Sesurel and Anduruc - The Canvas of the Sky
I ducked the brush with more speed than dignity. Sesurel grabbed it out of the air before it could splash virulent pink over painting stretched over the wall. Sesurel rolled his eyes before ducking a paint pot, which clanged against the door.
The angel responsible for both missiles turned and glared the half painted canvas that he had been working on.
“Doesn’t look very realistic to me,” Sesurel whispered to me foolishly. The angel turned on us again and we both decided to leave as quickly as possible. Unfortunately Sesurel lacked sufficient celerity.
Later, as I scrubbed at Sesurel’s feathers in the hope of removing some of the paint. I was beginning to fear that Sesurel would have to resign himself to having feathers spotted with Blue #147.
“‘Doesn’t look very realistic to me,’” I quoted acidly.
“Well it didn’t. I mean, I could paint a better sunset than that.”
“Of course it looks realistic. It is the real sunset he was making.”
“It was tasteless. I would never use a pink like that.”
“Nevertheless it was real.”
“That doesn’t mean it was realistic. Ouch!” Sesurel’s wings twitched violently, knocking over the bucket of soapy water I’d been using.
“Hold still!” I snapped.
“That hurt. I want my wings to end up clean, not plucked.”
The topic of paintings was temporarily abandoned.
Later we were relaxing in the Cherub’s Choice, a small establishment that we frequented, due to the good quality of the drinks, music and company. Sesurel was playing cards with Tiphariel, a Seraph friend of ours who worked in the courier office. I, meanwhile, was pursuing a new series of pro-union posters produced by the Divine Left.
I turned in time to see Tiphariel making a significant bet on the next hand. I considered warning her that I had seen Sesurel slip two aces into his hand a few moments before. However I restrained myself and was rewarded by Sesurel’s incredulous gaze when Tiphy laid down her cards, smiling smugly. Having relieved Sesurel of a significant portion of his wages she began inquiring as to our new jobs. I would have simply said that I could see why the positions were open, but Sesurel launched into a detailed analysis of our new superior’s artistic flaws, which I punctuated with criticisms of his behaviour and temperament.
“Why did you request transfer anyway?” she asked. “You were doing well in the courier department.”
“Glaphidrel,” Sesurel replied, making a face.
“Anyway,” I added, “We wouldn’t have transferred if I’d known we’d be assigned to that...”
“Hack,” Sesurel continued, “With the colour sense of a concussed pangolin and the artistic judgment of...”
“Be fair,” Tiphariel said, interrupting Sesurel’s metaphor, “Some of the sunsets he paints are very beautiful.”
“Yeah, occasionally,” Sesurel took a sip of his drink, “By the law of averages he gets a decent picture. But did you see this evening’s? That pink! I’ve seen more artistic cloud crashes. And they’re smearing this rubbish across the sky once a day?”
“Since when were you an art critic?” Tiphy asked with an amused expression.
Sesurel, trying to look dignified, replied, “I do have some hobbies other than...”
“Drinking, gambling and driving clouds at three times the speed limit,” Tiphy and I chorused.
Sesurel looked hurt. “I try and cultivate some degree of culture.”
Tiphy looked incredulous. “Since when?” she asked.
Sesurel stormed off, muttering under his breath.
I turned to Tiphy. “Out of curiosity,” I enquired, “How did you slip three aces into you hand?”
“Why Anduruc,” she replied sweetly, “You don’t think I cheated, do you?”
Work continued to be a test of out patience and agility, with the frequent tantrums thrown by Cirel, angel of Sunsets, when the paints refused to do exactly as he wanted. I once commented to Sesurel that if he displayed the same dexterity when using a paint brush as he did when throwing one, it would have resulted in a great improvement in quality. We endured this for a remarkable length of time, but the job of assisting him required long hours and the lack of free time became wearing. Furthermore we were becoming disillusioned with the artistic quality of our new job.
However we had no wish to suffer the stigma of having changed departments again, so we devised a plan. I contacted an Ofanite friend of mine named Lithalion. He worked at the Golden Trumpet, a newspaper that circulated through much of the lower heavens. We both spent about half an hour transcribing and editing Sesurel’s comments on our superior’s creative talents. Lithalion then published it in the Trumpet. They are, it should be noted, desperate for new material, and Lithalion is a skilled editor.
Furthermore Sesurel is, when his ire is roused, a persuasive speaker. The article provoked popular outrage. The authorities acted and Cirel was relegated to a lower position, shaping high altitude clouds into intricate forms. While a new candidate was found there was no work to be done, and they simply showed repeats of old sunsets on the grounds that no one would notice. We, meanwhile, were transferred back to the courier department. Through no fault of our own.