Angelology(84)

—she had aged considerably in the past months, her beauty tempered with fatigue and worry.

“These,” she said, gesturing to a number of wooden crates, each one nailed shut, “are being sent to

a safe house in the Pyrenees. And this lovely depiction of Michael,” she said, bringing us before a

glossy Baroque painting of an angel in Roman armor, his sword raised and his silver breastplate

gleaming, “will be smuggled through Spain and sent to private collectors in America, along with a

number of other precious pieces.”

“You have sold them?” Gabriella asked.

“In times like these,” Dr. Seraphina said, “ownership matters less than that they are protected.”

“But won’t they spare Paris?” I asked, recognizing the moment I spoke how silly the question was.

“Are we really in such danger?”

“My dear,” Dr. Seraphina said, her wonder at my statement clear, “if they have their way, there

will be nothing left of Europe, let alone Paris. Come, there are some objects I would like to show

you. It may be many years before we see them again.”

Pausing at a partially filled wooden crate, Dr. Seraphina removed a parchment pressed between

sheets of glass and brushed its surface free of sawdust. Drawing us close, she placed the manuscript

on the surface of a table.

“This is a medieval angelology,” she said, her image reflected in the protective glass. “It is

extensive and meticulously researched, like our best modern angelologies, but its design is a bit more

ornate, as was the fashion of the era.”

I recognized the medieval markings of the manuscript—the strict, orderly hierarchy of choirs and

spheres; the beautiful renderings of golden wings, musical instruments, and halos; the careful

calligraphy.

“And this tiny treasure,” Dr. Seraphina said, stopping before a painting the size of an outstretched

hand, “dates from the turn of the century. Quite lovely, I think, as it is painted in a modern style and

focuses solely upon the representation of the Thrones—a class of angels that has been the focus of

interest for angelologists for many centuries. The Thrones are of the first sphere of angels, along with

the Seraphim and Cherubim. They are conduits between the physical worlds and have great powers of

movement.”

“Incredible,” I said, gazing at the painting in what must have been obvious awe.

Dr. Seraphina began to laugh. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Our collections are immense. We’re building

a network of libraries throughout the world—Oslo, Budapest, Barcelona—simply to house them. We

are hoping to one day have a reading room in Asia. Such manuscripts remind us of the historical basis

of our work. All of our efforts are rooted in these texts. We depend upon the written word. It is the

light that created the universe and the light that guides us through it. Without the Word, we would not

know from where we came or where we are going.”

“Is that why we are so interested in preserving these angelologies?” I asked. “They are guides to

the future?”

“Without them we would be lost,” Seraphina said. “John said that in the Beginning there was the

Word and the Word was with God. What he did not say is that in order to be meaningful the Word

requires interpretation. That is our role.”

“Are we here to interpret our texts?” Gabriella asked lightly. “Or to protect them?”

Dr. Seraphina gazed at Gabriella with a cool, assessing eye. “What do you believe, Gabriella?”

“I believe that if we do not protect our traditions from those who would destroy them, soon there

will be nothing left to interpret.”

“Ah, so you are a warrior, then,” Dr. Seraphina said, challenging Gabriella. “There are always

those who would put on armor and go to battle. But the real genius is in finding a way to get what you

desire without dying for it.”

“In times like these,” Gabriella said, walking ahead, “one has no choice.”

We examined a number of objects in silence until we came to a thick book placed at the center of a

table. Dr. Seraphina called Gabriella over, watching her intently, as if she were reading her gestures

for something, although I could not say what.

“Is it a genealogy?” I asked, examining the rows of charts drafted upon the surface. “It is filled with

human names.”

“Not all human,” Gabriella said, stepping closer to read the text. “There are Tzaphkiel and

Sandalphon and Raziel.”

Squinting at the manuscript, I saw that she was correct: Angels were mixed into the human lines.

“The names aren’t arranged in a vertical hierarchy of spheres and choirs, but in another kind of