Seven - Visitations

Naomi Gordon was in the middle of feeding the twins when all Hell broke loose.

David, her eldest, and the girls, Sarah and Leah, were playing horse racing in the garden. Each of them had a hobby horse and they were running after each other. A harmless game, Naomi had thought, until a siren wail sounded up from outside, immediately followed by furious shouting.

Holding the twins fast – they were barely two years old, and seemingly locked in a contest who could be the heaviest – Naomi hurried to the garden. 'What in Heaven's name is going on?'

Sarah was lying on the ground, howling, showing a pair of scraped knees. David and Leah were standing opposite each other, fuming, David with his hobby horse raised like a club, ready to hit his sister with it.

'I fell!' Sarah cried.

'It wasn't my fault!' Leah quickly said.

'It was your fault,' David said. 'Mum, she made Sarah fall.'

'I didn't! You're just saying that because you were losing!'

'My knees!' Sarah wailed.

'Quiet, all of you!' Naomi said. 'Sarah, come with me to the kitchen, I'll patch you up. Dave, Leah, both of you go to your rooms.'

'But I didn't do anything wrong!' David protested. The twins, upset at the interruption of their meal and the shouting around them, began to make a noise too. Naomi felt a headache coming up.

'Now,' she said to David.

'Come on,' Leah said to her brother. They trudged away, already united once again against their mother's unfairness. Naomi sighed. She hushed the twins, took Sarah to the kitchen, put band-aids on her knees and gave her the tablet to calm her down. Then she returned to the living room, still carrying the twins, and resumed their feeding.

'Blessed silence,' she muttered to herself. It was only nine in the morning, and she was already tired.

'Hello,' said a voice.

Naomi looked up. In front of her stood two men.

One was radiant, dressed in a cream suit, with white hair and a beaming smile. The other was gangly, dressed in black, with yellow eyes and red hair. He looked pale, but he was giggling. 'Teehee, that really feels funny,' he said to the radiant figure.

Naomi's headache worsened. 'Who are you?' she asked.

'Ah.' The radiant man cleared his throat. 'Fear not! I am the Archangel Aziraphale.'

She frowned. 'All right... and who is he?'

'No one, really,' the ginger man said.

'Right. And what are you doing here? I'm a bit in the middle of something.' She gestured at the bowl of baby food on the table. The twins on her lap were staring at the two figures in awe.

'Are you Mrs. Gordon?' the Archangel Aziraphale asked.

Naomi nodded.

'Excellent. We have come to bring you a message from Heaven,' he said. 'You have been chosen to be the Second Mother of Christ, and bear him for his Second Coming. If you want.'

Naomi looked at him, then at the ginger man. They both seemed entirely serious. Her headache got even worse. 'Well... ah... actually, I sort of have enough children,' she said wearily.

At that moment, David's voice came from above. 'Mum? Leah and me have made up. Can we come down now?'

'Er... just a moment longer, love!' she called. She looked back at her visitors. 'I'm really not ready for another kid just now. So... can I say no?'

'Of course,' the Archangel Aziraphale smiled. 'Splendid. Thank you for your answer.'

'Er... you're welcome,' Naomi said uncertainly.

'Well, we won't bother you any longer,' the Archangel Aziraphale said primly.

'Good luck with the kids you have,' the ginger said with a grin, jerking his head in the direction of a crashing sound upstairs.

'Have a very nice day,' the Archangel Aziraphale said. He held out his hand to the ginger man, who took it. Naomi blinked. And they were gone.

Ikari Atsuko had always prided herself on being early to everything. It was, in itself, a good quality. Unfortunately, when she was nervous, she tended to be early to being early. Today, that meant she had been sitting outside the office and resisting the urge to bite her nails for fifteen minutes, and she had ten minutes more to go. She was a nervous wreck.

She was waiting for a job interview for the promotion she had set her cap at on the very first day she had begun working for this company. She really wanted this. But she knew she was only one of four candidates, and the other three were a) men, who had b) all worked for the company longer than she.

She closed her eyes and breathed deep. It wouldn't do to appear nervous.

When she opened her eyes again, two men were standing in front of her.

Atsuko knew at once that they did not belong here. They looked European, for a start. And they lacked the look of businessmen Atsuko had learned to recognise immediately. The figure in white looked too prim, the figure in black looked too gleeful. They made Atsuko think of an alpaca and a red squirrel, respectively.

'It feels a bit like a rollercoaster,' Squirrel was saying to his friend. He looked little pale, but he was laughing. 'But on the inside, you know what I mean?'

'No, I don't. I've never been on a rollercoaster,' Alpaca said, somewhat indignantly.

'It doesn't feel funny for you?'

'No! I just concentrate on the location and then I'm there.'

Atsuko coughed. 'Can I help you gentlemen?'

The two men rounded on her. 'So sorry,' Alpaca said, smiling. 'Yes, actually. We are looking for Miss Ikari?'

'That is me.'

'Splendid. We've come to ask you a question.'

Atsuko shot a glance at the office door opposite her. There was no sound from there. 'Ask me a question?'

'Yes.' Alpaca cleared his throat. 'Fear not!' he said in a grand voice. 'I am the Archangel Aziraphale. You have been chosen to be the Mother of Christ and birth him for his Second Coming on Earth.' He smiled again and added in a more normal tone: 'If you want, of course.'

'You're asking me if I want to give birth to... Christ.'

Alpaca beamed. 'Yes.'

Atsuko stared at him, then blew out her breath. 'Honestly. You're worse than my mother. She's always pestering me to have children, and now you two come along.'

The two men exchanged a look. 'You don't want kids, then,' Squirrel said.

'One day, yes. But not now! I'm hoping for a promotion. If I get pregnant, I can say goodbye to any chance I have. Not to mention having to be a mother after that. My career would be over.'

'Well, excellent,' Alpaca said, still beaming. 'We won't bother you any longer. I wish you very good luck with your career. I'm sure you will get this promotion.'

He held out his hand to his companion, who took it. And they vanished before Atsuko's eyes.

She leaned her head back against the wall, very much taken aback, slightly satisfied, and increasingly wondering if nerves could make you hallucinate. But then she was saved from her questions and from further anxiety, because the office door opened. 'Ikari Atsuko?' said a man, who reminded Atsuko strongly of a sea otter.

She got up with a professional smile, firmly putting the incident behind her.

'Please, come in,' Sea Otter said. She gathered her nerves together and entered for the interview.

Sietske Terpstra was baking pancakes with her child Jip. The idea was to eat them later, at the dinner table, but somehow their pile was barely growing, and most of the pancakes disappeared immediately into their stomachs. Official policy had always been to eat only failed pancakes, but Jip was very good at failing pancakes, and Sietske tended to be too ambitious and try and flip the pancakes over in the air, which usually ended with a weird crumple of pancake.

Neither of them minded too much. Failed pancakes were better anyway.

'Okay, ready?' Sietske took her pan and shook it dramatically. Jip giggled in anticipation. Sietske threw the pancake up in the air. She followed it with her eyes – and then she saw the two men standing in her kitchen.

She stared at them.

The pancake fell perfectly back in the pan. 'Goal!' Jip cheered. One of the men clapped enthusiastically.

Jip turned around at the sound. 'Oh, hello,' they said.

'Hello,' said the man who had clapped. He was wearing white and looked cheery. The other man was dressed in black and looked somewhat pale. 'Which one of you is Miss Terpstra?' the man in white asked.

'Depending on your definition of Miss, we both are, or just Mum,' Jip said. Sietske laughed. She put the pan she was still holding back on the stove.

The man in black looked from one to the other. 'I think we'll need your mum,' he said to Jip.

'Okay.' Jip turned to Sietske. 'Can I play with my Xbox while you talk?'

Sietske rolled her eyes. 'Fine.' Jip laughed and darted off. Sietske turned off the stove and looked the two men over. 'Sit down. Do you want a pancake while you talk? I'm afraid I only have perfect ones at the moment.'

'Yeah, I'm starving,' said the man in black, draping himself over a chair at the kitchen table.

'Yes, please!' said the man in white. 'And do you perhaps have something to drink? I am positively parched by now.'

'Sure.' Sietske gave him a glass of apple juice, then took two plates from the cupboard and gave them each a pancake. The man in black had wolfed his down before the man in white had even had one bite. 'Aaah... That's better. Apparently, humans actually need to eat,' he said to his friend.

Sietske stifled a laugh. 'You want another one?'

His yellow eyes flickered. 'Yes.'

She gave him three more. Then her pile of perfect pancakes had run out. The man in white, meanwhile, ate his single pancake with great relish, as if it was an exquisite dish in an expensive restaurant.

'So,' Sietske said, pleased her cooking skills had gone down so well. 'What did you want me for?'

'Right.' The man in white wiped the corners of his mouth and cleared his throat. 'Fear not! I am the Archangel Aziraphale.'

'And I'm A. J. Crowley,' the man in black said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. 'That's the first time you introduce yourself.'

Crowley seemed taken aback, then shrugged. 'Nyaa... she gave us pancakes.'

A smile appeared in the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. Then he turned back to Sietske. 'Where was I? Ah, yes – you have been chosen to give birth to Christ on his Second Coming to Earth!' The Archangel beamed. Then he added: 'If you want, of course.'

Sietske blinked. 'Er... well.' She grimaced. 'Thank you for the honour, but... I'm hesitant to give birth again. Jip's birth was difficult, it nearly killed me. I don't want that again. Or will this one be, er... miraculously easy?'

'Oh! No, no no. It won't be easy at all. Christ has got a very big head,' Aziraphale said. Crowley snorted.

Sietske grimaced again. 'Well, then... sorry, I'd like to help you, but...'

'No problem at all,' Aziraphale said, smiling. 'Perfect, in fact. Thank you very much.'

Crowley stood, suppressing a belch. 'Also for the pancakes.'

'Glad to help,' Sietske said, a little confused.

'Well, we won't bother you any longer,' Aziraphale said primly. He held out his hand to Crowley.

'I'll show you out,' Sietske said, already walking towards the door. She'd looked away only for a moment to find the door handle – but when she looked at the two visitors again, they were gone.

Sietske stood for a moment, looking at the empty kitchen. Then she called Jip again. They had to make new pancakes.

Morgana LunaRaven had never actually seen any faeries or angels or spirit guides, but she was convinced of their existence. Everyone on the witch forums and on Facebook and in her Goddess Group encountered them all the time; it would only be a matter of time before she would too.

So she was not exactly shocked when one day, after she had lit her incense and sat down for her morning meditation, two figures appeared in her room.

Surprised, yes. She had expected spiritual beings to look more... unearthly. The two figures who had materialised in front of her looked rather normal. Both were dressed like ordinary men, one in white, the other in black. Some people would have considered them a little eccentric, but Morgana, used to flowing skirts, rows of jewellery, glimmering capes and flower crowns, thought them rather plain.

They were weird too. The figure in black greeted her with: 'Oof. That was one pancake too many,' and the figure in white with: 'Oh, I love that incense,' inhaling deeply.

Still, she was not going to criticise her very first spirit guides. So she said: 'Hello. Welcome to my circle. What have you come to bring me?'

'Ah... hello.' The figure in white smiled. 'We have actually come to ask you something.'

'What is that?' The figure in black pointed at Morgana's necklace. He seemed to be swaying on his feet a bit, and was so pale he would fit right in with Morgana's gothic friends.

She felt for the necklace. Her wife, Freya Moonstone, had given it to her. 'It's a triquetra. A Celtic symbol for unity, and everlasting love.'

The figure in black gave his friend a triumphant grin. 'I told you it would be a hit.'

The figure in white looked sceptical. 'Didn't you intend for it to be a sigil to create fake plague spots?'

'It's the design that matters,' the figure in black said dismissively.

Morgana looked from one to the other. This was not going like any of the encounters with spirit guides she had heard others describe. They usually brought important lessons and tips for self-care. 'Is that... what you wanted to ask me?'

'Oh! No.' The figure in white turned to her again, smiling. 'Are you Mrs. Smith?'

'Yes...'

'Wonderful. Well. You have been chosen to become the Mother of Christ for his Second Coming,' the figure in white said.

Morgana frowned. 'What?'

'He's asking if you want to birth Jesus,' the figure in black said.

Morgana stared at them. This was not at all like a normal spirit guide encounter.

'Well?' the figure in black asked.

'Er... well, I'm not really a Christian,' Morgana said hesitatingly. 'My family is religious, but they didn't react very well when I told them I was marrying my girlfriend, so I'm kind of done with all of that. I'm a Wiccan now anyway. I worship the Great Mother Goddess and the Horned God. So... preferably not?'

'Excellent.' The figure in white smiled brightly. 'Well, that was all we needed from you.'

'W-wait,' Morgana said. 'Aren't you going to... give me life lessons?'

The figure in black raised an eyebrow. 'Life lessons?'

'I thought... I thought spirit guides were supposed to do that,' Morgana confessed. 'Or aren't you spirit guides?'

'No,' said the figure in black.

'Oh.'

'Well, we can send some your way if you want,' the figure in black said, grinning. He raised a hand above his head and made a gesture like screwing an invisible lightbulb. Then he stopped mid-motion. His grin fell, and he slowly lowered his hand. For a moment he looked utterly devastated, almost on the verge of crying. Then he swallowed and put on an unbothered expression. 'You do it,' he said to his friend, his voice a little hoarse.

The figure in white glanced at him, a mixture of worry and pity in his eyes. The figure in black did not notice. 'Go on, then.'

'I'm really not supposed to... oh well. Fine.' The figure in white gestured with his hand, like a beckoning. He then brough a finger to his ear and nodded. 'Done. On their way. Well, we best be off, then,' he said primly. He held out his hand to his friend. 'Very nice meeting you,' he said to Morgana.

'Likewise,' Morgana managed. The figure in black took his friend's hand, and the two men disappeared before her eyes.

She sagged on her meditation cushion, wondering what the Hell just happened. Then she heard a rustle behind her. She turned around.

On the windowsill sat a white owl. It looked at her with golden eyes. Morgana stared back, astonished at the sight. She'd never seen a snowy owl before. She wasn't even sure they lived around here.

The owl opened its beak. 'Lesson one,' it said. 'Always invite guests in.'

Ana Hernandez was standing on a step stool and painting the baby room light orange. She was humming to herself, an old indigenous lullaby. Her neighbour had taught it to her when she had told him she was pregnant. He'd practically jumped up to get her the sheet music when the words were out of her mouth. She still smiled at the memory.

She paused her painting for a moment to look down at her belly. It was growing nice and round. It looked rather good on her, actually. Still, she couldn't wait till the baby was born. Just a few more weeks and she would –

'Okay, this one was a tiny bit rough,' a voice said behind her.

'¡Madre de Dios!' Ana exclaimed, startled. She whirled around. The step stool wobbled. She grabbed the railing, dropping the paint brush and kicking over the paint bucket. She felt the step stool tipping over – it was going to fall...

'Oh dear, watch out,' said another voice. The step stool tipped back and landed firmly on its legs. A hand reached up to steady Ana. 'Are you all right?'

Shaking, Ana let go of the railing and slowly turned around.

Two men were standing behind her. One was dressed in white, the other in black. Both were splattered with light orange paint. It was also on the floor, on the step stool, and on Ana's shoes.

'Carajo,' she muttered. She had had just enough paint to finish the baby room, with the emphasis on had had. She turned to the men. '¡Chingados! You nearly fucking killed me!'

The man in white (and orange) – it was he who had steadied her, though he now tentatively let go of her – blinked. 'Ah... we're so sorry.' He shot a glance that was part accusation and part concern at the man in black (and orange), who looked a little green in the face. The first man looked back at Ana and smiled. 'You're all right, though.'

'No I'm not!' Ana stepped down from the step stool. Her feet made soggy sounds when she stepped through the paint. She placed her hands on her hips and looked from one to the other. 'What are you doing in my house?'

'Er... we're looking for Mrs. Hernandez?'

'What do you want with me?'

'Well, we... wanted to ask you something.'

'In that case, I have a doorbell. You can ask for my permission to come in like everyone else.'

The man in white looked at her a little confused. 'Well, but... we're in now.' He laughed nervously. 'So, what we wanted to ask –'

'She's going to say no,' the man in black interrupted him.

'Yes, I should hope so, but we have to ask all the same,' the man in white said under his breath, then, turning to Ana again: 'You have been chosen to give birth to the Son of God for his Second Coming on Earth.'

For a few seconds, Ana stared at him. Then she grabbed the paintbrush that was still lying on the floor. She raised it at them, making drops of paint fly all around. 'Get out!'

The two men took a step back. 'So... your answer is no?' the man in white said, oddly hopeful.

'Yes, it is no, ¡cabrón! Coming in here uninvited and asking me... I don't want the Son of God, I have my own son on the way. Now get out or I will ram this brush up your nose and paint your brains orange!'

The man in white blanched. The man in black laughed. 'I like her,' he said to his friend.

'Let's go,' the man in white said, extending his hand. The man in black made a face, but then took it. And just like that, they were gone.

Ana blew out her breath and tried to calm her pounding heart. When she had mostly regained her calm, she turned back to assess the damage the paint had done. But the floor was entirely paintless, and the paint bucket stood on the step stool again. It was full. Ana looked at her shoes. They were clean – cleaner even than they had been.

She shook her head, climbed back up the step stool and went on with the painting.

Peter Euler put his third brush between his teeth and selected an even smaller one. His eyes were straining; he had been working at this painting for four hours today, and he still couldn't stop. It was to be an image of an osprey descending on a salmon in the water, and he couldn't get the wings right. He dipped his brush in a blob of dark purple paint and began to add a new layer to the shadows underneath the wings.

When his brush was dry and he moved to dip it into the paint again, there were two men standing in his studio.

Peter stared at them. How had they gotten in? He knew himself to get lost in his painting from time to time, but the door to his studio creaked like a horror house in a B-film. He'd have noticed.

One of the men was dressed in black, the other in white. They seemed to complement each other perfectly. Somewhere in the back of Peter's mind, he was thinking that if he placed them next to the window, evening sunlight spilling over the both of them, perhaps with a dark red chair and – no, he told himself, finish this painting first.

Also, what were they doing here in the first place?

'Eh... hello,' he said through his paintbrushes. His eye fell on the man in black, who had reached out a hand and steadied himself on the wall. He was pale. 'Are you all right?' Peter asked, though with the brushes still in his mouth, it sounded more like ayolwigh?

'I'm fine,' the man in black said, though it sounded as though he had to work hard to get the words out. The man in white cast him a worried look.

Peter decided not to press. He took the brushes from between his teeth. 'What can I do for you?'

The man in white clasped his hands together. 'Are you Dr Euler?'

'Yep, that's me,' Peter said.

'Doctor?' The man in black let go of the wall and seemed to have regained a little bit of colour in his face, though he still sounded like he was sick. He looked about, eyes trailing over the paint stains on the floor and walls, the canvases heaped in every corner, the layer of dust covering everything. 'You don't much look like a medical man to me.'

'It's a doctorate in geology,' Peter clarified.

'Ah.' The man's eye fell on a hammer hanging from the ceiling, right above his head. 'Explains a lot.'

'Well, excellent.' The man in white cleared his throat. 'Fear not! I am the Archangel Aziraphale. You have been selected for the honour of carrying and birthing Christ for his Second Coming on Earth.'

Peter stared at him.

The Archangel smiled. 'If you want.'

'Well, I...' Peter shook his head. 'That would mean getting pregnant, right?' he asked, just to be sure.

The Archangel nodded, beaming.

'Well, I think... I've just started transitioning, and I'm afraid it'll mess with my hormones. I don't even know if I still could get pregnant. So... best find someone else, I think.'

'Well, excellent.' The Archangel looked him over. 'So... you shouldn't even be on the list of women anymore, then?'

'There's a list of women?' Peter asked, confused. The Archangel nodded. 'Well, in that case, no,' Peter said.

'They're still always behind on things, are they?' the man in black said.

'We'll have it amended,' the Archangel promised.

'You do realise that that means we're also going to have to find the list of men. To add him to it,' the man in black said. 'I am not going back to the Vaults.'

'Of course not!' said the Archangel. 'It'll be in Heaven. It'll be fixed in a jiffy.'

The man in black still looked incredulous. The Archangel either did not notice, or did not mind. He looked out the window. 'Evening is falling. Shall we retire for the day? We can finish it tomorrow.'

The man in black scowled, but then nodded. 'Yeah, okay.'

The Archangel turned to Peter again. 'Well, thank you very much for your time. Good luck with everything.' He made a vague gesture.

'Th-thanks,' Peter said, not knowing what other answer to give.

The Archangel extended his hand to his friend. 'Shall we go, then?'

The man in black grimaced, seemingly uneager, but then he took a deep breath and took the Archangel's hand. And they vanished from before Peter's eyes.

That night Peter dreamed of wings. The next morning, when he sat down by his easel again, he knew exactly how to paint them right.