Unworthy of the Angel

[Savor Dam]

I SO need to re-read this story!

Thank you for the reminder, Linna.

[Linna Heartbooger]

Yay! Glad to be of service... while just chattering about what I wanted to chatter about.

This thread was actually really useful for me.
A comment of Dragonlily's resulted in me checking out a book containing short stories of SRD I haven't read yet. (just a few days ago)
And currently reading "The Woman Who Loved Pigs," which I love!

[Cord Hurn]

Just finished re-reading "Unworthy of the Angel" yesterday.

Our angel in this story is sure operating with some disadvantages, eh? Can't remember his past, is made to appear as a lowly individual (in this episode of his existence, anyway), is forced to feel physical discomfort in a hot urban environment, and has to figure out his mission and how it can be accomplished without any overt divine guidance. Further, his devilish opponent Mortice Root has a more charismatic appearance and is placed in a more socially affluent position than himself. This certainly makes it sound like it's as least as tough being an angel as being a human, if not more so. Makes for a more interesting story, though, than if the angel just waved his power around to accomplish good things instantaneously.

Being an angel has some advantages, fortunately. Our hero occasionally gets brief flashes of intuition to guide him as when he first sees pale and fragile Kristen Dona walk past him, suddenly feeling a shock of importance about her being relevant to his mission. And when the people he is sent to help give him permission to take action on their behalf, then there's NOTHING that can stop him! Which for me makes an effective emotional payoff in reading this story, considering the difficulties the angel must go through before prevailing.

This story is offbeat, but I like it. It's certainly not everyday I read of a sculptor (Reese Dona) who's faced failure so many times that he's willing to make a deal with a well-connected evil angel in human guise to get famous for his work, at the cost of his sister's life (and therefore of his own soul).

With Kristen's permission, our angel is able to get Reese to confront what his bargain has been doing to his sister (she is dying by slowly bleeding to death), and that's enough to make the difference in saving Reese's soul and Kristen's life.

The angel's parting advice to Reese for having a more successful art career could apply to having a more successful (and enjoyable) life as well:

You need to find the balance. Reason and energy. There's no limit to what you can do, if you just keep your balance.

Sounds like effective living is a lot like an effective tightrope walk. And this philosophy of balance is attached to an illustrative story that I won't soon forget.
Nice.

[Savor Dam]

Indeed. Much of what I have achieved in turning my life around in the last four years is rooted in this tightrope balance.

Todah, bashert!

[Cord Hurn]

I'm very glad you've found the way to make balance work in your life, Savor Dam. I'm still working on my balancing act, I must confess.

[Cord Hurn]

In spite of that, I didn't give up. I didn't know where I was or how I got here; I was lucky to know why I was here at all. And I would never remember. Where I was before I was here was as blank as a wall across the past. When the river took me someplace else, I wasn't going to be able to give Kristen Dona the bare courtesy of remembering her.

That was a blessing, of a sort. But it was also the reason I didn't give up. Since I didn't have any past or future, the present was my only chance.

When I was sure the world wasn't going to melt around me and change into something else, I went down the stairs, walked into the pressure of the sun, and tried to think of some other way to fight for Kristen's life and Reese's soul.

After all, I had no right to give up hope on Reese. He'd been a failure for ten years. And I'd seen the way the people of this city looked at me. Even the derelicts had contempt in their eyes, including me in the way they despised themselves. I ought to be able to understand what humiliation could do to someone who tried harder than he knew how and still failed.

But I still couldn't think of any way to fight it. Not without permission. Without permission, I couldn't even tell him his sister was in mortal danger.

In spite of the odds against the mission of saving Reese and Kristen, our angel pushes forward because the here and now is all there is to work with and try to create success. If he'd remembered past failures with people he was trying to save, it could well dilute his energy. As long as his world doesn't melt away and Kristen hasn't died yet, he knows he always has a chance to succeed. For a story in such an oppressive setting (does the heat represent the hidden shame in Reese?), this is actually an optimistic story. I still find it charming in its own special way.

[Cord Hurn]

After Kristen has the angel meet Reese, and Reese orders him out of his and Kristen's apartment, the angel tries a different tack to save them both. He decides he wants to meet his adversary Mortice Root and find out what he can do to oppose him. Along the way, an interesting encounter occurs.

Kristen had said that Root's gallery, The Root Cellar, was "over on 49th."

I didn't know the city; but I could at least count. I went around the block and located 20th. Then I changed directions and started working my way up through the numbers.

It was a long hike. I passed through sections that were worse than where Kristen and Reese lived and ones that were better. I had a small scare when the numbers were interrupted, but after several blocks they took up where they'd left off. The sun kept leaning on me, trying to grind me to the pavement, and the air made my chest hurt.

And when I reached 49th, I didn't know which way to turn. Sweating, I stopped at the intersection and looked around. 49th seemed to stretch to the ends of the world in both directions. Anything was possible; The Root Cellar might be anywhere. I was in some kind of business district--49th was lined with prosperity--and the sidewalks were crowded again. But all the people moved as if nothing except fatigue or stubbornness and the heat kept them from running for their lives. I tried several times to stop one of them to ask directions; but it was like trying to change the course of the river. I got glares and muttered curses, but no help.

That was hard to forgive. But forgiveness wasn't my job. My job was to find some way to help Reese Dona. So I tried some outright begging. And when begging failed, I simply let the press of the crowds start me moving the same way they were going.

With my luck, this was exactly the wrong direction. But I couldn't think of any good reason to turn around, so I kept walking, studying the buildings for any sign of a brownstone mansion and muttering darkly against all those myths about how God answers prayer.

Ten blocks later, I recanted. I came to a store that filled the entire block and went up into the sky for at least thirty floors; and in front of it stood my answer. He was a scrawny old man in a dingy gray uniform with red epaulets and red stitching on his cap; boredom or patience glazed his eyes. He was tending an iron pot that hung from a rickety tripod. With the studious intention of a halfwit, he rang a handbell to attract people's attention.

The stitching on his cap said, "Salvation Army."

I went right up to him and asked where The Root Cellar was.

He blinked at me as if I were part of the heat and the haze. "Mission's that way." He nodded in the direction I was going. "49th and Grand."

"Thanks anyway," I said. I was glad to be able to give the old man a genuine smile. "That isn't what I need. I need to find The Root Cellar. It's an art gallery. Supposed to be somewhere on 49th."

He went on blinking at me until I stated to think maybe he was deaf. Then, abruptly, he seemed to arrive at some kind of recognition. Abandoning his post, he turned and entered the store. Through the glass, I watched him go to a box like half a booth that hung on one wall. He found a large yellow book under the box, opened it, and flipped the pages back and forth for a while.

Nodding at whatever he found, he came back out to me.

"Down that way," he said, indicating the direction I'd come from. "About thirty blocks. Number 840"

Suddenly, my heart lifted. I closed my eyes for a moment to give thanks. Then I looked again at the man who'd rescued me. "If I had any money," I said, "I'd give it to you."

"If you had any money," he replied as if he knew who I was, "I wouldn't take it. Go with God."

I said, "I will," and started retracing my way up 49th.

For being someone who appears to be a halfwit, the bell-ringer possesses some kind of intuitive ability. He either sees by the angel's appearance that he's too destitute to give money away (the most likely) explanation, or senses his angelic nature and knows he can promote more good following his nature rather than just giving money. Regardless of what explains his behavior, his telling the angel to "go with God" is ironic in a pleasant way.

[Cord Hurn]

Root's clay.

Kristen was right. This clay looked like dark water under the light of an evil moon. It looked like marl mixed with blood until the mud congealed. And the more I studied what I saw, the more these grotesque and brutal images gave the impression of growing from the clay itself rather than from the independent mind of the artist. They were not Reese's fear and dreams refined by art; they were horrors he found in the clay when his hands touched it. The real strength, the passion of these pieces, came fron the material Root supplied, not from Reese. No wonder he had become so hollow-eyed and ragged. He was struggling desperately to control the consequences of his bargain. Trying to prove to himself that he wasn't doing the wrong thing.

For a moment, I felt a touch of genuine pity for him.

But it didn't last. Maybe deep down in his soul he was afraid of what he was doing and what it meant. But he was still doing it. And he was paying for the chance to do such strong work with his sister's life.

I wonder what the clay symbolizes in this story.

It this some way of saying that good cannot be made from something that inspires raw negative emotions?

Is this clay material a stand-in for alcohol or drug inspirations for art?

Or this metaphor of the clay a way of saying that something that causes, anger, pain, or horror can't fuel creativity in a way that's ultimately valuable and thought-provoking?

Maybe not. Maybe it's a warning for artists to not let their emotions get out of control while they're creating; that they can't forget to exercise reason in pursuing their purposes.

And maybe it's a way of saying that artists can't sell themselves out, they must always remember not to sacrifice their principles of what they wanted to accomplish simply to achieve fleeting success. Perhaps that's it.