The Mornigal

The mornigal hesitated as he slogged through the hip-deep slurry, reached beneath the surface and gently clasped the crooked limp arm. He straightened, wing tips fluttering slightly as they flickered over the slowly oozing water, brought the tiny form to his chest and looked upward, chanted softly. A burst of light, pillar to the skies, and the trapped soul vanished. With infinite care he rested the shell of the man's body back down into the mud at his feet, to be cared for on mortal terms. He brushed a small bit of moss from his shoulder and slogged onward. This was part of his job that he hated the most.

He glanced over, shielding his eyes in the pre-dawn light, and spotted an elderly woman, resting just behind the wrought iron railing of an overhanging balcony, fallen, legs twisted painfully beneath her frail form. He reached across with a wing tip, pushed her hair from her face, and noted the parched lips. A breath of air escaped his own, and a small cloud of condensation moved to rest above her, shielding, dampening. She saw nothing, but a twist of a smile crossed her eyes as the precious water dripdripped into her open mouth. As it should be. He moved on, stepping over a submerged pick-up truck.

The mornigal paused when the light became too bright, and sought the inward spaces. Not that he could be seen by mortal eyes - at least most mortal eyes. But crises reveal hidden talents in the infirm and the infant. Twice already this trip alone, he had found himself staring into the eyes of a mortal child who reached for him hungrily, pleading. Twice his heart broke. They cannot must not see me not now not yet, he thought sadly, and surveyed the sodden brick fronts, then decided.

With a wing-flick he sunk to the lower floor of a half-floating house, ducked beneath the lintel and, on hands and knees, continued his retrieval. Family of four, trapped as the water had raced in. Ready to come home. He noted the names on a small linen pad with the stub of a pencil, lifted each to his chest in turn, sent their souls homeward. As he worked, he inhaled tastes of the swirling water, gaining direction, where to seek next. It was livid with soul fire. His head began to throb painfully. So much work so much work so many trapped, as he crawled his great form forward from room to submerged room.

Emptied of souls, he noted, and exited as he had arrived, then stretched to his full height, carefully unfurling his great wings and allowing them to flick above the water once again. He trudged onward, keeping to the shadowed side of the street, making his way slowly from doorway to doorway, tasting the air for his direction.

The mornigal paused then dissolved through a windowpane. Two souls trapped he freed, leaving the bodies as they had rested last. No clue to his presence but that he closed their eyes. He could not help it. A finality, a sign of respect, as he went about his grisly task. As he dematerialized and passed through the window and back out onto the flooded street, his ears perked. Calls for help from a rooftop nigh a mile away. A great sheet flapped in the air as the two men waved it frantically. He paused, flew up slightly and sighted them through the bristle of debris. With a huge hand he swept away a small sheet of overcast, lighting them with a sudden ray of morning sun. Chopper blades whirred in the distance as he turned back toward his task. The two would be rescued within the hour. He would attend to the three souls who rested face-down and sheet-clad next to them on the roof - in a bit. With a quiet sigh he resumed his patrol.

Back in his day, alive days, he thought with a sad smile, he had prowled similar streets. Slept in doorways in alleys just like that one over there, now deeply silted and filled with two stories of shattered pine. He had died, not here, but near, and been transported home from a humid dawn such as this, sweat- and blood-soaked chambray shirt clinging to his cooling form. The mornigal who had honored him was new to the task, less than a hundred souls under her belt, wings still practically bare, not much taller than a mortal man. He'd watched through dead eyes as the ethereal newcomer fumbled around and nearly dropped his corpse, tears coursing down her face, unaware that she was being watched. The first few trips were the hardest, he recalled. The mornigal had wept silently as she reached to touch the knife wounds in his belly, trace the congealed life blood which had crept away through the night. When finally she gathered him up and held him, the warmth of her arms was unbearably comforting, and he found himself yearning for life but denied. The flash of light would have blinded him if he had been alive, as, off key and hesitant, she sang the keening wailing chant which released his soul from his form.

At the corner, he reviewed his small bit of paper. So many since midnight, and so many left. He looked up into the now-blazing sun, flicked his wings and headed skyward.

A small boy waved hesitantly at the mornigal as he clung to a snaking length of rope, floating just out of reach of safety. The mornigal waved back, nudging the choppy water with a wing tip as he swept toward the sky. The rope drifted a moment then caught onto a leaf gutter, found a mooring, and the boy clambered to the waiting rooftop, safe. The mornigal smiled to himself as the last of him disappeared into the heavens. There were times it was acceptable to have been seen.

Perched atop his stone bench, the mornigal watched, waited for the orb below to spiral into darkness so he could get back to work. A soft chime at his shoulder rang softly, repeatedly, and he felt the weight of his wings increase with each additional huge feather. Felt his form stretch and grow in breadth and strength to bear the new burden. He wept, tears of sadness and relief, not for the reward of his tasks, but for the tasks' necessity. He knew with a heavy heart that before this catastrophe was over, his wings would be completely full, he would have earned the title of Angel, at the moment the millionth soul left his embrace and was borne home.


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Of note: Polls taken this year showed that over 78% of US citizens surveyed believe in the existence of angels.