"The Angel in the Juniper" by Sarah Johnson

Would you commit murder if an angel told you to do it?

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Photo by Sebastian Unrau on Unsplash

The Angel in the Juniper by Sarah Johnson

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Old Clyde Adamson was plotting with the Jacobin faction.

Holly, who had studied under him only the subjects he taught on the side—Neoplatonism in the early Church Fathers, and Classical Drama—had hired on a month ago as his secretary, and was now perfectly sure.

It was disturbing. One couldn’t deny that the present republic had degraded to the mere form of representative government under the last president and his hand-picked parliament, but the Jacobins were dangerous—low-profile activists who had formally concluded that the governmental system no longer admitted renewal by legitimate means, and were prepared to incite even revolution to restore the principles of the four-hundred-year-old Constitution.

Holly didn’t know yet how deeply Prof. Adamson was involved with the faction, or how high a member he might be. She felt sure that, with his broad scholarly reputation and influence, he could hardly fail to be a decisive force in the group. But the thought that the boss she so liked and respected could be a treasonist, hardly alarmed her more than the inevitable, gastric knowledge that this brilliant man knew, or would very soon know, that she knew. And would address the fact, to protect himself and his party. Somehow.

That gastric knowledge turned to a squadron of armed butterflies when Prof. Adamson came in that morning and said quietly, “Miss Granger, I wonder if I can ask you to join me on a stroll into Warbell Wood this afternoon? I feel it’s time I introduced you to someone there, someone closely involved in my work.  Please don’t be alarmed, Miss Granger. This can mean nothing personally harmful to yourself, unless you voluntarily choose to undergo certain risks in support of a noble cause. You are under no threat or duress of any kind—only the invitation to learn about something you may consider important.”

While looking at his face—ever-same, good-humored yet earnest—she could not fear or distrust, and agreed; but when he had gone to his lecture hall, could do both with a vengeance. She told Mrs. Parsley, the bursar, where she was going that afternoon, and left a note instructing her to contact the police if Holly wasn’t back by 10 p.m. (No use if the police had found something more profitable to do, like arresting a dissenter, but supposing they hadn’t.)

Afternoon came, and so did Adamson.

“Take your coat, Miss Granger. And have you any heavier shoes? The going will be rough.”

It was.

Holly was surprised to find how well Adamson seemed to know his way, where there was no path, and how vigorously the old man could forge through the thick brush and bracken of this less-frequented part of Warbell Wood, a sylvan enclave that edged bustling Old Fruit Market Square, but, bottlenecked between two suburbs, eventually widened and stretched for miles into the hills. Holly thought herself athletic, but was frequently left several paces behind, gingerly poking at a spray of barbed hawthorn or caught by the stocking to a tough bramble.

It was easier here, amid a dense growth of dusty ferns; Holly kept easily by Adamson’s side, and could even join in conversation. She had caught scraps of commentary through the branches, and knew he was trying to explain something about morality and the appeal to divine authority, but could only begin to pay attention now, in mid-lecture.

“I’m saying this because very soon, in about fifteen minutes, you’ll meet a man who lives out here nearly all the time. Before I tell you what he does, I need to know your own conscientious view of the work of the Jacobin faction, with which you must be a little familiar. How do you…”

His voice trailed off through the foliage of a juniper while Holly was forced to stop and get a twig out of her shoe. She raised her head to call, “Please wait a moment, sir—”

And didn’t call.

Holly had never seen an angel, but knew that was one sitting in the juniper tree. Flowing-haired and broad-jawed, hardly female, hardly male, picked out in a dazzling clarity that made the surrounding greenery seem blurred, it reclined on the branch with the easy balance of a seagull, a figure which seemed spatially paradoxic—compared to the branch, a miniature person, yet full of an aplomb that gave the impression of giantism.

“Holly.”

She teetered a step nearer, still holding one shoe.