Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Complete Boxset: Books 1 - 3

by Benjamin Laskin

  “Whatever. So, these yetzers mutated through natural selection, meaning only the stronger, better-adapted demons survived. The Cupid Corps killed all the others.”

  I kept my amusement tucked between my lips. “You don’t say?”

  “Yeah. The mutated demons that were better equipped to penetrate the humans’ energy fields became the more successful demon species. Something like that. Cool, huh?”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Yeah, makes sense to me, but I’m no science wiz like you, Kohai.”

  “Interesting, because that’s not at all how Captain Cyrus explains it.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. He and Volk put the blame on the humans themselves. They say it isn’t that the yetzers are getting stronger, but that human emuna has been steadily diminishing.”

  “Emuna?”

  “What the sages called ‘deep faith.’ Think of it as part of the human metaphysical immune system. There is no ‘force field’ or ‘penetration’ going on.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “So how did the yetzers get inside of them?”

  “Yetzers lurk within the humans from the day they are born. They grow and strengthen within them because the humans don’t have the emuna it takes to stop them from doing so.”

  “Whoa,” Virgil said, his mind trying to get around the idea. “Faith? How could something we can’t see or touch create a force capable of keeping those yetzer demons down? I don’t get it.”

  “How is it,” I submitted, “that a mere thought in a human’s head—something without any weight or size—can set their pulses racing, send shivers down their spines, or stir their loins?”

  “Some chemical process, maybe?”

  “Well, then let me ask you, do you think courage is a force?”

  “Courage? Um, yeah, I guess it’s a force…of sorts.”

  “Well,” I said, “we can see the results of courage, right? We can see it in action. We might even be able to sense it in someone just by his composure, in the way the person carries himself, walks and talks.”

  “You mean like in Captain Cyrus and Captain Volk?”

  “Good,” I agreed. “But, courage itself is invisible. Courage itself can’t be touched, weighed, or measured. It is a word describing an emotional and intellectual state of being. In a particular situation, one either demonstrates courage or one doesn’t.”

  Virgil scratched his head.

  “Okay,” I said, coming up with an example. “Do you know the story of David and Goliath?”

  “Um, it rings a bell…maybe…sorta. Okay, no.”

  “It’s from the Bible.”

  “The what?”

  “The most sacred of sacred texts.”

  “Oh,” Virgil said. “We don’t read that junk.”

  “Yeah, well,” I continued, “in there, we’re told the story of Goliath, a Philistine warrior who taunted and cursed the Israelites daily—the people whose story is recounted in the Bible. He dared the Israelites to send out a warrior to fight him, saying that if he lost to him, the Philistines would become their slaves. Goliath was a big, mean dude—a giant.”

  “Like Commando Ajax?”

  “Yeah, a real badass. And like Ajax, everyone was terrified of him. Except a young shepherd named David. David volunteered to fight Goliath, and walked out to meet the fearsome warrior without any armor but his emuna. Goliath laughed and mocked him and the Israelites. He said, ‘Am I a dog that you come to me with sticks? Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the sky and the beasts of the field!’

  Enthralled, Virgil asked, “What did David say?”

  David shouted back, “‘You come to me with a sword, a spear, and a javelin, but I come to you in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have taunted. This day the Lord will deliver you up into my hands, and I will strike you down and remove your head, that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not deliver by sword or by spear, for the battle is the Lord’s.’”

  “Cool…”

  “Yeah. Then David charged towards Goliath, halted, loaded a stone into his shepherd’s sling, and wh-wh-wh-whack! He nailed him. A perfect shot to the forehead. Goliath went down flat on his face. David grabbed up Goliath’s sword and chopped off his head. The Philistines fled, and the Israelites chased them down for a great victory.”

  “Wow,” Virgil said. “Are there a lot of stories like that in the archives?”

  “Tons.”

  “Man, we don’t get any fun stuff like that. We just read boring textbooks on strategy and weapons and rules of engagement. Hey, do you think you could tell me one every night before we go to bed?”

  “Sure. But you see my point, right?”

  “That it was David’s courage that defeated Goliath?”

  “Yes, and that it was clearly David’s deep faith—his emuna—that gave him his courage. Commander Sett might have you believe that it was David’s slingshot and his expertise with it that defeated Goliath. Well, that’s true to a point, but David wasn’t the only expert slinger on that field that day. He was, however, the most faithful, and bravest.”

  “Okay,” Virgil said, “but what does all this have to do with fear demons?”

  “The Academy teaches you that what is going on is all biology and chemistry—all physical. Captain Cyrus says that because the yetzers are not from without, but from within, what the humans need to know is their own minds. He says to destroy them requires that people take aim at themselves.”

  “Huh? You’re losing me, Kohai. Is Cyrus saying the demons aren’t real?”

  “No, Virge, he’s not saying that. They are real all right. Deadly real. But the Academy treats the symptom, not the source. If you destroy one yetzer, another will just rise up to replace it, because the real problem—a lack of emuna—remains. That’s why the Academy’s matches fail most of the time.”

  “I often wondered about that,” Virgil said.

  “According to Cyrus, the humans have lost so much emuna, so much vitality, that most of them can’t produce enough yetzer-slaying energy to light a firefly. We, as cupids, must do more than battle yetzers and make matches. Our matches are inconsequential if the humans haven’t the inner strength to keep our pairings alive. We must try to bring the humans back on line, back to the grid.”

  “So this is the stuff the captains teach you? It’s…kinda cool. Kinda. But I don’t—”

  “Exactly!” I exclaimed in frustration. “What good does it do me? Where’s the practicality of it? I mean, if the captains are right, fine. But show me what I can do with all this mumbo jumbo!”

  Virgil put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m a simple soldier, Kohai, and probably the last guy who should ever dish out advice, but Cyrus and Volk didn’t get to where they are by being phonies. It was a great honor for you to have been chosen by them, and I think you owe it to the captains to trust in their methods, no matter how strange they appear to the rest of us. I guess what I’m saying is: patience, Kohai.”

  “That’s what they tell me every day,” I grumbled.

  “Yeah, well, I’d listen to them, and quit your whining.”

  Virgil’s words stung. He was right. I was being a whiner.

  “Besides,” he added, “isn’t patience, like courage, an invisible force too?”

  I smiled, disarmed. “You’re a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for, Virge.” I punched him playfully in the shoulder. It hurt my hand. “Yeah, okay. Patience it is.”

  “Good. Now show me how to do this praying business.”

  “All right.” I stood and Virgil joined me. I said, “I like to begin by giving thanks…”

  6

  Doggie Style

  A rollerblader let loose a drawn out, approving whistle as he glided by Ellen Veetal and her dog in the park. She ignored the man, turned a corner, and ran into Chauncey Matterson. The professor was walking a brown, short-haired Dachshund.
>
  “Well, well, hello Professor Matterson,” Ellen greeted merrily.

  “Ellen, what a nice surprise. And I told you, call me Chance.”

  “Sorry, habit. Is this Pavlov?”

  “Yes. You got me thinking the other day, and I missed the little fella, so…”

  Carl and Pavlov exchanged sniffs, and immediately took a liking to one another.

  “Is Pavlov a boy wiener dog or a girl wiener dog?”

  “She is a Dachshund, not a wiener dog.”

  “A she wiener dog named Pavlov. She must be a bit confused. Why didn’t you name her Pavlova?”

  “Because,” Matterson said, irked, “pavlova is a dessert made of meringue with a filling of whipped cream and fruit. Ivan Petrovich Pavlov, as you undoubtedly know, was the great Russian physiologist.”

  They dropped their leashes and Carl and Pavlov trotted over to a tree a few feet away. The dogs cocked their heads as if examining the tree, or something in front of it.

  “I’m just teasing you,” Ellen said brightly. She nodded towards the dogs. “They really seem to get along. Looks like love at first sight.”

  The two dogs swung a look towards Ellen and Chance, again tilting their noggins.

  “You don’t really believe in such sentimental drivel, do you?” he said.

  “Love at first sight? Sure, why not? There are plenty of cases—”

  “Not one of which could be empirically tested,” Matterson interrupted.

  Unfazed by his retort, Ellen replied blithely, “A laboratory may not be the best environment for love. Love tends to happen when one least expects it, like when standing in line at the supermarket, sitting on an airplane, or maybe even while walking one’s poochy in the park…” She smiled. “One never knows where or when little chubby Cupid is lurking about with his tiny bow and arrow.”

  The dogs trotted back over to Ellen and Chance. Pavlov hopped onto Ellen’s leg and started humping it.

  “Pavlov!” Chance scolded. He picked up the leash and gave it a yank. “Bad doggie!” He turned a reddened face to Ellen. “Maybe she is a bit confused after all.”

  “Someone here certainly is,” Ellen said.

  “So, we’re still on for Saturday, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Great. We’ll have plenty of time then to discuss your thesis proposal.”

  “You didn’t forget?”

  “Of course not, Ellen. I look forward to it. See you at school.”

  Chance and Pavlov strolled off.

  Ellen squatted beside Carl and petted him. “A man of mystery, eh, Carl? Kind of sexy, though.” Carl woofed, eliciting a parting glance from his new girlfriend, Pavlov.

  7

  Whistling in the Dark

  I sat alone on a stool at a heavy wooden table, hunched over an ancient scroll in the sacred archives.

  Although immense in size, the vastness of the archives was hidden within dark, musty shadows. The only light in the library came from a couple of kerosene lanterns and some flickering candles that I had lit. Even with the feeble light, one could see that I was in the presence of great antiquity. Row after row of bookcases filled with dusty, age-tainted manuscripts, artifacts and maps, faded into the dark recesses of the archives.

  Magnifying glass in hand, I read aloud, “‘Mene, Mene, Tekel u-Pharsin,’ You have been weighed on the scales and found want—!’”

  I shrieked, launching my magnifying glass into the air, nearly tumbling off my stool.

  Captain Volk caught the glass and set it on the table in front of me. Captain Cyrus stood beside him, an amused grin on his face.

  Regaining my composure, I said indignantly, “I hate it when you guys do that.”

  “You’ll hate it more when a yetzer does it, so get used to it,” Volk said.

  “Yeah, well,” I grumbled, “if I ever get to meet one, what am I supposed to do to the thing, translate it to death?”

  “You’d stand a better chance than your friends do with their demon dusters,” Volk rejoined.

  “I saw the simulation. Those yetzers didn’t look so tough.”

  Cyrus chuckled and shook his head. “What you witnessed the other day was bad burlesque compared to the real thing. Those weren’t yetzers, Kohai. They were comic book characters. Academy technology can’t simulate pure fear.”

  “But we’re not battling fear, we’re battling demons,” I countered.

  “Fear demons,” Volk said.

  “Whatever. Just show me how to kill them.”

  Cyrus turned to Volk. “What do you think, V? [Pronounced like the letter. The two friends often addressed one another by their initials: ‘V’ for Volk, ‘C’ for Cyrus.] Think he’s ready?”

  Volk shook his head. “No way.”

  “I am!” I insisted. “Come on, Captain Volk. Let me prove it to you, please!”

  “Okay, Kohai,” Cyrus said. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes! Finally!”

  Volk smirked as he and Cyrus headed for the door. I leaped up and followed after them, eager to prove them both wrong.

  “Kohai,” Cyrus said. “Do you plan on burning down the archives? That would be a great loss.”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry…” I hustled back to extinguish the candles and lanterns, but before I could, they mysteriously went out on their own. The room eclipsed into black.

  “Hey!” I called out. “How’d you…”

  A dense, eerie silence settled upon the room, followed by what felt like a sinister presence, as if a shadow was passing across my heart.

  Whistling in the dark I said, “Hah, hah, you guys are a riot.”

  I heard the sound of the heavy door to the archives slam shut, followed by the sliding of a bolt. I sniffed at the air and scrunched my nose at the foulest of odors.

  “Phew. Captain Volk was that you? You had better see a doctor about—huh…? Who’s there?” And then I began to scream. “Help—!”

  Outside the archives, Cyrus and Volk stood under a million twinkling stars, their hands placed on the door, the both of them in a state of concentration. After hearing the screaming erupt, the captains removed their hands, and walked off as my shrieks of unmitigated horror echoed from the archives behind them.

  “Did I sound like that?” Volk said.

  “You? Nah.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Cyrus grinned mischievously. “You sounded more like this, Waahhhh!” He flailed his arms, imitating a bawling baby.

  Volk laughed and gave Cyrus a shove. “I did not.”

  “Waahhh!” Cyrus laughed. “Mommy, mommy, make it stop!”

  Volk tackled his buddy to the ground and they went rolling and tussling down a leaf-littered hill, laughing hysterically all the way.

  “Mommy…!”

  Dawn was breaking when I became vaguely aware of Captain Volk carrying me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  He set my quivering body on the ground alongside a grouping of Stonehenge-like, megalithic-sized rocks and slapped at my face, stirring me into animation. “Rise and shine, Kohai.”

  “Ah!” I blurted, memories of the night’s terrors still flapping in my mind like a tattered battlefield flag.

  “You okay?”

  “Wh-what happened?”

  “Like we said, Kohai, Academy technology is no match for the real thing. You tasted a crumb. Know the loaf.”

  “But how…what…?”

  “Never mind that now,” Cyrus said. “Do you still want to go into the field?”

  I noticed that the captains were in their white satin uniforms. I narrowed my eyes in undaunted determination.

  “Absolutely. I wasn’t scared.”

  Volk nodded towards my lap. “You peed your pants.”

  “Huh?” I looked at my trousers, and frowned. “Big deal. I still want to go.”

  Cyrus said, “Then change and let’s get started.” He tossed me a uniform.

  I stood and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “A sacr
ed site not far from the archives,” Cyrus said.

  “Aside from these cool rocks, what makes it so special?”

  “You’ll see. Now hurry up.”

  I disappeared around a megalith and changed. Returning, I said, “How do I look?”

  “Like a runny marshmallow,” Volk said. “Now, do as Captain Cyrus does.”

  Cyrus stood up straight and extended his arms horizontal to the ground. He began to spin slowly in a circle.

  I looked on in dismay.

  “Are you guys messing with me again? I thought you said we’re going into the field. Where are the disgronifiers?” [Teleport reformatting capsules used by cupids to travel between Heaven and Earth.]

  “Another word,” Volk said, “and the only field you’re gonna see is a cemetery. Do as Captain Cyrus does!”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I began to imitate the captain.

  “Slow down, Kohai,” Volk commanded, “it’s not a race.” He checked and fixed my posture. “Relax. Loosen your shoulders. Head up, back straight, hands open, left palm up, right palm down…”

  “I’m getting dizzy.”

  “You’ll get used to it after more practice. Keep your eyes on that pillar in front of you. Breathe deep but slow and steady. Clear your mind. … That’s it. Draw up the energy from the ground. Stay relaxed. You’re feeling a pull now. Don’t resist. Don’t panic. We’ll be right alongside of you….”

  8

  Graceland

  The three of us strutted single file and unnoticed down a busy Washington D.C. avenue. I must admit, I felt pretty cool, even with the barf stain down the front of my satin white jumpsuit.

  I looked around in wonder. Virgil was right. Everything was deeper, richer, and more intense: the colors, the smells, the feeling of the sun and wind on my skin. I tingled all over.

  Despite the dilapidation of many of the structures, the cracked sidewalks and pot-holed streets, the crude graffiti that covered so many walls and buildings, and the general state of decay and disrepair all around—remnants of America’s devastating financial collapse over a decade earlier, and its ongoing civil strife—the sights were still something to behold. To my eyes, the earth, the sky, the grass, trees and flowers all blazed forth in opalescent splendor.