The Weapon - Fall
By Diana the Valkyrie
There's a lot of comfort in knowing that there's someone who cares, watching over you
Update: 07/09/2003 to valkyrie05


OK, maybe it was rash of me to quit my job like that. But the Church of the
Holy Guardian encouraged and welcomed me, and it wasn't like I was leaving a
job I liked. All those dumb users, hammering dumb questions at me all day,
mostly the same questions, over and over.

When She visited the Church, I mean, Her, the Guardian of Humanity, She
Herself, Blessed be She, I was there to witness the auspicious event. And when
she donated a Holy Feather to the Church, it was me that she chose as the
Keeper of the Holy Feather.

Of course, Hilary Paxton didn't see it that way. Her idea was that the Feather
belonged to all of us, and I agreed with that, but then she said "and I, as
Head Priestess, should be the Keeper of the Holy Feather", that was going too
far. I mean, after all, it was me that thought up the MD5 idea, and it was me
she thanked for it, and it was me she gave the Holy Feather to. So.

So there was a bit of a ding-dong, you know what I mean? Nothing violent,
after all we were all peace-loving churchgoers, but certainly harsh words were
spoken, and quite a lot of shouting. And maybe a bit of pushing and shoving.
But hardly anyone got punched in the face.

Anyway, so after that, things went downhill a bit. I insisted on holding on to
the Feather, no matter what. And a bunch of people agreed with me - but a
bunch didn't. So I told the disbelievers to get out of our church.

I suppose I should have expected that Hilary Paxton went postal over that, and
screeched at the top of her voice that we were all doomed and damned by our
lack of faith in the Holy Guardian, and we should get the fuck out of her
church.

Nice.

Well, by then it was pretty late anyway, so my supporters and I congregated at
the local pub to have a swift half or two, and a bite to eat, and work out how
we should move this on from here. And every so often, one of them said, "Come
on, Simon, let's see it again," so I'd bring out that great white Feather and
let them feast their eyes on it, and renew their faith.

It was at least two feet long, purest white, and curly. In some ways it was
like an ostrich feather, but in other ways it wasn't. We found that out very
quickly, when someone tried to stroke it, and found that he had blood on his
hand. The Feather would draw blood if you touched it! Of course, I was holding
it by the quill, so I was quite safe. In a related miracle, none of the blood
stayed on the Feather itself, it just slid off like water off a duck's back.

The next day, I went to the Church as usual, only to find that the door was
locked. I rang the bell, George Bancroft opened the door, but when he saw that
it was me, he wouldn't let me in, and he called Hilary.

"Oh, it's you," she said, curtly. "You ready to turn the Feather over yet?"
"You what?" I replied, "not on your Nelly." The door slammed in my face.

I hung about the rest of the morning. As the hours went by, people showed up
at the church, and asked me why I was hanging about outside. I explained the
situation, and suggested that they help me to picket the place.

Some of them did. But most of the people who'd been supporters when downing
the ale last night, seemed to have second thoughts.

Possession, they say, is nine tenths of the law. I had the Feather, sure
enough. But Paxton had the building.

Well, a building is just a building, hey, anyone can get a building and call
it a Church. But I had the Holy Feather, and you can't just go down a chicken
farm and pluck yourself one of those. So, I managed to persuade quite a few of
the congregation to side with me on this, and by the end of the day, I
reckoned that about a third of the Church was backing me up, with the other
two thirds following the heretical Hilary.

When the pub opened that evening, we gathered round, and talked turkey. First
we elected an Action Committee, charged with finding us somewhere to use as
our new Church. No-one seemed to want me to be on that, I suppose I don't get
on too well with people. And there was a consensus that Bill Caversham should
be our Minister, because he seemed to have all the knowledge about the
ceremonies. But while they were doling out jobs to each other, someone said to
me, "Simon, how do you see your role in this?" "Well," I began, "I'm the
Keeper of the Holy Feather, and ... " "Sure, but what are you actually going
to do to get things moving?" "Um. Well. I'll look after the Feather, no
problem."

Over the next few weeks, we met in the pub each evening to sort out the
details of how we'd be running this church. I noticed that there seemed to be
a certain amount of backsliding; our numbers were dwindling as people drifted
back to the old church. I was starting to wonder how we'd cope. More
importantly, I was starting to wonder how I'd cope. No job means no income,
but I still had to make the rent each week. But whenever I felt I was losing
heart, I'd pull out the Holy Feather and gaze at its pristine purity. "The
Guardian of Humanity will provide", I'd tell the others. Plus a few stiff
drinks would cheer me up.

Then, one evening down at the pub, Bill Caversham put into words what we were
all thinking. "Unless we get a church, we're fucked." Everyone stopped talking
and started at him. He burped. I think we'd all been drinking too much, that's
one of the problems of meeting down the pub. You get into a rhythm, you know
what I mean?

Bill turned to me, and said, "Simon, my son, yours is the most important
sponsibility of all of us." Oho, I though, yes! This sounds good. "To you
falls the task of liai ... laze ... meeting with the Guardian of Humanity,
since you are the Keeper of the Holy Feather. You must humbly beseech and
request her help and assistance, for we are flat to the boards, verily devoid
of cash, and without the wherewithal to rent or purchase a place of worship."

I thought about this for a few seconds; sometimes these religious phrases do
actually have some real meaning, but I was blowed if I could see what he was
on about. Maybe I shouldn't have had those last two pints. Phil Gavner came to
my rescue. "He means, we need a loan." Ah. Right. I was supposed to touch the
Guardian for a few bob. Hmmm.

I thought about this. Maybe it isn't as impossible as it sounds. I mean, I
know where she lives, everyone does, and last time she saw me I got a hug and
a Feather, so we're on speaking terms. "Yes," I said, "I can do that, piece of
cake, walk in the park. Nothing to it." I mean, you have to sound confident,
don't you?

I didn't think it would be a good idea to go see her in Freedonia, it's a long
way away, and I didn't have the airfare. But she spent her weekdays in a
rather ordinary house in Cricklewood, so the next day, I jumped on a number 13
bus, and headed for her home.

When I got there, I started to have second thoughts about the feasibility of
this project. The problem with her home address being public, was that it
attracted a bit of a crowd. Quite a large crowd, in fact. And I'm far too
polite to elbow my way to the front, plus it wasn't clear to me that I'd be
able to attract her attention that way.

But I had a cunning plan.

I mingled with the crowd, chatting with people there. It seemed that they were
all on a similar mission to mine - they all wanted something from her. Some
wrong to be righted, some scheme to invest in, some kitten up in a tree, as
they say. So, I told them about the Church of the Holy Guardian, and the pub
where we were currently meeting, and how they'd learn how to pray to her
properly, and sing hymns, and stuff like that. I expect I won a few converts
that day. While I waited, I had a crafty swig or two from a little flask I
carried, just to keep my courage up, you know? I mean, tapping the Guardian
for a loan isn't for the faint of heart. Dutch courage isn't as good as the
real thing, but when you don't have much of the real thing, a swift swallow
helps lots.

Round about six pm, there was a big "Oooh" from the crowd; I looked up, and
there was what looked like a great white bird circling down towards us, with a
passenger astride her back. I guessed that would be David.

So everyone was waving and shouting and hollering, trying to attract her
attention, but I just stood up, and calmly waved the Feather back and forth.
That was my cunning plan.

And it worked! She swooped down low, and I felt the pressure of her strong
hands under my armpits as she scooped me up, and a minute later, I was inside
the rather ordinary three-bedroom semi that they lived in.

"Simon!" she said, "how are they hanging? Come into the kitchen and talk to me
while I get supper on"

You know, somehow, I never had a mental picture of the Guardian of Humanity
wearing an pinafore that says "Get the fuck out of my kitchen". Or that she'd
be spending time on such mundane domestic things as cooking. So I asked her
about it. "Oh, the slogan's just a joke, you don't have to go." "No, I meant
about the cooking bit." She gave me a funny look. "I just like feeding the
ones I love, Simon, it's a nice thing to do. Will you be staying for supper? I
can easily make a bit extra."

I could hardly refuse. No, let's be honest, I stuttered a bit, because I was
so eager to accept. "So tell me," she asked, "how's things going for you?"

And that was my opportunity to tell her the tale, and touch her for a loan. Of
course, I muffed it. "Great," I said, "just great. And you?"

There's a convention that says that in a conversation, you ask how things are
going, and you both say "Going well," and then you go on to talk about the
real stuff you want to discuss. But the Guardian of Humanity is obviously not
bound by any conventions. "I'm all over my memory problem, it's better than it
ever was. And my Momma came to visit, and she said she's so proud of me! And
we talked for hours about you." "About me?" "About you, I mean all of you,
this damn language needs a second person plural. Did you know I've got more
people in my Guardianship than anyone else? And she said she loves me, it was
my Momma, come to visit me, it was so cool." Meanwhile she was chopping up
vegetables, and boiling rice, and adding powders to saucepans, and a rather
good smell was beginning to assemble itself. Who needs pheronomes when you've
got chili, coriander and cardomen?

So, over dinner, I explained to David and The Guardian about the problems in
the church. Yes, I know I'm supposed to call her Wendy, but, well, look, she
was our object of worship, and by Jesus, you don't get onto first name terms
with your deity, do you?

Between forkfuls of rather mouth-burning curry, I explained how the split had
come about, and got in a few good slams on Hilary Paxton, with special
emphasis on how she'd done a lock-out on us True Believers, and how, as a
result, we needed money to put down for rent on a new Church. A loan, of
course.

"Money?" said The Guardian.

David choked on a mouthful of food, I'm not surprised, this curry was pretty
spicy. "Yes, we need some to get ourselves a place of worship." "She isn't too
clued up about money," said David, "it's one of the things about us that she
hasn't quite fathomed yet." "Oh?" I asked, wondering what could possibly be
beyond the wisdom of The Guardian. "Yes," he continued, "money, the way we're
able to lie to ourselves, and religions." The Guardian interrupted. "And there
was the way you used to treat your babies, but that's mostly stopped now."
"Because of you," said David. She smiled.

Then she stood up, rose into the air, and vanished through the door. I watched
her move, she was so graceful and awe-inspiring. She returned immediately, and
presented me with a box, wrapped up in giftwrapping paper, and sealed with a
bow. I looked at her, puzzled. "For your church," she said, "this is obviously
important to you, so it's some money I had upstairs, and it's a gift, not a
loan."

I started to open it, but David stopped me. "Not now, old son, open it when
you get home." I nodded; it would be pretty crass to actually count it while
she watched. So I gave her a thank you speech, and she said "Aren't you
forgetting something?" "What?" I asked. She looked at David. David looked at
me. I looked at David. David puckered up his mouth, and I realised that he
wasn't suggesting that I kiss him. So I kissed her.

Well, that was my intention. I went to kiss her on the cheek, but she wouldn't
have any of that, and she turned her head so I got her mouth, and then she put
her arms round me, and then her legs, because she doesn't need them for
standing on, and her hair wound itself around my neck, and her wings covered
me up completely, and I found myself absolutely immersed in the Guardian of
Humanity for what felt like hours, in what was probably the most erotic
experience of my entire life, but couldn't possibly have been hours, probably
more like a couple of minutes, and then I woke up and found myself at home, in
bed.

Huh, I thought. I wish I could have a dream like that every night.

And then I saw the package on my bedside table; a beautifully wrapped parcel,
sealed with a satin ribbon tied in a bow, and there was a little label on it,
with a stylised picture of an angel. Not a dream, then.

I have to admit, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely get it open. I
had to stop for a moment, find a bottle and pour myself something to calm me
down. Inside the paper there was a small wooden box, and inside the box, there
was a dollar.

I stared at her donation. Was this some kind of cruel joke?

And then I remembered what David had said, and how he'd choked on his food
when I'd made my request. The Guardian of Humanity doesn't understand about
money. I guessed that she'd actually given me all that she had, and she had no
clue that it wasn't going to help get us a place of worship. Still, I suppose
it's the thought that counts, so before I went back to bed to sleep, I got
down on my knees and offered her a prayer of gratitude.

Next day, when we met at the pub, the others asked me how I'd gotten on. "Do
you want the good news or the bad news," I asked, jocularly. "The good news
is, she's given us a gift, not a loan." The others applauded. "So what's the
bad news?" asked Bill Caversham. "This is what she gave," I said, tossing the
dollar bill on the table.

They all stared at it.

"You're joking," said Phil.

"No, that's it," I replied.

"She made that huge gold statue, Live Long and Prosper has twenty trillion
dollars, and all she gives us is one lousy buck? It isn't even English money!"

So, I started to explain that she didn't really understand about money, and
how it's the thought that counts and that we ought to be grateful for
everything she does, not just for this dollar, and I was pretty sure that it
was probably all she actually had, and who are we to criticise the Holy
Guardian anyway?

It didn't cut any ice. Good intentions don't pay for a church. They clearly
thought I'd failed, and several of them got up and left in disgust while I was
speaking. The others stared at me, in a rather hostile way, like they were
blaming me for the split in the church, and now I hadn't come good on the
funding. Well, blow this for a game of soldiers. I stood up and walked out. I
went home, and finished the bottle of vodka that I'd started earlier. I don't
remember going to bed.

Next day I woke up at about noon with a headache like an electric drill and a
thirst like the Sahara. I got out of bed and looked in the fridge to see what
I could pour into myself, but apart from some cheese that had gone green,
there was nothing. "Get down to the shops," I thought, but then I thought, "No
money." Well, that wasn't exactly true, I had some change, and a dollar bill.
Maybe I ought to start thinking about getting a job.

On the other hand, maybe I should just lie down for a little while.

When I woke up, it was dark. I woke up because someone was shaking me. It
wasn't easy, waking up. I had to pull my eyes open, try to work out what I was
seeing, that isn't easy, sometimes. "Lea' me alone," I slurred, my tongue
about three sizes larger than normal. "Come on, Simon," she said. She?

It was her! I mean, Her! The Guardian, here. Now. "Oh," I said, struggling
into a sitting position; then she helped me to stand up. "I think I feel ... "

I can't believe I did that. Luckily, she moved out of the way quickly enough
so I didn't actually throw up on her. What's the penalty for vomiting on a
goddess? "Here, drink this," she said, giving me a mug. "What is it," I asked.
"Milk," she said, "it'll settle your stomach, you've put rather a strain on
it." I drank. It was thick and sweet, like Jersey full cream milk, when you
get it straight from the farm, before they do whatever they do to make it
taste like nothing. "Um," I said, "thanks." When I emptied the mug, she
refilled it, and I wondered why she was carrying a quart of Jersey milk around
with her. Maybe she meets a lot of people who need a glass of milk. "Feeling
better?" she asked. I nodded, carefully.

"When did you last eat?" she asked. Uh. Try to remember. "When I ate with
you," I finally said. "That was three days ago, you've had nothing since?"
"Well, some beer. And the vodka. And a bag of peanuts. Salted." She shook her
head. "You're a very naughty baby," she scolded me, waggling her finger at me.
I closed my eyes, if she was going to hit me, I didn't want to watch. "Look at
me when I'm talking to you!" she grated. She handed me a piece of bread. I
looked at it, it was spread with some sort of cheesy stuff. I sniffed at it,
doubtfully. Suddenly, my mouth told me that I was very very hungry, so I did
what my mouth suggested.

After the bread and cheese, I felt a lot better. "Thank you for the bread, O
Guardian" I said, feeling that the vocative case was the most suitable. "Call
me Wendy," she laughed, and gave me a bowl of rice with bits of stuff in. I'm
not sure what the bits were, but it tasted great. She watched me eat; I
watched her watching me. And I thought, how many people get fed personally by
the Guardian of Humanity?

My belly felt less like my throat had been cut, and even the pounding headache
was fading a bit. She smiled at me again, and said, "Well, things to do." And
she just vanished.

I checked the clock - it wasn't that late. I put my coat on, and went down the
pub. OK, maybe I didn't have any money, but I had a tale to tell that would
surely be worth a beer or three. And at least my stomach wasn't rumbling.

I woke up the next day with a steaming headache, but a quick hair of the dog
got me going nicely. I looked through the post, everything was all bills and
FINAL DEMAND these days, and I didn't have any money, so I just binned them.
But it made me feel depressed, so I got the Feather out and had a look at it,
to cheer myself up. It helped a little, but not as much as another quick slug
did. Then I went out. Why? Well, for a start, I'd run out of vodka. And what's
the point of slouching indoors?

Imagine my surprise when I got back, to find that my key didn't seem to work.
At first, I put it down to the way my hands were shaking, but after a while, I
realised that there was more to it than that. So I went and pounded on my
landlord's door. After a while, he answered. "What?"

"I can't get in to my flat." "Yes, you're evicted." "What? Why the hell?"
"Non-payment of rent. Look, mate, it's been three months you haven't paid me
now, you don't have a job, you aren't gonna pay me any time soon. I changed
the locks, if you want your stuff it's in my garage, but you better clear it
out in a couple of days, or I will."

I wanted to punch this fat bastard on the nose, but that's not what the
Guardian would have done, so I let him get away with it. I trudged down to his
stupid garage, filled a bag with necessities, and wondered where to go. The
rest of my stuff I'd just have to abandon.

I lugged the bag up to Cricklewood, hoping that maybe the Guardian would help
me. After all, I was the Keeper of the Holy Feather. I waited outside her
house for several hours; then it started to rain, and I started to think that
maybe she wasn't there. And then I wondered where I'd sleep that night.

I walked back to Kilburn; on the way, I went under the railway bridge. It's
quite a wide bridge, and the rain couldn't get to me there. I thought this
would be a good place to sit and have a rest; humping that bag around had made
me quite tired. Fortunately, I had something in the bag to revive me a bit, so
I had a few gulps of that, and started to relax a bit. By now it was dark, so
I just lay back against the wall. And dozed off.

I was woken up by a feather ticking my nose. "What are you doing here, Simon?"
she asked. So I told her, I didn't have the money for the rent, so I got
evicted. "Money?" she said. I nodded. "Everything seems to come down to money
with you people. So what are you doing here, Simon?" I pointed out that it was
dry, and not too cold, and I was wearing a couple of sweaters and a coat.
"I'll be fine," I said bravely. "Have you eaten today?" she asked.

When I admitted that I hadn't, she showed me what she had under her cape. It
was one of those tinfoil cartons, and there was a great smell coming out of
it. It was some sort of curry, with a large helping of fluffy white rice. She
sat down next to me while I ate it, and talked to me.

"Explain to me about money, Simon. I know it's important to you humans, but
I've never been able to get the hang of it." "Me neither, Holy One." "Wendy"
"It comes in, it goes out, I never know where it all went." "David gave me a
plastic card to use once, he said that's money." "No, it's isn't actually
money, that's a credit card. It means you can spend money that you don't
have."

I tried to explain to her about credit cards, but I could see from her face
that she was getting more and more confused. "Interest?" "That's when you pay
money because you don't have any money," I explained. But she wasn't getting
it. Eventually, I gave up. "Maybe there's some things you can't know about
because you're too holy," I suggested. She gave me a funny look. "I do wish
you'd stop treating me like some sort of goddess, I'm just one of the People."
"But you're our Guardian, aren't you?" She smiled at me, and stroked my hair.
"Yes, I am. I'm your Guardian. Now, I've got to be off, Mrs Hanabo hasn't got
any firewood." And she stood up and soared off into the sky.

Who's Mrs Hanabo? I licked out the cartons, and curled up on the pavement,
making myself as comfortable as anyone can in such a situation. But my main
comfort was the thought of the Guardian of Humanity, looking after me. It's
great to have friends in high places. Plus, I finished off the bottle of
vodka.

When I woke up next morning, my bag was gone.

I looked for it all around, until eventually I realised that someone must have
stolen it.

Damn! So, now all I had was the clothes I was wearing, and whatever was in my
pockets. Suddenly, I had a horrible thought. Have they stolen that too? So I
checked, and breathed easy again - yes, I still had the Feather.

I visited a cheap cafe, and had a bread-and-jam breakfast, plus some coffee to
help me wake up, and after a little while, the soreness from sleeping rough
had left my bones, and my brain was functioning again. A quick swig from the
bottle helped a lot.

So I went back home. Or to be more precise, I went back to the garage where my
things had been thrown, and packed another bag. At least I now had a better
idea of what I really needed. A couple of blankets, all the sweaters I had, a
spare pair of shoes, some socks - you get the idea.

I trudged round the area; maybe I could find a job? By now, I'd be willing to
ask people "Would you like fries with that?" if it meant I didn't have to
sleep on the pavement. But there was a recession on; no-one was hiring. By
late afternoon, I was about ready to give up. I started to wonder where I'd
spend the night. So I walked South, down to the West End. I was thinking,
maybe I could sleep in an underground station, or one of the main line
stations.

Euston looked OK, but there isn't really anywhere you can lie down. Kings
Cross was better, there were some good benches there. I plonked myself down on
a likely looking one, and glared at anyone who sat down next to me.

. . .

I spent the next few days mingling with the other down-and-outs in the area. I
learned how to beg, an important survival skill, as it was the only way to get
money for booze. I learned how to root in litter bins for fast-food packaging,
because people often threw away part of their hamburger. I learned that no-one
loves a bum. The police move you on (they don't arrest you and give you a nice
warm comfortable night in the cells). The public tries to pretend that you
don't exist. And the religious crowd want to save you - they aim to buy your
soul for a cup of tea and a bun. Well, I'm not so desperate for buns that I'd
betray the Holy Guardian of Humanity.

One night, after about a week at Kings Cross, I was wrapping myself up in my
blankets, on my bench, getting ready to lie down, when someone sat on the
other end. I turned to them, and got ready to unleash the stream of obscenity
that I'd discovered was the easy way to drive them away. The words never came
out - it was her! "Hello, Simon, what are you doing here?" she said. "I'm
waiting for a train, what do you think?" "It's night, Simon, the trains won't
be running till the morning."

Never try sarcasm on an angel, they're invulnerable to it, it bounces of their
feathers like water off a duck's back. "I'm sleeping here, Goddess." "Call me
Wendy, and why are you sleeping here?" "Because I don't have anywhere to
live." "Why haven't you got anywhere to live?" "Because I don't have any
money."

She sighed. "I'll never get the hang of this. So you have to sleep on a rough
bench, in a public place, because you don't have any money?" "Right." She
looked at me, obviously thinking about this, trying to work out what it all
meant. "And I'm hungry," I added, hopefully. "That I can fix," she said. She
reached behind her, under her cape, and I wondered what she did with her wings
when she wasn't wearing them. "The wings are just an illusion," she said, as
she handed me a hot aluminium container. I opened it, half of it was a curry,
the other half was rice. I don't think I've ever had a meal that tasted so
good. "I'll be back when you've finished, don't go anywhere," she said.

As I was licking out the inside of the container, I was thinking how well a
couple of pints of lager would go with this. Or three. Or more. So I was
really delighted when she came back carrying a sixpack. "I thought you'd like
this," she said. "I could kiss you," I said. "Only if I let you," she replied,
smiling.

And then I wondered, am I so low as to beg from the Guardian of Humanity? And
then I thought, well, if there's one thing I can't afford any more, it's
pride. So I did. "Have you got any spare change," I asked her, the standard
begging approach. She looked at me. "One moment," she said, vanished, then
reappeared. She gave me a handful of coins, a kiss on the forehead, a "sleep
well" and then she was gone again. I waited a bit, but she didn't come back.
So I stuck my foot through the handles of my bag (standard anti-thieving
precaution), drunk my way through six pints of strong lager (bless you, my
Guardian) and fell asleep.

It was afternoon when I woke up again, and there was a problem. You only ever
borrow beer, you have to give it back. And that had happened while I was in my
drunken sleep. And although I had a couple of extra pairs of shoes, socks and
sweaters, it hadn't occurred to me to pack a spare pair of trousers. Well,
anything that's wet dries off eventually, and I had bigger problems to handle,
like where my next bottle was coming from. I remembered the money she'd given
me, and dug it out of my pocket. It wasn't much. Maybe enough for a pint of
cheap cider.

I spent the afternoon begging and rooting in bins for food. I noticed that
people were wrinkling their noses at me and avoiding me - this wouldn't have
bothered me much, but it wasn't too good for begging. I did poorly, but well
enough to be able to buy a couple of bottles of rough wine, what the frogs
call pinard. It tasted like sandpaper, but it did the job.

When I got back to Kings Cross, my bench was already occupied. So were all the
others. I tried muttering at some of them, but they acted like I wasn't there,
so I wandered off. There's a sort of a park in a side road not far from the
station. I lay myself down on the grass, but the wet soaked though my clothes,
so I propped myself against a tree and tried to nod off; at least only my bum
would be wet.

"Simon, you left the station?" It was her, my Guardian, she'd found me. "Oh,
Guardian, I've had such a rotten day today." She sniffed. "Hmmm." "Yes, I, er,
I, well. I've got no way to get cleaned up." "Come here," she said, "you need
a bath."

Despite my stench, she copped me up in her strong arms, spread her wings, and
we were flying at rooftop height across London. Soon I could see the West End,
all the bright lights, and then she was heading towards Buckingham Palace.
Surely not! But she swung left, and we landed near the Serpentine. "Bath
time," she said, "get undressed!" It was pitch dark, but even if it had been
broad daylight I wouldn't have even considered disobeying my Guardian. The
water was freezing, it was midwinter. But at least it was a mild English sort
of winter, probably about 40F. She helped scrub me down, and when she let me
out, I was shivering with the cold. So she warmed me up, she put her arms and
legs round me, and hugged me until I was warm and dry again. It was like
hugging a hot water bottle.

Somehow, she'd washed my clothes for me, and I got dressed, feeling much
better. She gave me another of her foil-wrapped curries, and as I ate it, she
talked to me. "Why aren't you living in a house like everyone else, do you
like living in the open?" "No money," I said through a mouthful of curry.
"Oh," she said, "I've already given you all I had. I'll ask David if I can get
some more. But can't you get money the way everyone else does?" "You mean, get
a job? I can't, I tried. No-one wants me, I'm too old for a proper job, they
won't take anyone over forty, and all the grotty jobs are taken, there's a
recession on, hadn't you heard? And I really need a drink."

She gave me a bottle of milk. I took a sip, it was horrible. "I meant a real
drink - vodka or brandy, something like that. Especially on a cold night like
this." "Oh, I think David has something, I'll just go ..." There was a slight
movement of the air, and she flickered. "Here you are," she said, handing me a
mostly-full bottle. Blended malt whiskey. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers.
"Thanks," I said, taking the first swig. It wasn't that bad. Better than the
pinard, anyway.

She propped my up against a tree, and put both of my blankets over me, and
sort of tucked me in. "Goodnight, baby, sleep well" she said, kissed my
forehead, and she was gone.

I woke up the next day, the sun was high in the sky, but I had no idea what
time it was. I groped around for my bottle of whisky, but I couldn't find it.
I opened my eyes and looked around. Some bastard had nicked it. And my bag.
And my blankets. My heart was pounding as I checked my inside pocket. But the
Feather was safe; if I'd lost that now after everything else, I'd have nothing
to live for.

I spent the day begging in the park. Hyde Park is a nice place, even in
winter, and now that I didn't smell so foul, people weren't avoiding me so
much. By the time they realised I was asking for money, I was right up close,
and it was easier for them to give me a few coins than try to avoid me.
Begging isn't so bad if you don't mind it when people ignore you or swear at
you. I made enough to buy a few bottles of cheap wine at one of the little
shops nearby, and I bought a couple of loaves of bread - man does not live on
wine alone. I felt that at last, my luck had changed for the better.

I went back to Hyde Park; if the Guardian had brought me here, that was good
enough for me. She'd be back again, I thought, this evening. Maybe with some
hot food again. And I'd explain to her about single malt whisky. I looked
around for a good place to sleep; there was a cold, wet feel to the air, like
you get when it's going to snow. I couldn't find anywhere sheltered. Never
mind, the Holy Guardian will shelter and warm me, and her Feather will comfort
me and keep me safe.

Either I sleep on the grass, I thought, or I sleep on concrete. If I'm on the
grass, I'll get wet through at night even if it doesn't rain. On the other
hand, concrete is harder. Decisions decisions. I sat down next to a statue of
a boy playing pan pipes as I worked my way through a bottle of wine and I
considered the choice. By the time I'd finished the first bottle, I wasn't
feeling the hardness of the concrete any more, which sort of made the decision
easy. It was getting freezing cold, but by the time I finished the second
bottle, I wasn't feeling the cold, which was just as well, since I didn't have
my blankets now. It's true what they say, wine warms you up.

My hands are freezing, and my feet are so cold they hurt. I'm watching the
snow falling, it's pure and white, like my Guardian, and as the snow covers
me, I feel that it's a manifestation of the Guardian, covering me and
protecting me, like her feathers, and I feel warm and safe inside. I get the
Holy Feather out of my inside pocket, and hold it in my hands, just gazing at
its whiteness and purity, just like the snow that is beginning to cover me.

My feet don't feel cold now, or my hands. And when the third bottle is done, I
feel good. The snow is settling on my body, but I'm warm and happy, the Holy
Feather will guard me and keep me safe, and the Guardian of Humanity will make
sure that nothing bad can happen to me. I have faith in her, she will Guard
me. And I'm sleepy. Yes, I can sleep now.