A Hundred Words for Hate rc-4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  There were multiple doors surrounding them, and Jon gestured to one in particular. “You’ll be going in there,” he said, the door sliding open on its own as they approached.

  Passing through the door, Remy could see nothing but green, the air so thick with humidity that for a moment it was almost difficult to breathe.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, looking around at the equivalent of a tropical rain forest in the middle of a desert. The rich colors were stimulating to the eye, brightly colored birds flitting around above them, their joyous cries reminding the Seraphim of a familiar place from so very long ago.

  “It’s our temporary piece of Paradise,” Jon said, looking around the jungle. “And hopefully, someday soon . . . with your help . . . we’ll be able to have the real thing.”

  “Maybe,” Remy answered him, uncomfortable with how to respond. As far as he understood, the first of humanity had been banished from Eden for their sins against God, and the Garden of Eden was cut loose from reality to prevent it from becoming a beachhead during the war with Lucifer and his followers, but then again, maybe there was something he didn’t know.

  Remy hoped that this meeting with Adam would help clear up some things.

  “The one you need to speak with is down there,” Jon said, pointing down the length of the path that disappeared into the thick jungle foliage.

  “You’re not part of this meeting?” Remy asked.

  Jon shook his head. “This is not the place for someone like me. I’ll see you after.”

  He turned away, leaving Remy alone in the man-made jungle, alone in this attempt to re-create the Garden of Eden on Earth.

  Remy followed the path into the shadows, pushing aside the leathery leaves that blocked his way. Something squawked loudly as he stepped out into a clearing, and he looked up to see a large parrot perched upon a thick branch, peering down at him with one beady eye, its head cocked at a bizarre angle.

  “No fear,” he told the parrot, reassuring the colorful jungle resident that he meant it no harm. The bird seemed to accept his word, going back to breaking open with its powerful beak the nut that it held in its taloned foot.

  In the distance, beside an artificial stream, he saw the box. It appeared to be made mostly from clear plastic, and reminded him of a high-tech coffin. There was a housing for machinery that hummed softly that was attached to the back of the box, which was standing in an upright, vertical position. Remy could see that there was something—someone—inside the box as he came up alongside it.

  Peering inside, he saw the almost mummified body of a man, his thin, leathery dark skin pulled tight across his skull and body—as if his skeleton had been dipped in a brownish paint and that was all that covered his bones. His eyes were barely open, see-through, tinted goggles that appeared to provide moisture for the ancient orbs in his withered face.

  Stepping closer to the front of the box, he could see that the man’s bare arms and legs were adorned with tubes that disappeared beneath the thin flesh like burrowing worms, a series of monitors on the front of the coffinlike box providing readouts on his health.

  The box was helping to keep him alive.

  “Hello, Adam,” Remy said sadly, placing the palm of his hand against the front of the plastic case.

  If this could be called living.

  Flashes of memory appeared before his mind’s eye as the nature of the Seraphim at the center of his being was stirred by the memory of the one within the box.

  He saw the actual Garden and all the wonders within her, including the magnificent specimens that would eventually become the prototypes for the human race.

  But he also saw Eden in turmoil, the destructive aftereffects of original sin, and God’s displeasure with His most prized creations.

  “It’s been quite a long time.”

  Remy sensed the presence almost at once; the air was suddenly charged with an ancient power.

  He turned, the Seraphim inside ready to emerge.

  Standing before him was a being of immeasurable might, although he too was wearing the guise of humanity—a tall older man in a finely tailored suit, with closely cropped white hair and beard—but Remy could see through his disguise.

  See him for what he was—and what he had once been in the scheme of things.

  “Malachi,” he said in the language of the Heavenly hosts.

  “Remiel,” the angel responded, his voice reminiscent of the celestial choir. “Thank you for coming.”

  The Garden of Eden: During the Great War in Heaven

  The Seraphim Remiel soared above the Garden of Eden, sword in hand and ready for battle.

  They had said that the legions of Lucifer would come here, to this beautiful place created for the Lord God’s most spectacular creations, but which was now empty of them.

  The humans had been banished . . . punished for the sin of disobedience—a sin that Lucifer Morningstar had predicted.

  Remiel landed amid the thick greenery, the stench of God’s anger still tainting the air. It was peaceful here, the clamor of battle, the sounds of brother killing brother not yet reaching its emerald expanse.

  Yet.

  The Son of the Morning had said that God had given them too much, that the humans would take His gifts for granted and disobey Him in their arrogance.

  And in an attempt to prove that his words were true, Lucifer tested them, tempting the first of the humans with the fruit of the Tree.

  The Tree of Knowledge; the Tree that was forbidden them.

  And Lucifer was proven right; they did betray the trust of their most beatific Creator, but it did not stop the Lord God from continuing to love His newest creations—though He was immensely disappointed.

  Which led to their punishment.

  For their sin, the humans had been driven from Eden.

  Remiel trudged through the forest, his sword of fire cutting a swath through the overgrowth toward his destination. With the humans gone, Eden had grown wild and overgrown—those chosen to be the gardeners no longer there to tend it.

  But this punishment wasn’t enough for the Son of the Morning, who wanted these two insolent whelps wiped from existence—for the Almighty to recognize that He had already conceived His most magnificent of creations.

  The angels were all that He needed; the angels would love only Him, and never disobey.

  But how quickly was that proven false?

  Despite their flaws, God did not forsake His human creations. Instead, He chose to love and guide them, picking them over all others.

  This enraged the Morningstar, and many others of the Heavenly hosts, and war was declared against Heaven. They decided that they no longer needed Him, that they no longer loved Him, and chose to disobey Him in any way that they could.

  Rumor had it that Lucifer and his followers planned to take Eden as theirs, to use it as a stepping-stone—a beachhead—to eventually taking Heaven itself.

  This, Remiel would not allow to happen.

  Others had been given the chore to cut the Garden loose, to cast it adrift, severing its connection to God’s Kingdom, but here it remained.

  This concerned the Seraphim, which was why he was at the ready, cautious that the Morningstar’s legions had already arrived.

  If this were the case, it would be up to him; he would need to be the one who prevented Eden from falling into Lucifer’s hands. It was a job he was ready to perform.

  A chore that he was ready to die for, if need be.

  Having been here before, Remiel had a sense of where he was despite the thick overgrowth. Hanging vines sizzled and popped, dropping to the grassy floor of Eden as the burning blade cut through them, exposing to him the clearing, and what was growing huge and bountiful there.

  The Tree of Knowledge.

  The sight, more magnificent than the last time he’d viewed it, was marred by a scene of violence and death. The angel soldiers who had been sent to perform their task had been slain, their bodies broken and bleeding—their blood seepi
ng into the rich earth to feed the great Tree.

  Only one of the soldiers remained alive.

  He was of the Heavenly host, Cherubim, and he knelt amid the carnage, his head of many faces staring with unwavering intensity.

  Remiel knew him as Zophiel, a sentry of the Tree.

  “Brother,” the Seraphim called to him, but the kneeling angel did not seem to hear. Remiel moved carefully closer, his warrior’s senses on full alert.

  “Caution,” said a voice nearby.

  Remiel leapt into the air, his burning sword at the ready, only to pull back as he dropped to the ground.

  Malachi emerged from behind the great Tree, his vestments of shimmering light spattered with the blood of angels.

  Malachi had been one of the originals that sprang from God. First there had been Lucifer, the Light Bringer—and then there had been Malachi, he who would bring life.

  “Forgiveness,” Remiel said, averting his gaze temporarily from the great elder angel. Slowly his gaze returned to the dead, and the powerful Cherubim that knelt among them.

  “What has happened here?”

  Malachi emerged further, his body radiating the power given him by the Almighty.

  “It was as if Zophiel had been touched by madness,” the angel explained. “He had been here, guarding the Tree, when the soldiers arrived, and when told to step aside, he seemed to snap . . . and this is what occurred.”

  Remy rose to his feet, stricken by the words of the Life Bringer.

  “How is this possible?” Remiel asked, still staring at the angel kneeling among the dead.

  “Perhaps a flaw in his design,” Malachi suggested, having assisted the Lord God in the execution of the Cherubim’s creation. Malachi had assisted in the design of them all; this was what he had been created for—an extension of God’s artful hand.

  As Malachi spoke, the Cherubim Zophiel looked up, madness burning in the three sets of eyes.

  “No!” the powerful angelic force bellowed, rising up to his full and impressive height. His armored form was shaking—trembling—as if fighting off some invisible force.

  “Quickly, Remiel,” Malachi ordered. “Before more damage is done.”

  Remiel knew what he had to do; it was the same thing that had been needed from him since the war began, what seemed like an eternity ago.

  Zophiel continued to vibrate as he swayed upon powerful armored legs, eyes suddenly falling upon a mighty sword protruding from the back of one of the angels he had slain.

  “Don’t do it, brother,” Remiel warned, his own sword at the ready.

  Zophiel hesitated, and for a moment Remiel saw in the Cherubim’s look a Heavenly being in the throes of torment.

  But as quickly as the expression had come, it was gone, leaving only a maniacal force of violence behind.

  With a bellow that combined the enraged cries of eagle, lion, and man, Zophiel grabbed hold of the mighty sword’s hilt and yanked it free. The sword pulled from the ground, but the body of the fallen angel still hung upon the large ebony blade. The Cherubim roared again, spreading his multiple sets of wings, raising his corpse-adorned sword to strike.

  Remiel leapt into the path of the descending blade, blocking the sword’s burning arc with his own sword of fire. The fire from his weapon jumped to the corpse hanging limply from his attacker’s sword, voraciously consuming the dead Heavenly flesh and armor till nothing remained.

  “The time for mercy is at an end, Remiel,” he heard Malachi say from behind. “Put the poor beast out of his misery before more bad comes of this.”

  Using his sword, Remiel shoved his attacker back, spreading his own wings to put the Cherubim on the offensive.

  “Nothing good can come of this, Zophiel,” Remiel roared, swinging his weapon in cracking arcs of fire. “Yield. . . . Set down your sword and surrender.”

  The madness had taken the Cherubim’s voice, rendering the former sentry for the Garden nearly animal in his responses. He brought his black weapon down with a piercing cry as Remiel soared up into the air to avoid its bite. The sword cleaved the earth, the grass and flowers growing wild there withering before catching fire.

  Remiel descended, his own weapon poised to deliver a killing blow. The Seraphim drew back the sword, aiming the blade for the base of the Cherubim’s neck, where his armor ended. Thrusting forward with the sword, Remiel’s aim was true, but Zophiel, in his maddened state, was faster. The sword blade slipped past its target, allowing the Cherubim to reach up and grab hold of Remiel’s chest plate and snatch him from the air.

  Wings flapping wildly to get away, Remiel was thrown backward, slammed into the Tree of Knowledge’s trunk with enough force to shake the Tree so violently that fruit upon its branches began to rain to the ground.

  Things were momentarily black, but the Seraphim struggled back from the abyss, surging awake to find the sword he had dropped.

  Remiel lunged for his weapon, his slim fingers gathering around the hilt just as Zophiel’s armored foot dropped down to pin the blade to the ground. Remiel looked up into the faces of the Cherubim to see him standing there, the black blade raised above his head.

  But it did not fall.

  Remiel could see the struggle going on behind the Cherubim’s eyes—the inner conflict threatening to rip the angel sentry asunder with its fury.

  “Put down your weapon,” Remiel told the tormented angel, sensing that there might be a solution that did not involve one of their deaths.

  Zophiel stumbled back, his huge sword dropping to his side as his free hand grabbed at his head. The Cherubim was struggling, unable to do battle on two fronts.

  “Strike while you can, Remiel!” Malachi commanded.

  The Seraphim reacted, picking up his sword and springing from the ground prepared to deal a killing blow to his foe, but Remiel pulled back on the savagery, watching the Cherubim in the midst of some great inner struggle.

  Malachi was suddenly beside him, wrenching the sword from Remiel’s hand.

  “Slay him now, while we have the chance,” the elder angel bellowed, as he turned to face their beleaguered foe.

  And just as Malachi was about to strike, the air was filled with a trumpet’s blare.

  “Lucifer,” Remiel said, gazing up into the heavens.

  Malachi and Zophiel were listening as well as the wail of the battle horn was replaced with the sound of flapping wings . . . hundreds and hundreds of flapping wings.

  Sensing that his moment was fleeting, Malachi swung out with the sword, hoping to catch the Cherubim unawares. But Zophiel was at the ready, parrying the blade and lashing out with his other hand, swatting Malachi aside like some bothersome bug.

  “No!” Remiel yelled, recapturing his sword to finish what he should have done before, his moment of compassion perhaps leading to their undoing.

  The Cherubim did not press the attack, instead stepping back and away. He looked to the sky as the pounding of angels’ wings filled the air, before looking back to Remiel.

  And without another word, the angel sentry spread his own wings, leaping into the air, and then was gone in a crackling discharge of energy as he tore through the veil that separated this reality from others.

  “After him,” Malachi hissed, crawling to his feet, but this time Remiel did not heed his command.

  “No,” the Seraphim said, quickly walking from the clearing.

  “No, brother?” Malachi asked incredulously.

  Remiel turned to face the powerful angel. “Eden cannot be allowed to fall into their hands,” he said as he pointed toward the sky. “The Cherubim is the least of our problems now.”

  Malachi did not respond, but the sneer upon his radiant features told Remiel that the old angel was not used to having his words go unheeded, but there was no time for delicate feelings. There was a war on, and his Lord God was depending on what he would do next.

  “Quickly, now,” Remiel said to him. “Come with me or be trapped here forever.”

  The elder said n
othing more as wings emerged from his back, and with a single, powerful thrust, he launched himself into the heavens and was gone.

  Thoughts returned to the mission at hand, he hacked his way through the verdant jungle, hoping that he wasn’t too late. Remiel knew where Lucifer and his legions would try to enter the Garden, and he made his way quickly toward the entrance to Paradise. Emerging from the dense wall of green, Remiel saw the twin stone posts from which the gates to the Garden hung.

  Still open wide and beckoning.

  This would be where they would try to gain entrance.

  The sounds of winged flight and the bleating of war horns echoed through the air as Remiel passed through the passage to gaze up into the sky.

  Soldiers still in service to the Lord God were in battle with the followers of Lucifer . . . the blood of angels raining down from the air to quench the thirst of the lush Garden below.

  Outside the posts, Remiel spread his arms, taking hold of the gates in each hand, ready to slam them shut and sever the tie between Eden and Heaven. He hated the thought of it, Eden being such a beautiful place, but the Morningstar planned to corrupt it, turning it against their Lord and Master.

  He could hear the legions of Lucifer in the sky above, their screeching cries growing louder as they readied to drop down upon him—to prevent him from doing what the Almighty desired.

  “Remiel!” called a voice that he knew belonged to the Morningstar; it wasn’t even necessary to turn.

  “Paradise isn’t for you, Lucifer,” Remiel roared to the heavens, using all his strength to swing the mighty metal gates closed.

  And as they came together, the locking mechanism slipped finally into place with a sound like the cracking of the universe’s largest bullwhip, and the floor of Eden, just outside the locked gates, began to tremble and shake.

  The ground began to disintegrate beneath his feet, and Remiel took to the air, watching as the Garden of Eden started to become less and less defined, no longer attached to the Heavenly Kingdom—cut away, and slipping from the present reality into another.