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In the highest perch of existence the hills rolled straight to the sky, and the green turned to blue without the fuss of division. Earth, in all its coming days, would fail to ever be this sterile. A dove sat and worried its feathers, lily-white but almost graying from its own mouth biting at the itch. The itches were psychosomatic but insistent. A doctor would say guilt is the source. Or fixated insistence that something really must be the matter, a horde of bugs or a bout of psoriasis, which when believed can truly be felt, even when the condition, strictly speaking, does not exist. Our dove is the most talented worrier of all its classmates. Superlatively so. In mornings it would set itself ahead of a reflecting pool, open all the feathers and inspect itself. Who can say why it felt the need to preen itself so meticulously? Early in creation the ritual began. What did the dove hope to find? No, what was the dove afraid it was going to find?
Down in the belly of the place, the crow flew low. When something first begins, nobody knows the rules yet. An implication rested upon all the birds that there was something they were not supposed to be doing. They guessed and guessed at their indecencies because God, as always, was silent. One, the cuckoo, theorized perhaps She rejected their invention of Checkers. Loving God even more than their creation, the colony wrapped up all their game pieces and tossed them into the river. Is that enough? She growled and rolled light. The crow turned its chin towards the coming night. It is exhausting, thought the crow. Not to know the rules. In this first gasp of creation, things changed quicker than the birds could keep track. One moment they were blinks of light, then became matter, and after a long while of thinking, they became birds. Stayed birds long enough to start to know their names. When the pain shrieked across all the birds’ bodies, as the morning came, stretched their middles long and their legs bony, the crow wondered to itself, am I still going to be a crow?
Earth pressed into being but the angels were not yet allowed to visit. They pressed their noses to the glass. Aziraphale, with his wings still remaining, the last familiar thing, tucked himself into the hallway and let his fingernails find the itching point. Hands, however strange to have, were much more useful than beaks and claws. Everything had been changing rather quickly but still the crawling stayed. Quit picking, Aziraphale, they said. You’re going to break skin. They must not have known he was long past that point now. A warm red blossom ran along the wing’s tendon. I am nervous, he thought, but had no basis for understanding what it meant. Does that mean I don’t trust God? Bad sensations skittered up his back and he reached to scratch. And he set to lying in his head, the way he always did, to protect his mind from damnation. Whatever that really meant. I trust God and I thank Her for Her love, he thought, in the words of a bluebird who was very clean and right. If he could just repeat her words and believe her beliefs, he could make it to goodness before She could catch him.
I am good , thought Crowley. He faced down God. She grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him over the fire. You cannot convince me that I am bad, he thought, kicking the air. She is God. She does not speak. But she put her answers into his head and it just looked like hellfire. It looked like I am your mother, don’t you dare speak to me that way. But he didn’t speak to her in any way. His mouth stayed frowning; she was the one who had cracked open his head. Put him on trial. You are not good, said God, and it is too late. All the world are my children and you are the worst of them. As he tumbled downstream, he thought of warm hearth and soup, wishing his mother had simply bathed the filth from him instead of casting him aside, naming him ruined. She can call me how she wants, he thought. I am still a crow.
A dove sat on the Eastern Gate, his name now Aziraphale, not wanting the name or the sword or the duties. Clear and blue, the Earth was grand. It was not Heaven. Don’t tell God, but it was even better. The little lovers skittered about the garden. Aziraphale paid them no mind. I’m pretty sure, he thought, that they are good. She paid them very special attention. When the two began to strain the seams of the world they were given, his blood ran cold. He spoke to them breathlessly. Gave them counsel. Still, fearless of what God might do to them, they stepped outside of the wall. Bad children , said the serpent, passing by the hidden angel. Why does God make her children so bad? The words stuck into Aziraphale like an arrow. Still behind the trees, he followed the serpent all the way to the wall.
She had long tendrils of redwood hair and crow’s wings. Her smile was sweet. God’s worst, the serpent. Aziraphale looked at her and couldn’t look away, her words like a stain he couldn’t get clean from his mind. She’ll get me in trouble, he thought. She is wicked. Truth is relative. Serpents are known to be wicked. With a sharp nose and charcoal wings, she cut a hole in the daytime. Standing beside him drinking in the stormy air, though, she looked like peace. So when matter became water and water became rain , for the first time, he unfurled his scabbing wing and covered her head.
Time’s bleeding, said Anthony. When I get drunk it’s like it’s been a million years, and I can feel them all right here. His red head pressed to the table, right beside the crystal ball. Madame Zira, Oracle, drunk as well, laid her hands on the glass. You want me to tell you the future? Anthony shook his head. He let out a held breath, looked about and a thought crossed his face. Madame Zira, I can’t believe they haven’t sent you to hell. She soured and pulled her veil back down over her face. I don’t agree with you, she said, that this is evil stuff. He tilted his head with a smile, captured by endearment. I am able to influence people to do good things, she said. With my fortunes. He held a pointed finger towards her. I don’t think the getup is important for the evangelism, he said. She dropped her guard and let her time on Earth take over, teasing with great ease, depriving the people of such a wonderful sight is so cruel it might drive them straight to Hell! They laughed and laughed and she drank from his glass. Got way too drunk. Deep in the night she had pulled a greater truth from him. He wanted a fortune from his past. He said he lacked understanding and he needed to know why. Zira tried to shake him off, direct him to another question, any other question, and he clutched at her begging. I can’t help you question God’s will, she said. You’re bad, Zira, he said. You’re bad too. She cried and itched stripes into her arms, but she didn’t tell him to leave. He held his face in his hands. I want for you to have a bright future, she said. But is that what you see, in that crystal, he spit. Oh, Anthony, it’s not real, she said, trying to reach for him. But as her hand caught a button on his coat, he turned around and walked from her tent.
Aviaries, thought Aziraphale, were miraculous. Just like home, the very first one. That humans knew, somehow, all the rules to replicate, was beautiful. It is as though an aviary - a room of only birds - is as essential and obvious as a sugar cube. He liked to go to this aviary and look about. Play pretend. Earth and its luxuries were a sugar-filled pastry that left film on the teeth. Exuberant, indulgent, gorgeous and shining. At times he felt as though he needed to eat his vegetables. He had to take off the veneer of dreaming and go to reality. Because, of course, Earth would not be here forever. So he took off his clockwork and hung his velvet coat. And entered barefoot into the birdcage. Like a bubble of solitude he could escape to. Until this time, he had always been here alone. But across the garden, sitting on the bench, was his only friend. Crowley, he called, hello! He came and perched himself beside him. He said nothing. Still Crowley? said Aziraphale. Always Crowley, said Crowley. He hummed low and sweet. He was lost in thought. You know what I never realized, said Aziraphale, suddenly quite gentle and almost falling to whisper. Hmm, said Crowley. You were a bird too, right? Aziraphale said. Of course, he replied. We all were.
He struggled in his head to find the right thing to say. Wanted to say so much, but couldn't say any of it. Wrote the sentence he wished to say and took out all the words that could get him in trouble upstairs. And hoped Crowley would understand.
Why do you think? He asked. Needed to give us shame, I suppose, Crowley answered. No, I always had that, said Aziraphale. Even when I was a bird. They sat in silence for a while. The birds circled around their heads. They ate berries and clutched to branches. They flew in their small cage. You know, though, Crowley said. They don’t have wine. Aziraphale laughed. We’ve got them beat there, he said. Except they didn’t. Angels did not invent wine. Most of them would never have a chance to drink it, to share a good bottle with an even better friend, sitting in creaky old chairs by a window. They were lucky in that regard. They were liars in that regard. Nothing lasts forever and their time was borrowed. Like a brood parasite, hatched into Earth and enjoying the bounties perhaps they did not deserve. But they enjoyed them. And the birds in the aviary ran up against the glass, closed in and yet free from the knowing why. Or from knowing that behind the glass is more. The two of them looked at the dove and the crow, racing along the Eastern edge of the cage. I like being us, Aziraphale said. I don’t care if it’s bad. He looked up at God. He felt an itching sensation down his legs. Me too, said Crowley. We are very lucky.