“Just . . .” He tapped his forehead. “Think. Think and you shall see what we seek. Just picture yourself there and think carefully as you ask the question of how to defeat Lucifer.”
He watched as she closed her eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. She was trying hard to suppress all of her problems. Her lips quivered and sweat broke out across her forehead. Her concentration proved to be difficult. Judging by the look upon her face, he could see that she wasn’t able to focus what they needed to know.
“See, Vivian,” he urged softly. “You see, you can only remember when you want to see it. If you can’t remember, you can’t know what you are trying to know. You have to keep that little question as a beacon and think deeply about it. Think outside of the world, but not away from the question.”
“But it’s difficult! My mind is not able to handle all of this.”
“It will, if you try.” Caspar tapped his forehead again. “Try hard. Close your eyes and just let your subconscious flow.”
She nodded weakly. Slowly, her eyes closed. Nothing happened. Her face was devoid of her inner struggle. Yet the longer she concentrated, the more her struggle increased. Soon, it was as if she was having a seizure. Her head started to shake, as did her entire body. Siphon tried to grab her, but she was too rigid and jittery.
He fell back in shock. The seizure she was suffering from ended and her hair fell across her face. Drool dripped from her mouth and her pupils were now white. Her arms and legs were completely loose as if she had no bones in them. She didn’t move at all.
“Will you answer our questions?” Caspar asked.
“Yes.” The voice wasn’t that of an innocent girl, but rather a husky one. “I
will.”
“Good. How can we defeat the Morningstar?”
“With Michael’s Sword,” she said. Her lips weren’t visible as they were hidden beneath her thick hair. “The Holy Sword.”
“All right. Will we be able to wield it?” Capernaum inquired. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed to Caspar. “I have heard that only Michael has the power to wield it.”
“No. The Archangel Michael was the only one who has the permission to wield it, but after the Great War, his powers were reduced. He will be unable to wield it as he has gone weak and old.”
“Any alternatives?”
“The descendant of Solomon,” the Prophet said. “Michael gave Solomon certain powers. If emergencies strike, he shall be the one who will fight the War with the sword, but none such emergencies came through his time. Though, the gift of Michael courses through his bloodline.”
“Where can we find the descendant of Solomon?”
“In Kansas. A girl named Hope Moretz is the one you are seeking.”
“Is there anything else which can help us?” Caspar prodded. His chest was growing heavy with every possibility that rose. He felt that they were only few steps away from their victory, from their goal. “To find the sword,”
“Find Metatron,” “Why?”
“He knows where the sword is.”
“And the frigging Prophet doesn’t?” Balthazar squeaked loudly, the sound of his voice reverberating throughout the entire room. “Oops, sorry.”
“Some things, they are forbidden to know. Prophets don’t have unlimited knowledge, but they have enough to create a dent in the universe,” Caspar explained through clenched teeth. He turned to face Vivian. “Thank you.”
Her back straightened up and she swept her hair back. Her pupils returned to their normal color and her once pale face was now a tad brownish in color. She found life in herself again. A searing pain rent through her head, straining her badly.
“Ah,” she cried and massaged her temples. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Do you remember what you said?” “A bit. Just tiny glimpses, though.”
“Good. The Wall isn’t broken, then,” he whispered as he turned to face his team. Luckily, his words fell on deaf ears.
***
Vivian spent some time with Siphon in the other room trying to recall certain events. He told her to be calm and that she’d done a good job in telling them what they needed to know. Truth be told, he was proud of how far she’d gotten in seeking the information.
Caspar stood in the adjacent room, his eyes shining brilliantly. He looked at his team with pride. “I understand about Solomon’s descendant. I read it somewhere in a book of angelology, but what about Metatron? Who is Metatron?”
“He was the one who recorded the Creation and committed it to writing,” a voice filtered from the back of the room. Siphon appeared. “The Father commanded him to keep a record about how He created Light and Day. Metatron scribbled everything down. He saw creation and what was done to achieve. He wrote it down on a scroll of parchment which is now referred to as the Scroll of Creation.”
“He’s an angel?” Ivy stepped forward as she asked the question. Siphon shivered. “An archangel.”
“I don’t understand. How will he know the location of Holy Sword?” Caspar
asked.
“The point is, creation is still going on. Therefore, creation has advanced. This means that Metatron is writing about it. He has been writing about the creation since
the beginning of time. He saw and wrote as civilisations grew, battles were fought, and rivalries were decided as history was made. He also saw the Great War, because that was part of the creation that decided whether creation will end or rise again.”
“Since he saw it all, he would know where Michael has kept the Sword after he grew ill because that’s a vital thing in the creation as well.”
Siphon nodded. “Exactly.”
Caspar gazed about the room. “We need to form separate groups now. I need Balthazar and Ivy on my side. We three will go and find Hope Moretz, Solomon’s descendant. Harvard, Capernaum, and Siphon will go to Metatron.”
“Why me?” Siphon protested.
“You are an angel and Metatron is an archangel. Your kinds are familiar with each other. There has to be someone who can convince him into telling us about the Holy Sword. He will not fancy the presence of a demon and a werewolf alone,” he looked at Harvard who rubbed his spectacles nervously and at Capernaum who remained emotionless.
“What about Vivian?” Siphon inquired
“Oh, oh. I forgot.” He scanned the room once more as if remembering that he’d forgotten someone. “Ah, there you are! Fibonacci, a wizard in your early years, you will be here with her. You will be able to protect her, but then, this is House of David. No one can enter without permission, so do not worry. Will that be all right with you, Fib?”
Fib stepped forward and said meekly, “Yes, Caspar.”
“Shall we begin?” Caspar inquired as he clapped his hands together.
Tw
o Worlds
Caspar was packing his satchel and checking his cane as he prepared for the coming journey when someone knocked upon his door. Ivy promptly entered his room. She wasn’t dressed in her battle gear. Perhaps it was because there was no war to attend to. She wore tight fitting jeans with combat boots fastened to her knees and a small waistcoat wrapped around her white, plain shirt as well as a pair of glares. Her hair was conveniently pulled back.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, pushing her hands down into her jeans pockets as she moved closer to see what Caspar was putting within his satchel. Her eyes fell upon a red, small pocket diary.
Caspar caught her eyes. He instantly perceived her attraction to the diary. He snapped the bag shut and hung it across his chest.
“I never knew you wrote diaries, hotshot,” she replied a slight smirk. “I always wanted one of those to write my feelings down on a piece of paper. I wish I had one like yours.”
“What did I do?” Caspar was puzzled and, at the same time, bewildered. He was scared that she wouldn’t persistently stick to the diary thing and keep asking about it like she had about his past. He had no idea as to what he had done, but if he had ever done anything
, it wasn’t intentional. “What could I have done now?” he prodded briskly and taunted her a little.
“You can’t treat a person like this. You can’t treat Fib like this. When he came here, he was excited that he would work with us and said that he can be of great
assistance. He proved that he was useful. He made a portal for us in time of need. He wants to go into the field and not babysit a prophet here.”
“Bah!” Caspar spat arrogantly. “He’s a wizard. Not even a warlock. We don’t need amateurs on the field.”
“Everyone is an amateur at some point of their life, Caspar. You were as well,” Ivy said.
Caspar could see Ivy was angry. Earlier, she had told him that Fib was a close childhood friend of hers who had come here to meet her. He was a shy, awkward, teenager who learned he was a wizard a few years back and had no idea about dark magic. Caspar detested that fact and felt that Fib was useless. If he had been used at the time of the Prophet’s rescue, what was the guarantee he could be useful later on? Though, he acknowledged that he shouldn’t be so hard on the boy.
“He’s not babysitting. He’s here, protecting the Prophet.”
“In the most secured place. You know as well as I do that the House of David is secured to the highest degree. You don’t need anyone here to protect her, unless or until she commits suicide, but then, that’s hardly a case. She’ll never do that.”
“I have given him a task to do. I hope he performs it well.”
Caspar pretended to be ignorant of the situation. He was curious to see as to how Ivy would persuade him to let Fib go along on their mission.
“Do you fancy the nerd, Ivy? I have started to think it’s a possibility,” he
mused.
“Of course not,” she said, feeling a tad abashed. “I don’t like him. I always thought of him as a brother and not in any other way.”
“So why are you saying this to me?”
“Because he’s my friend and...umm...” A small smile played about her lips. She was hesitant, but at the same time, her eyes seemed desperate. “He fancies you, more than me. He adores you and he is a fan of yours. He likes you,” she admitted.
Caspar shook his head. “Ah, I see. People respect their idols, I suppose.” “Hmmm,” she said. “He doesn’t think of you as an idol. Haven’t you gotten it
yet?”
“What are you trying to imply?” “I am saying he likes you.”
“Well, I have accepted the fact that over a period of time, people fancy my attitude and admire my endeavors,” he quipped.
“He LIKES you.” She emphasized the word ‘like’. “He somehow wants to be with you.”
“So you are saying...?”
“Yes, you got what I am trying to say.”
“No, no.” Caspar was having a hard time believing such a fact. “That is absurd. How do you know?”
“Oh, come on. Whenever he sees you, he blushes. He smiles and he giggles.” Realization dawned on Caspar. Perhaps Ivy was right. Perhaps Fib really liked
him, but that didn’t change the course of events.
“Thank you for telling. I think we should go now,” he suggested.
He didn’t want to think about it any more. A boy liking him? That had never happened to him before.
***
Siphon trudged across the trampled grass. A sunny morning had just risen and the blue skies were slightly cloudy. He looked at the clearing devoid of twigs and vines. Behind him, Capernaum and Harvard followed in their human forms.
It was difficult for the angel to exist between the two. This was such an unlikely group. He wasn’t used to being around a demon and a werewolf, nor any other creature except his own race. The last thing he wanted to do was to trust a demon during a mission. Why was the demon helping them anyway? He didn’t get the idea much, but he must have had a reason for doing all this. Was he angry with Lucifer or with his own race?
Siphon wore a brown jacket that fit him like a second skin. His t-shirt had a round neck and made his chest bulge out. He was scared about Vivian. He had never thought that he would fall for her. It should have been just a mission for him, but it slowly turned out to be more. He didn’t regret his decision in falling in love with her; but he knew that the news of the affair would shake the very Heavens. Most of the angels, especially the ones who were jealous of him, would be trying to fill Raphael with nonsense that he was not the right person to work on any mission.
Raphael. The name itself caused shivers to run down his spine. His heart felt deep, bottomless, as if it were thrown down into a pit and sinking slowly in the water. Raphael was the commander of this mission, chosen for this century. Being an archangel, he chose the best angels for his team. He had been selected to protect the Prophet. The day he’d been told of his new mission, everyone looked sideways to see the chosen angel and had watched him with unblinking eyes, whispering to each other about the new course of events.
He’d felt as if he was on a high moon. His rivals made faces and turned their backs on him thinking, ‘What a waste!’ He hadn’t cared. He was happy about the
prospect of the duty he’d been assigned to. But now, as he walked briskly under the canopies of the trees, keeping away from the sunlight, which hurt his tender skin, he could feel Raphael’s wrath slowly descending. Raphael would be disappointed and that bothered him all the more. Raphael would be vindictive as well, which frightened him as he considered the notion. Raphael trusted him and he’d broken that trust.
He thought that he could hear the words coming from Raphael, “I should have chosen Isaiah or Raul. Why did I choose Siphon out of all?” He wasn’t sure if those were true words, but it did mask his reality.
He looked up and down at the ground where the patchy grass was pressed again the wet mud. He had one thing in his mind. He’d chose to help Caspar Socrates, because he knew it was necessary. He also wanted to prove his abilities to Raphael. He didn’t want this to happen. He wanted to prove that he was worthy to complete this job, but love is such an emotion that lingers on and cannot be forgotten.
Raphael, on other hand, was a person who detested such things, especially when it came to his duties. Perhaps someday, he would understand. Perhaps someday, Siphon could prove things to him so he might understand that love could not be tamed.
He knew Vivian’s life was going to be a pathetic hell. Unfortunately, he could not do much about it. Caspar, the curly haired boy with the weird golden eyes, didn’t care much about the outcome of her life because that’s the way a prophet had to live. He considered his options, but nothing came to mind. He knew it was imperative that he save her.
Siphon soon caught sight of the house. It was more like a small cottage with a chimney at the top. Behind it was a row of willow trees. The pastures were beautifully
green. Flowers blossomed nearby and butterflies hummed. His angel ears could hear the beautiful sounds throughout the entire area.
He looked at Harvard who had a disheveled look with smoky glasses and mundane clothes on. He then observed Capernaum who seemed elegant but old in his crumpled human skin. The two possessed such different personalities and were creatures from different sides of the world, but they had gotten together to stop the same force, none-the-less.
“I am not sure as to what Metatron’s behavior toward us would be,” Siphon said. He gazed at Harvard. “He doesn’t like furry animals, no offense, and he certainly does not like demons.”
Capernaum stepped forward to get a better look at the cottage. All was silent and it seemed to be deprived of life this far from the city. For once, he wanted to stay here, free from all of his anxieties. He assessed Siphon. “He has to help us,” he replied. “Or else the blood of billions will be on his hands.”
“What is he doing here on Earth?” Harvard asked as he followed them closely. “According to some books, archangels weren’t really into humans and helped them only because their father told them to do so.”
“Metatron came to find solac
e here. It was said he found it easy to write about the creation while he was on Earth.” Siphon explained. “It’s so funny, because just few years back, I was an angel who knew everything and was doing his best in the class.”
Harvard giggled. “There’s a class up there?”
Capernaum failed to understand the joke spoken so freely. He stared at the cottage as they drew closer to it. “Siphon, you should knock on the door.”
Siphon approached and knocked upon it, thumping his light fist against the wooden door. No one replied. The door swung open, catching them by surprise. Metatron, the one who wrote the Scroll of Creation, stood in front of them dressed in a revealing a red Hawaiian shirt on which boats were displayed along with a pair of Bermuda shorts and sandy slippers. He held a glass within his hand, which he gulped down upon seeing the three unknown visitors.
“Are you from the pizza shop?” he asked nonchalantly and waited for them to make the next move.
***
“Where are you taking me, Dad?” the child asked.
His father didn’t reply. His hand clasped the child’s as he dragged down the corridor to his room. The dull silence made the child feel a tad queasy. His father closed the door behind him and promptly made his way toward the chest of drawers.
“I want you to have something. Something you will remember for a long time ahead,” he said. He pulled an item from the cabinet and handed it to the child.
With his small hands, the boy fiddled with the book, examining one cover to the other. It was rectangular, small, and bright red in color. “What is this?” he asked.
“This is a pocket diary, a personal one.”
The boy frowned. “What am I to do with this?”
“It helps you to write about your personal feelings. You can use to keep records of things you know will come handy in the future. I am giving you this, son, because this is important. Some day you will appreciate the beauty of this, but until that day comes, you have to promise me that you will keep this very carefully.”
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