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“Oh, come on! You’ve gotta be shitting me,” one says, staring out at the scene below.
“What? What’s going on down there?”
A few others drift over to see what might distract them from their dreary existence, and presently there is a fair-sized group of onlookers at the viewing window. Some variation of astonishment shines out from each of their faces (the majority of them leaning towards the eye-rolling, surprised-but-not-surprised-at-all side of that spectrum, if we’re being honest), as one verbalises what they are all thinking.
“They’re seriously playing hide and seek?”
“Wow, the actual irony of it all.”
A low murmur of agreement runs throughout the group, which has started to break up as task masters loom. One more commentary is heard as the last of them return to the shuffling masses: “When you think about it, it makes no sense. Usually toddlers play hide and seek—toddlers, the group of humans who are least likely and least able to actually lie or hide something. The fact that a bunch of year 10 and 11s are playing it, when they already spend the rest of their day hiding shit from their friends and family? Well, I mean, damn girl.”
A gruff voice shouts out “Quiet!!” and everyone remembers that independent thought isn’t part of the deal in this reality.
No, theirs is only to serve (and so manipulate) the baser needs of humankind, cycling back and forth to earth whenever they spot an entrance that will allow them to wrap their talons around a soul, latch on and ride the wave of whatever negative fearful emotion is ruling that poor spirit at that time—anxiety, hatred, oppression, war, envy, fear; they all work. They all give a foothold to these nebulous somethings that thrive on despair and worry and discord and aching want. And thrive they do, prodding their host to ever deepening internal spirals (with external, devastating consequences whenever possible) until something or someone has a burst of light and reason and victory over them, and they are returned without fanfare or glory to their ordered yet chaotic lines and barracks and war rooms where overlords plot out ever greater and more dastardly injuries to the fragile human heart.
And why would such wretched beings notice—much less comment on—the silly, fleeting interactions between an insignificant group of teenagers in an unimportant town in one of the English home counties? Why would the laser eyes of the most powerful evil forces in the immediate cosmic vicinity be focused on what a few young friends are doing with their free time, one summer night, after what appeared to be an utterly failed school dance?
It certainly isn’t because there is present anyone essential to the overthrow of any global order—no prime minister’s child or future financial leaders lurk among that group. And it can’t be because the sinister plotters think they can reach millions to spread their poisonous whispers through this ragtag band—not an influencer among them. But see—these assumptions you are making–they only expose your own ignorance. A successful demon does not concentrate on only those humans you perceive as holding power. No, true triumph for them, the land where they feast, lies in the curdling and the darkening of one measly heart. One seemingly pitiful, broken, nothing spirit. One soul who they posture to treat without value—but who every last one of them knows down deep is the most momentous, weighty, glittering instrument in the universe.
The question is whether the soul itself can realise the same truth.
The question is how and when and by what means the beleaguered mind can slog up from the depths and rupture that final veil between them and the truth of their worth, in order to remove that ultimate disguise and realise they no longer have to hide, for they are shaped not of shame but of beauty.
And it may seem a Herculean task, at times hopeless, but that depends on your perspective, doesn’t it? For those who know where to look, and how to spot it, there are stories of victory all around us. Stories of victory that can strike dread into the very core of any demon who is paying attention.
Take that apparently unimportant group of borderline outcasts that has been broadcast to the demonic rank and file today. (Whether for them to witness successful strategies to inspire their future hauntings or to feel shamed and berated for having lost a few to peace is yet to be seen.) It is a small group, barely ten souls, yet it displays the breadth and depth of the human experience in all its flavours. As their juvenile game both entertains them and encapsulates their struggle to entrust their whole selves to one another, thus cementing that connection that can vanquish all manner of darkness and despair, do any of them stand a chance of truly winning? When the stakes are so high?
I can take you closer and show you, clear away the swirling ether so that you may see each case with the same piercing clarity enjoyed by their tormentors. But you must promise to gird your heart, for you do not have the defensive armour of the demons, the many layers of protection surrounding an empty shell of absolutely nothing, which is the only reason they can get so close to the electrifying power of the human spirit and walk away unscathed.
I do not know your limits. I do not know up to what distance you can approach crushing sorrow and not be dragged under; I do not know if you will be able to aim your gaze directly at the brilliance of a soul that shines out with no subterfuge. But I am willing to try if you are. There must be some reason you are here, poking about the place, seeking some treasure you may not have even yet realised you lack.
Let us begin with an illustration or two that may help lay down a foundation of hope inside your understanding, before we turn to those who have not yet emerged from the cloven pine. Look over there, for example—the demons first scoffed at and then steadfastly ignored these two tall ones, referred to by their peers as Elle and Nick. Both of their histories were well known to this underworldly team, a few of us having been ejected from their midst so very recently. The two teens both experienced hard-earned moments of freedom not so long ago, claiming bits of their identity that were then affirmed and celebrated by those who surround them with love and care. If one were to ask them, they’d surely both say they are still struggling with difficult decisions or situations or people (people being both the worst and the best thing to bump up against in all creation, depending on one’s perspective, of course). And yet the truth is that they have quite definitively cast off their heavy disguises and half-truths and no longer spend any energy hiding any bit of themselves from the world around them. A complete offence to the evil host, too painful to even look directly at right now, really.
There is somewhat similar sentiment surrounding two others of the group, Darcy and Isaac. A lesser devil, maybe one in their first apprenticeship after initial instruction, might still spend hours or days strategizing on how to continue to torture those two. Yes, they may look to the untrained eye as though they are still teetering on the edge of fear and hesitation, not yet having found the confidence to fully live true. However, the more experienced among us devilish observers know the signs well, and had already thrown in the metaphorical towels when the both of them crossed the minimum threshold of innate love and protection that surrounded and shielded their souls thanks to their friends and loved ones. The sharing of their truths with others who received it gently in their hands and held it firmly, the collecting of bits of information that shored them up and helped them find their place, the (worst of all) “I love you”s that were <i>genuine</i> and <i>meaningful and helpful</i>; all of these are known to be stable foundations, and there is very little hope that either Darcy or Isaac will retreat back to a deeper hiding location at this point. No, they have found bits of themselves that appear to be loved both internally and externally, and that’s a hard nut to crack.
(The same could be said for someone else present in a nearby orbit, Mr. Youssef Farouk, but he is only adjacent to this community and has his own group of fiends on his trail. For those among you, however, who insist on hearing a tale all the way through to its ending, you might as well know that he too has passed a point of no return. Once a certain person and a certain look and a certain soft invitation shattered the notion of “it’s too late,” there was no turning back. A devil lost its horns, so to speak.)
Now, don’t get impatient. There are delicious stories of desperation and tantalising prospects of doom, as well, if you’re one of those that delight in that.
There is one classmate of theirs – not in this joyous group tonight, but known to them – who shines brightly <i>in their idolised ways</i>. Having fallen completely for the demonic lies about which superficial quality truly matters and what irrelevant yardstick we might all be measured by, he therefore finds it all too easy to project falsehoods about self and reality, because they seem to him to truly be essential. It comes naturally to him to play the part that those around him expect—so naturally, in fact, that he’s allowed the whisper and dream of his true heart to slip away. He no longer perceives those openings in the thick smog of fear through which these wretched beings reach out to one another and create the spark of connection. It does not occur to him that he can hold or be held, past the stages where electrons bump up against each other. He truly believes that the more he can construct an envy-worthy facade, the greater his stability in this life. I know, I know—I can hardly believe we’ve gotten away with convincing this gullible species of these lies for so long; of these concepts that drive them to expend all their energy and resources on pursuing prizes that evanesce presently, like so much dew under even the weakest of morning suns.
Once in a while, a glimpse of something else shines before Ben’s eyes for a moment, but he pushes it away and reminds himself that he is collecting all the shiny pebbles of that world, and surely they must be comfortable to lie on, ignoring the aches of his spirit that tell him otherwise. Yes, he is one to be watched, if for no other reason than for the foot in the door he may inadvertently provide us, leading to new and delightful ways to sabotage others.
Some of our lot think something similar about a relative connected to our original group. A shrewd woman, who has spent the lion’s share of her energy pursuing all the wrong things for her loved ones, Jane Spring has helped many a demon find the Achilles heel of those she unwittingly prepares for them. She has never questioned the impossible demands of superficial society, sneering parents, judging neighbours, and has passed them down to the next generation with something akin to glee, only without a hint of mirth.
There is some debate on the value of a subject like her to our project. While there is no doubt her ministrations have watered the soil of misery of her family more than once, others fear that the fact that her intentions rest on love could topple the entire treacherous operation. Could those around her somehow suspect that truth, and thus manufacture some thin yet effective layer of protection against the injury? Could she herself stop short and examine her actions when she realises the same? Neither scenario seems particularly probable, but I have been a scholar of these questions, and human nature as a whole, for centuries, and I am not so quick to fall on either side of the question without further observation and study.
Speaking of maintaining vigilance. There are two suspects down there to keep multiple eyes on, again not in this celebratory group tonight but integral parts of their wider circle. They are perhaps two of the most dangerous types we have. Thank the depths that I’m not the only one sounding the alarm on them; yet then again, they’re such resounding textbook examples of some of the most indestructible types of warriors they have, that even the most novice torturer would be hard put to miss them.
The first one is that ingratiating soul that would have been tempted to mask and hide and invent, but has such a clear and honest conscience that she seemingly flips a switch to be truly herself at the smallest provocation. At the slightest hint of a better reality inside of her and in her community, she shows herself willing to actually reconsider her thought patterns. And try new things. And discover truths about herself and others. Yes, people like Imogen have brought down many a great demon’s grandiose plans throughout history. There is little defence against someone who cares for both her own genuine happiness and also those of her loved ones, and if you watch her closely, you can see she’s well on her way to girding her own spirit on the backs of immovable truths about her worth. And maybe even make a new connection or two out of it! [unintelligible grumbling].
The other is even more what they might call a “sleeper” because absolutely no one ever expects that the ones like him have any hope whatsoever of escaping our clutches. They seem locked in, lost for good, another notch on our belts. I almost, even, have pity on them for the obstacles they throw up (with our help, obviously) to believing in their own ability to rediscover their beauty, even after they mar it with all their ugly constructions and scaffolding all over top of it.
Almost. I mean, I’m not a monster!
This one is a special case because he originally presented as an antagonist to one of our wretched “heros” from earlier. The habits he developed to harm and hide himself while he was younger naturally spilled over onto his younger brother Nick, effortlessly staining two spirits at once with fear, shame and the urgent drive to build whatever ridiculous nonsensical tromp l’oeil can be thrown up fastest, so that not one single other soul can truly perceive them.
And yes, we already know the end game here and yes, Nick burst out of our grasp and yes, you’ve seen how he pushed us away and now stands tall. So any tormentor assigned to David might have tsk-tsk’d in chagrin when they saw the kid bro get away, but still have high confidence that David himself surely remains mired in fear and self-loathing (hey, it was a good song! Van Morrisson used all the right buzzwords like “nowhere to hide” and “pretend everything is alright” and yet people still jam out to it without any irony whatsoever). And just enough to keep him on the edge of desperation for a tidy few more decades, keeping him bound to all the jealousies and angst and loneliness that plague modern man when he doesn’t have the courage to speak out loud that he needs more.
However.
There are some cracks starting to show around this one, narrow fissures through which light might start to seep, and they are frankly becoming worrying. There are people in his life, like his annoying kid brother for one, that are showing him in a very non-threatening way that it’s okay to be different and that, in fact, joy and peace can be found in that exercise of difference. There is beauty flickering at the edge of his vision, beauty that…well, yeah, Olly and all he is is very likely to bowl him over and blow away any last remaining defence against the truth and hope that my team and I work so tirelessly to keep at arm’s length from all of these creatures.
Yeah. They’ve really got to keep an eye on this one. Starting to look shaky there.
What’s that you say? Oh, that one over there, the one with the curly hair? You’ve certainly got an eye for the interesting cases, haven’t you?
Well, no, I don’t mean to sound grim, or at least not any more so than is called for by my job and, let’s face it, by my very nature. But he’s a conundrum to me. I’m finding him hard to predict and it throws me when that happens with a human, which honestly is not very often. I’m an honest devil, I can admit that sometimes I don’t see them coming. You wouldn’t either, you know—would you have known that Las Casas was going to renounce his land and speak out against Spanish conquest, that Salk was going to give away the polio vaccine for free, that one small soul would be brave enough to stand in front of a line of oncoming tanks in Tiananmen Square? Doubt it. Why would you? Humans aren’t meant to be brave and shining of spirit and healing of the cosmos…at least, not if you ask my otherworldly Father his opinion on them.
The question is always whether or not we can maintain a general state of affairs that keeps them convinced of that as well. And I am not the principal officer assigned to this subject, but I am keeping a close eye because I’ve been in those shoes before and I know the disgrace that will come from losing such a one as this. Think about it—bullied for merely existing, ashamed of his own identity, not enough support by far offered by his supposed family, the one place where he spends the bulk of his time turned into a torturous labyrinth day in and day out—why, anyone would assume his true identity will have been driven so deep underground that it will have no hope of springing back up again, reformed. And yet…
And yet we are concerned about this one. He’s collected a small number of committed supportive friends, including one of the tall victors I showed you earlier. He’s also actually partnered up with the other tall one, that blasted Nick again, which is a bond that will have its ups and downs (like any human relationship, they make things far more complicated than they need to be) but will also endure and strengthen each of them as individuals as they grow together (<i>shudder</i>). He’s not given up yet on waking up and getting up each day. He’s even making courageous decisions with family and at school in the manner of someone who thinks there might be something of value inside of himself after all. It’s all quite bewildering and alarming.
And yet. And yet, we do not abandon all of our plans for him. He still has not triumphed over every shame; has not conquered every fear. The tall one may be by his side but he does not yet fully trust his entire self to this companion; I can tell that if I look closely, and if you had a trained eye you’d see the same. Demons (both my colleagues and the imagined, invented threats) still dance around his heart and mind and there are more struggles to come which might yet topple the balance in our favour. Will he continue to hide his struggles from the people who would gladly accompany him to win against them? Will he wallow in the fear that he cannot be loved as he fully is? Will he hesitate to speak up about who he is and what he needs, ever weakening his bonds with himself and others?
One can only hope, I tell you, dear visitor. One can only hope...
*****
Elle lets out a big huff of air, eyes set wide in the expression of someone contemplating something powerful. Whether or not that power will be used for good remains to be seen. She pushes the pages back across the table.
“Jesus, Tao.”
“What, I just tell it like it is,” he deadpans, with an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.
Elle narrows her eyes. She may not always follow Tao’s creative impulses as he weaves stories that often confound while meaning to clarify, but she has an emotional intelligence that is off the charts, and her knowledge of her partner’s every move surpasses that of a PhD candidate making final revisions before next week’s viva.
“Is that all it is, then? Just a nature documentary? I mean, I have to say I love how I was depicted.” Her eyes well up as she says this. “But then near the end…you’ve got your bestie as the unwitting star, but it’s not the most hopeful portrayal?”
He starts to roll his eyes, then sighs and stretches out his arms across the kitchen table towards his girlfriend. Her hand finds his instantly. His voice is small when he next speaks.
“No, it’s not, is it?” He looks to Elle for reassurance. “I was trying to get down on paper and maybe someday on film what I think about Charlie’s struggles, and then this whole weird thing came out. I think…maybe?...it came out too dark?”
Elle isn’t ignoring her beloved’s feelings when she throws back her head and lets out a sincere laugh at this. “You think, love? You’ve got Charlie and all of us and all his family being pursued by Crowley and his buddies, only without all the fun jokes and subtle-but-hot innuendo!”
Tao splutters. “I do not! This is totally different from that. This is…” he trails off, contemplating.
Elle squeezes his hands in hers, still resting on the table’s surface. “What is it, love?”
“It’s…it’s what I most fear when I think about Charlie.” He closes his eyes but keeps a tight hold on Elle’s hands and continues talking. Elle takes in both sensations at once. “I’m scared that he keeps some stuff from us, some really important stuff that could hurt him and that he shouldn’t deal with on his own.”
Tao’s eyes open to see the warmth and compassion in Elle’s staring back at him. “So you wrote this to process those thoughts?”
He is already nodding unflinchingly and speaks slowly and deliberately. “Yes. Yes, I needed to…I needed to look at my worries in the worst light possible, for some reason that makes me feel less wobbly, if that makes sense?” His pleading eyes find those of the person who constantly meets him more than halfway up.
“Of course it makes sense. Didn’t someone wise once say that creating stories to think through human nature and identity is in itself the thing that keeps the demons at bay?” Tao’s eyes widen as he remembers one of his lecturers stating that very phrase, and his having run home to tell Elle about it excitedly afterwards because it rang so fucking true that he felt his whole life’s calling affirmed and inspired. And though he didn’t make the connection consciously, it stuck in his psyche and came out in this fanciful, complicated, hopeful mix of the macabre and the possible.
Elle is still talking and Tao snaps his attention back to her. “Also because you know deep down that only if your eyes are open wide enough to see the scary bits can you also take in all the wonder. You know Charlie isn’t being pursued by actual demons, but you also know the ones in our heads can be just as hard to try and run from. And you just want him to know he doesn’t have to run alone.”
Tao’s voice is low as he echoes the final words, with a slight twist. “He doesn’t have to fight alone.” His eyes hold a mix of emotions. “I just want to know already if he’s going to realise that sometime soon.”
She is still holding his hands and uses them to gently pull him up from the table and towards the living room. “I have lots of faith, my love. But let’s go see?”