Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  “Why art thou here, Elijah? Return seven times, and on the seventh I shall smite thy soul, for thou art no better than thy forefathers. The road is long, and after the fire and the malediction, a still small voice. For now, I shall make thy life as the life of one of them.”

  At the sound of these words, the fiery horses whinnied in fear and pranced on their hind legs; the chassis of Mighty Flame shook and took to the air. The fire scorched Elijah’s feet, causing him to writhe in pain. He rolled in the dust and, to his amazement, the horses soared into the sky; the chariot flew away without its charioteer.

  The human circles closed in on him. Elijah raised his staff, aiming it at his attackers. He expected flames to leap from it and consume those who had thus humiliated him, but nothing happened. The members of Israel’s Order grabbed him and tied ropes around his arms and feet. They bound him to a stretcher, and his tattered cloak dropped to the ground. He struggled, scratching and cursing, but the restraining hands immobilized him. His captors carried him down the hill, and then to one of the nearby mountains.

  Elisha watched Larissa as she tried to revive Izzy’s burnt body. Eventually she gave up and collapsed at her side.

  “What can I do?” asked Elisha when he regained his speech.

  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

  Elisha looked at what remained of Izzy. In the days before the battle, he had spent long hours with the perky, graceful woman. The fact that she was a pagan witch believing in rocks and crystals didn’t bother him. It was unsettling to see her lying motionless like that. Larissa fought back tears, trying to maintain her dignity.

  Elisha looked deep into Izzy’s eyes. They were wide open, like a doll’s. Her eyebrows were singed and pieces of skin were peeling from her brow. The stench was unbearable. He looked away and his gaze fell on Elijah’s cloak. He picked it up, shook off the dust, and spread it over Izzy’s body, a last act of loving-kindness. Bending over her, he placed the palms of his hand over hers and whispered parting words. Then he pulled the cloth over her face and walked away.

  He was about to utter the prayer for the dead when he heard a stifled sneeze from under the cloak. Followed by another, and then another.

  Larissa lifted the cloak, revealing Izzy’s contorted face.

  She sneezed three more times and stopped.

  Her chest rose and fell. Larissa put two fingers on her carotid artery, smiling in relief.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The battle cries of Lilith’s Daughters grew louder as they advanced up the hill. The slopes were awash with women marching resolutely toward their destiny. Every so often, one of them fell and was cast aside from the ranks, but despite the casualties, they continued to advance, either because they thirsted for Nephilim’s blood or out of their blind and desperate faith.

  Mazzy hoped that when they reached the top of the hill, they would not discover the corpses of the kidnapped women. She found herself praying silently to the God for whose sake the battle had been launched.

  They continued to fight even after their right flank was decimated, but on the left, a few hundred meters from the front lines, some hope glimmered.

  A row of Nephilim swooping from above crushed them, then took off into the air. Half a dozen warriors on her left were mowed down instantly, but the others closed ranks and continued to advance. They were a gleaming swarm, the color of blood, chanting in an ancient tongue. A battalion of Lilith’s Daughters let fly with volleys of bullets, but the approaching storm was too powerful and they, too, succumbed. Their camp was in total disarray when an additional unit of Nephilim hit them.

  The Nephilim crushed Lilith’s Daughters and many of them were killed, shrieking as they trampled both friend and foe. Gradually it became clear that the momentum of the first assault could not be contained. They continued to bite, scratch, stab, and shoot, while behind them more waves kept coming. Some tripped over the bodies on the ground and were trampled by the next wave. The right-hand flank retreated while the Nephilim pounced from above like a deluge of death.

  Mazzy saw Na’ama striking the enemy with fury and vengeance, her shrill orders drowning out the cries of the injured, until a Naphil, with the letters Aleph, Resh, Teth, Koph, Vav, Peh and Aleph shining above his head, cut her life short with one wicked slice of his flaming blade. Another Lilith’s Daughter called out to Artkofa and delivered a fatal shot.

  On her other side, Mazzy discerned a dark figure leaping and twirling with a long blade. It was Yariv finishing off a low flying Naphil who was bleeding from the many darts stuck in his body. Despite the blinding pain in his cracked ribs, Yariv’s right hand executed a fast, barely discernible motion. He penetrated the curtain of feathers, scoring a direct hit, but the light produced by the falling Naphil threw him to the ground, where he lay in a pool of blood.

  Another squadron swooped down from above. Lilith’s Daughters were ready. Mazzy saw the heavy bullets hit their targets and lodge into the bodies of the Nephilim. When their wings broke, they fell into the ocean of women who gleefully butchered them.

  Mazzy resumed her climb to the spot where the fiery ladder stood, driven by her feral, fighting instincts. The slope was slippery with blood flowing in viscous rivulets, like magma seeping from a volcanic fissure.

  Her shooting arm hurt from the blast of the gun; she had never witnessed such carnage.

  The fighting seemed to last for eons, though only minutes had passed since the battle began. The acrid air singed her eyes and throat, filling her nostrils with the smell of gunpowder, smoke, and charred flesh. Her ears rang with the echoes of whizzing bullets, a tinnitus from the titanic collision.

  Mazzy climbed the mound of cadavers that closed in on her like a human vortex, a subterranean stream pulling her down to perdition. Good God, she was in Hell!

  A Naphil flew ominously overhead. Mazzy noticed a movement in the pile of corpses a few meters away. Instinctively, she swung up her gun and tracked the moving target, a bloodied head, fighting for breath.

  “Yariv!” She gasped.

  He didn’t notice her, or the averted barrel.

  “Yariv,” she shouted again, and when he didn’t respond, she shook him. From his reaction, she gathered that he was trying to aim his gun at her, but it was trapped underneath him.

  “Mazzy,” he yelled in a manner that left no doubt; his hearing had been blasted away. She gestured to him to lower his voice. He tried to whisper, but failed.

  “I’m going up to finish this off. You stay here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mazzy said, mouthing the words clearly, to accommodate his condition.

  Then, the unexpected: the heavy butt of Yariv’s gun smashed into her head. Mazzy stumbled.

  Extricating himself from the pile of dead and dying, Yariv leapt at her, desperate and apparently in a trance. She tried to stop him, but managed only to grab his heel. He kicked her and continued forward. Mazzy followed as he disappeared over the edge of the hill. The seconds ticked away. She had almost reached the top when that strange feeling Rachel had always warned her against awakened in her heart.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Only three Nephilim remained on the summit. Three Nephilim and three bound women: Libby, Estie and Karina. The rest of the Nephilim had either escaped, fallen in battle, or were still fighting on, hoping the ceremony would be completed and the Gate opened.

  Through the pain, the haze and the desperation, Yariv noticed gleaming letters over Adriel’s head.

  He aimed his Lupara at the Naphil approaching Karina, trying to divert his attention before he hoisted the knife.

  Yariv shouted the first silly sentence that came to his head.

  “Say, did it hurt when you fell?”

  The black-winged Naphil turned toward him and Yariv heard him say,

  “The Gate will be opened.”

  “We have the names now,” he said aiming his double barreled Lupara. Adriel was not impressed, ignored Yariv’s gun and took a few more steps to
ward Libby.

  Yariv’s first shot blasted the knife out of his hand. The slaughterer pronounced his next words very clearly.

  “Now you’ve got only one bullet left.”

  Yariv assessed the situation. He was at a disadvantage, outnumbered and facing death at the hands of three Nephilim.

  “Dying is the easiest thing in life.”

  The Naphil’s expression changed at once. Yariv was not sure if it was what he said or just a ruse, it didn’t really matter. From the corner of his eye, Yariv saw something move.

  It was Mazzy, with her own Lupara.

  “I’ve got two bullets. I’ll shoot whoever survives.”

  Shamhazai trembled. He saw a son and a daughter of Man facing him. Azazel stood nearby, ready to pounce. Adriel threw down the broken haft and turned to repel the two climbers.

  Mazzy noticed Yariv’s determined motion. She had seen him countless times before at the shooting range. He closed his left eye, the non-aiming one, and then everything happened blindingly fast.

  She didn’t hear the clicking trigger or the blast.

  When the bullet hit Adriel between the eyes, he flew in the air and the hill filled with light as from a cosmic explosion. The Naphil flashed and sputtered for a long moment, then burst into flames and electricity.

  Azazel and Shamhazai were faster. She could only hear their rustling movements before she was hurled to the ground. For a second, she saw Yariv’s pale face. He tried to speak, but instead of words, a stream of blood gushed from his mouth. His chest cavity was torn open; his entrails were exposed and he tried to push them back with trembling fingers. Then the trembling stopped.

  Frozen. Defeated. Dead.

  Mazzy was on the ground, her eyes closed, trying to recover from the blow. But it wasn’t the pain in her spine that prevented her from moving, nor the fear that she might be discovered. She opened her eyes a crack and vaguely discerned Azazel joining the fray, trying to help Shamhazai conclude the ceremony. Mazzy tried to get up, but was drained of strength.

  All she had left was a confused jumble of sweet memories that had long been dormant: heartaches, unrelenting love and the frightful realization that he was dead.

  All that was left of Yariv was a broken body and a pool of still-trickling blood.

  She had been surrounded by Death all the way up the hill. Death had taken its toll of the human tide that flowed upward, peeking at her through the flying bullets and the bodies of women and angels sprawling in the blood and dust; but it had never been so close as now.

  Trying to detach herself from the body, she struggled to stand upright. She tilted her head upward, toward a wind that had started to blow. The clouds had parted and the sealed and barred Gate of Heaven was open a crack. Bright white light shone from inside, and the rods of the fiery ladder began making their way toward the light.

  Shamhazai approached the pillar where Libby was tied, intent on completing the sacrifice with his bare hands. Mazzy was unable to take her eyes off the opening Gate and the Naphil’s back. In the dust, her fingers hit something metallic. The Lupara. Her Lupara.

  Her eyes filled with tears as her fingers tightened around the short butt of the ancient gun. She was not going to die without a fight, without a last ditch effort, without hope, without the right to choose how her life would end. Some women flee, others stay and fight.

  Shamhazai stared at his next victim, Libby. He wasn’t going to let her leave the world without first hearing his speech. He had been preparing it for ages. He owed it to himself.

  “I am God’s image. Not made in God’s image, not an imitation. I was the first to descend. I am the one who made the covenant. I am the one who went into exile, and now I am coming back. I am a seraph. I am an angel. I am the Key to the Gate. And you thought you could stop me? I am a primordial force. You are a cheap copy of her…”

  Behind Shamhazai’s shoulder Libby discerned Mazzy’s slow and stealthy movements, positioning herself for a clear shot. Containing her agitation, she granted Mazzy the extra second she needed. Libby spat in Shamhazai’s face as he tightened his fingers around her neck. He didn’t even bother to wipe it off.

  Mazzy noted the expectation in Libby’s eyes, her desire to avenge, to live, to win, but she also needed another moment to fill her lungs with air and then stop her breathing. She also knew this meant another death, before she even heard the snapping of Libby’s neck.

  Her fingers closed on the trigger as she hollered his name, “Shamhazai!”

  The Naphil turned around, recognizing the threat. The astonishment on his face turned to horror when he tried to make his way toward the fiery ladder and the Gate of Heaven. The blast from the gun sank deep inside him.

  Mazzy’s seed of destruction bloomed and spread to the edges of the battlefield.

  A metallic thunder was heard overhead. The bright gleaming light of the Gate dimmed at once. The fiery ladder leading to the Gate vanished, its rungs dissipating with a sizzling rasp. A delicate odor of anise wafted away as Mazzy collapsed to the ground. With her remaining strength she crawled to Yariv’s body, laid her hands on his chest, and hoped it would be enough.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mazzy woke up. Darkness turned to light when she opened her eyes to find herself in a totally different place.

  Black and white dots swarmed before her, forcing her to close her eyes again. Her sense of smell returned, encountering the odor of detergent and the sweet cloying smell of rubber, babies, talc and latex.

  A familiar hand touched her. A gentle hand. Rachel.

  The room swayed, a motion that made Mazzy heave. She turned her head to the side and emptied the contents of her stomach into a bucket. She tried to look around, but dizziness overwhelmed her.

  Through partially opened eyes, she could detect a white metal roof, shelves of woollen blankets, red signs of intersecting triangles, metal hooks, sacks of fluid, and a clean smell. An ambulance. It was not the end of the world yet.

  Mazzy mumbled to the figure at her side, rolling her syllables, “Rachel?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Everything all right? Are you all right?”

  “No, nothing is all right. Not with us. But the world will manage. The world is still there.”

  Mazzy groaned in pain. Rachel sounded confident and cold.

  “What about the others?”

  “Rest quietly for a bit.”

  Mazzy wished for one of her mother’s sweet new kisses, the ones that took away the pain and made her forget her suffering. But the kiss did not come. The pain continued to course through her body.

  “Take it easy, let it happen. You’re awake now. Stop fighting for a moment.”

  It was easier than she expected. The edge was there. The abyss. Just a little push and she would tumble into the void. She let go, surrendered to the warm sweetness, the protective silence.

  She filled her lungs with air and the pain was gone. Nothing hurt anymore, all the aching and throbbing had vanished. Everything was back to normal. The little lies of everyday reality. Bright light appeared in the space surrounding her. She knew who she was and where she was going. Everything was all right.

  “What happened?”

  “You killed an angel. The world will maintain its equilibrium. When you kill something that big, the healing will find a way to flow. It found you. Now just continue to breathe.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Izzy is on her way to the hospital. Larissa and Elisha are with her…”

  The memory assailed her. She cut her mother short.

  “Yariv?”

  “You can’t resurrect the dead, not even with what we’ve got. You’ll have to learn to live with it. We are strong enough. So it would seem. I’m still alive, and so are you.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Commissions of Inquiry, attempts by regular folks to understand. Harsh criticism of the rescue operation.”

  “Rescue operation?”

 
“The rescue operation involving your team. The one that cost the lives of Biton and five of the kidnapped women.”

  It was a mockery, an oversimplification of the action and the actors. Mazzy knew how the story would sound. History was always written by the victors, or at least by those more adept at public relations.

  “So this is the story,” said Mazzy.

  “This is the version you will give. Our ambulance is the last in the convoy. Everybody is being briefed right now. They’ll understand what they need to say, those who can provide their own version. The facts on the ground will tell the story better than a thousand witnesses,” Rachel said.

  “And you expect the police to believe it?”

  “This nation no longer believes in miracles. The alternative is to claim that someone is running the show and this is how He chooses to do it. Not exactly a version you can live with.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “What we’ve always done. We’ll tell the plausible story, instead of the truth. We have a long tradition of false prophets. If they were so reprehensible, why are their words still around?”

  “You sure found the perfect time to tell me.”

  “The timing doesn’t matter. It’s always the same answer to the same question. At least this time it makes sense.”

  “So what am I supposed to say at the investigation?”

  “Tell them the best version.”

  “I don’t know anything. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what about us?”

  “We are the Simantovs.”

  Before Mazzy could ask why, her mother embraced her tightly, stroking her daughter’s hair in a long moment of compassion and kindness. Mazzy wasn’t sure if it was the stroking, the weariness or the motion of the ambulance that put her to sleep. When she opened her eyes, her mother was gone.

  EPILOGUE

  “No man has power over the wind to contain it; so no one has power over the day of his death. As no one is discharged in time of war, so wickedness will not release those who practice it.”