the “White Cliffs of Cape Aspro” in the background. The images of absolutely stunning scenery spoke volumes. Deep expanses of sandy beach and calm blue Mediterranean water. It looked delightful, dreamy – almost fake.
But now, she needs an old-timey Cyprus taxi driver to help her find her way around this Shangri-La. Somebody who knows the island inside-out. Leeds knows that if she flashes some Yankee dollars, she’ll be seeing some White Cliffs in record time. From there she’ll know the right building when she sees it.
Leeds approaches a bored cabbie sitting in a beat-up KIA at Larnaca Airport. Luckily, he speaks passable English. He visibly perks up when she shows him a one-hundred-dollar bill and describes “A beautiful beach with White Cliffs…”
“I take you there myself! That place you describe with White Cliffs is Pissouri Bay in Limossol District! At Cape Aspro! A very rich neighborhood! I know it like the back of my hand!” He declares, smiling from ear to ear.
And they’re off.
After about twenty minutes of weaving their way up and down umpteen back roads and parking lots, the KIA stops and the taxi driver points to White Cliffs. LEEDS thanks him, forks over the hundred-dollar bill and starts walking. Was it a hundred-dollar ride? To her it was – and a deal is a deal.
She decides to walk along the beach and survey some impressive mansions that face the azure, blue water. Sooner or later LEEDS figures she’ll find what she’s looking for. After walking the distance of a few football fields on pristine, white sand she sees it. There’s a low white silhouette of curved sides, glass walls and bleached roof tiles in the distance – a sweeping architectural masterpiece.
Leeds instantly recognizes the house because she’s seen it before. She can hardly believe her eyes. It’s famous. She saw it in an Architectural Digest Magazine she was perusing in her dentist’s office waiting room a few months ago. It was designed by I.M. Pei. She never realized that Simon Magus’ Cyprus house was so renowned. It had received international awards and a United Nations designation as a World Cultural Site. It was one of the few private residences in the world that was ever so honored. No wonder why Heinlen never sold it.
The house has an eight-foot high black, wrought-iron fence that continues into and well beyond the waterline. This barrier fencing extends outward into the Mediterranean on purpose built, formidable jetties made from massive boulders – like the rocky fingers of giants pointing towards and ultimately submerging under an endless expanse of water the delicate color of a Robbin’s eggshell.
Every twenty feet or so are cameras. The place screams out security. Three beach houses are next to the main structure. On the roof of the first one is a perch, out of which peer two sentries armed with binoculars and AK47s. Next to the second beach house there’s a tower resembling a traditional lighthouse sprouting an ambitious series of dish arrays and high-tech antennae. Further beyond the last beach house is a small cove with an imposing covered boat anchorage. In the far-off ocean are four equidistant buoys, each blinking and laden with more electronic goodies. On the beach is a levelled area made from cobblestones in the configuration of a helicopter pad.
Its splendid. Nirvana to a girl from the Pine Barrens.
This is the place. Simon Magus’ idyllic refuge. Everything you’d need to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.
And Leeds already knows how she’s going to get in.
She’s going walk around to the front of the house and ring the doorbell.
About twenty paces into her trek through dense scrub and oversized island brambles, Leeds tears her jeans on a thorn the size of a small switchblade. Another razor-sharp spur snags her carry-on shoulder bag and almost pulls her down into the deadly central stalk of the treacherous bush. Finally, she emerges a few feet away from the front gate keypad. She presses “Intercom” and cranks up her “authority” voice.
INTERCOM: “Yes, Madame. How can I help you?”
LEEDS: “I am Detective Sargeant Leeds of the New Jersey State Police in the United States. I am here to see Heinlen. I want to see him – and I want to see him Now.”
INTERCOM: “Do you have some kind of Warrant or authority from Cyprus Police to be allowed entry here?”
LEEDS: “If you want to involve Cyprus authorities, I suggest you call them without delay. My patience is limited.”
Some long minutes go by. Leeds gazes at the perfect white clouds sailing through the perfect blue sky to pass the time. Is everything perfect here?
Suddenly there’s a metallic “snap” – and the gate moves forward a few inches. Leeds pushes it open and walks up the pathway to two large oaken front doors, carved with intricate symbols – stylized Angelic Script – mounted on oversized brass hinges. She’s about ready to reach for the comedically supersized brass doorknob when both doors open inward.
Standing there is Dr. Marina Vorshilovka, grinning like an old friend. Her voice is warm and welcoming.
“Come in, Leeds. So good to see you! I’ve been expecting you!”
Before Leeds can respond, her eyes roll upwards in their sockets, and she collapses into a heap on the front door foyer.
Unconscious.
*NO PART OF THIS WORK PRODUCT IS AI
Copyright, 2026 – Jon & Jedediah Croft
www.bogironfoundry.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
