nlike Baal and Asmodeus, we were not, are not, fallen angels. Not even Rachmiel, who no longer resides among us.

It began with an old man, a man who had spent his life editing moving pictures in early Bollywood, before sound — and afterwards as well, but with less satisfaction. He could not stop thinking about the bitter taste of black walnuts on his tongue. As he worked, there had always been a bowl at his elbow, and he cracked the walnuts in his left fist. This was what he missed most about being alive. His yearning was a magnetic storm, a riptide. We were infected with longing as if by a mighty plague. Then there were the others with their baked beans, their goat curries, their steel-cut oats with maple syrup, even the recollected taste of their own blood.

Bitter, sweet, salty, sour. Just when we thought we understood, that we could arrest the contagion, it was rumoured there was a fifth flavour. Umami. How was it mortals could conceive of a fifth taste when all of the heavenly host could not?

There we were, in the grip of an intense curiosity about the senses that had been tamped down since time began. Sight and sound we could almost comprehend, but taste and smell, and, most unfathomable of all, touch — how was it these things could conjure ecstasy and revulsion in equal measure? (The Christ, who had suckled at the teat and could have spoken to the matter from experience, is such an ascetic that he remained silent when quizzed about the wine, unleavened bread, and olives, not to mention the fine ointments administered by women’s hands. The pain and suffering, on the other hand, these he never minded sharing.)

The five of us — Barman, Elyon, Rachmiel, Yabbashael, and Zachriel — were selected as emissaries. (Note to Gabriel: “Conscripts” would have been a more appropriate term. Or “guinea pigs.”)

Lacking corporeality, we have no distinguishing physical characteristics, but, unlike the sentinels and tutelary geniuses, we messengers do have traits that set us apart. In our small group Barman is the preternaturally intelligent one; Elyon, the efficient and vengeful one (best known for bringing the plague of hail upon Egypt); Rachmiel, the merciful one; Yabbashael, the cheerful one; and Zachriel, the understanding one.

We have no gender, of course, but on Arcadia Court we became four teenage boys and a girl. At the time that distinction meant nothing to us. With at least 3.8 million millennia of combined experience, the one thing we had never suspected we were was naive.

The morning we arrived, a number of things happened — or didn’t happen — inside the homes on the quiet cul-de-sac of Arcadia Court that the observant might have recognized as miracles.

Bashaar Khan had gone to bed the previous night with a new eruption of acne across his cheeks but woke with clear skin, a fact he celebrated by working an excessive amount of “product” into his dark hair until it resembled the varnished shell of a rhinoceros beetle. Stephan Choo’s mother did not have to carry her son’s bedding straight to the laundry room, holding it at arm’s length to maximize her distance from the sadly familiar acrid smell. Leo Costello Jr. did not begin the day by giving his little sister and brother the usual cheerful noogies, so that their wailing did not wake their parents and the family members ended up clambering into their lease-to-own Ford Escape later than usual. This gave them the opportunity to witness the hitherto mythic shopping cart racers hurtling down Mountain Highway, daredevil homeless men who had, as Leo Sr. said, “obviously nothing left to lose.” They collected bottles and dwelt in the rough of Hastings Creek, where the children of Arcadia Court were frequently warned not to go.

And, perhaps most significant, Jessica Wadsworth sat down and ate breakfast for the first time in three years. Her brother, Jason — who we would shortly learn was almost exclusively referred to as The Wad — greeted his parents not with a grunt but with a beatific smile. This inspired his mother to head to his room to ransack it for illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia, while his father turned to Jason’s twin sister, urging Jessica to take another helping of yogurt and muesli.

“Do we have any walnuts, Father?” Jason asked. “Or baked beans, perchance?”

“Oh my God,” his mother yelled from the hallway. “It’s the munchies!” There ensued a spirited debate between the two adults about whether crystal methamphetamine caused the munchies or whether that was just pot. (“Just pot? Is that like just one more before hitting the road?”)

That Thursday was, as Barman, our specialist on world religions, later pointed out, the Catholics’ Feast of Scholastica, patron saint of convulsive children. “Isn’t that ironic?” But when asked in what way, Barman, being new to the concept, just shrugged.

To err is human, to forgive divine. That old trout. We can tell you now that it’s the other way around; a complex vice versa.

We hope the records will show that what we did was undertaken not as a lark but in the true spirit of exploration. In other words, like Vasco da Gama and Neil Armstrong, we were sent.

That first morning the rain and the smell of damp cedar and the ozone-charged air overwhelmed our just-awakened senses. How can we explain it? It was as if magma flowed in our veins, rather than blood.

And everywhere the taste of the undiscovered was practically vibrating on our tongues.