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was wounded. His wings were wounded. The
feathers were all broken at the bottom. And the smell of him. How I remember
that smell.’
    ‘That
smell?’
    ‘The
smell of lilacs. The odour of sanctity, it’s called. The perfume that issues
from the incorruptible bodies of the saints. Sanctity, you see, perfection, it
has its own smell. Not like anything in this world, this world where everything
corrupts and dies. Not like ordinary lilacs, oh no.
    ‘And I
stared down at this tiny naked man with the wings, this angel, and he looked
back at me with his eyes so pale and pleading, but he didn’t speak. I don’t
know if he could speak. Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps there are no words in the
perfection of heaven. Perhaps words themselves are corrupt. Perhaps to put a
name to anything given by God, to label it with a word, perhaps that is
blasphemy.
    ‘But
though he didn’t speak, I knew that he was begging me, begging me to protect
him and not let him be seen. You see, somehow, in that great storm, he had
fallen to Earth. I don’t know how it happened, he never told me, because he
never spoke, but somehow he let me know that he had come for the souls of that
poor family who died. Come to take their souls to paradise.’
    Porrig’s
mouth was open, but no words came from it.
    ‘I
nursed him,’ said the old fellow. ‘I hid him and I nursed him. I kept him
secret in the old lean-to. I brought him out a blanket and I fed him milk. He
didn’t drink it like we do, he held it in the palms of his hands and it
evaporated, or sank into the skin, or something.
    ‘So I
looked after him and I protected him. I straightened out the feathers on his
wings as best I could. There was this dust on the broken ones, this light dust
that came off on my fingers when I touched them. And the smell was on that dust
and on my fingers and all through the day, when I sat at school in the
classroom, I could smell that smell. I would sit there and sniff my fingers and
smell that marvellous perfume.’
    Porrig
looked at the old man. His face was shining and there were tears in his eyes.
    ‘Go on,’
said Porrig. ‘Go on with your story.’
    ‘He
went,’ said the old fellow, ‘upped and went. One day I got home from school and
he’d gone. Without a word of goodbye, or of thank you.’
    ‘But he
never spoke.’
    ‘I
would have known, he would have let me know. But he was gone, just gone. I
searched all over the place, and I cried, I can tell you. I sat there in that
old lean-to and I wept. But I never saw him again. I don’t know what happened
to him.’
    ‘He was
well again,’ said Porrig. ‘So he had gone to… you know.’
    ‘To
perfection. He had gone back to perfection. But he left me with something.’
    ‘He
did?’
    ‘Oh
yes. But then, no, he did not. I took it, you see. I know now that I shouldn’t
have and I know now that I must return it to him. Find him and return it. I
must do that, I know.’
    ‘I don’t
understand what you’re talking about.’
    ‘While
he slept,’ said the old one. ‘He slept a lot at first, while he was so very
ill. And while he slept I took it. Just a little piece to carry with me, so I
could smell that marvellous perfume. I didn’t think it would matter.’
    ‘A
little piece of what? What did you take?’
    ‘A
piece of a feather from his broken wing. I’ve kept it with me ever since. Until
the day comes when I can return it to him.’
    The old
fellow slipped a wizened hand beneath his jacket and delved into the pocket of
his tweedy waistcoat. From here he drew out an old snuff box. It was a shallow
ebony cylinder, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter, shining with a rich
patina.
    ‘I
bought this box brand new,’ said the old fellow. ‘Saved up my pennies and bought
it. To keep my treasure in. And I’ve carried it with me ever since. Would you
like to see what’s in it, Porrig?’
    Porrig
stared at the box and then into the eyes of the old man. What was all this, he
asked himself. Some