The only sound was that of the water rushing through the shallow stream I was still standing in. As I continued to scan the horizon, I vaguely made out what appeared to be the outline of a structure of some sort to my immediate front. It stood perfectly alone, atop a modest green hill, completely out of place amidst the surreal landscape. Curious as hell and figuring I really had nothing better to do at the moment, I decided to check it out. As I slowly stepped out of the stream and planted both feet firmly on the soft grass of the surrounding field, the calming sensation I was thoroughly enjoying abruptly ended, taking my momentary euphoria with it. Thinking that was completely unacceptable, I quickly stepped back in. And it came back.
“Much better,” I sheepishly muttered looking around to make sure nobody saw me do it. “Think I’ll hang here for awhile.”
As I stood barefoot in the water feeling pretty good about myself for some undetermined period of time, my gaze couldn’t help but drift back to the peculiar structure. Although it was a fair distance from where I stood, I swore it looked like a door. A very frigg’n large door.
There was no building. Just a door.
It also appeared that the formation of clouds I noticed earlier was circling it in a steady pattern — Odd. As my curiosity began to steadily overtake my unexplained and uncharacteristic happiness, I decided it was high time to quit lounging around and figure out what the hell was going on here.
Maybe I’d get lucky and it was a door to a bar. A big bar.
And it was happy hour.
“Alright, Damn it. Time to go. What’s a guy got to do for a pair of shoes in this joint anyway?”
Determinedly stepping out of the precious healing water, I momentarily paused as the cuddly feelings of rapture and bliss instantly evaporated.
Feeling like my normal, generally pissed off self again, I stretched out my arms and muttered, “Now then, that’s more like it.” And started walking in the direction of the mysterious building-less door in the dead center of the uncanny green field, amidst the peculiar ring of clouds, which all seemed to be in the middle of a literal nowhere.
What can I say? For some reason it seemed like the thing to do.
As I started walking, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the grass felt like a rich carpet underneath my bare feet. I was still miffed that I didn’t have any damn shoes, but at the moment it wasn’t slowing me down. My destination seemed to be at least a solid mile from where I stood. Maybe a little farther. Hard to gauge the distance with the vast open nature of the encompassing landscape. At any rate, it should have taken me at least fifteen minutes or so to get there. So imagine my surprise to literally take three steps and find myself at the top of the hill standing an arm’s length from the peculiar doorframe. Completely befuddled, I abruptly stopped and turned quickly around to see the spot that I started from, by the stream, in the far distance down the hill.
“Didn’t see that coming,” I muttered to myself as I stood there wondering what the hell just happened.
Getting the unshakeable feeling that someone was behind me, I spun back around to face the rogue doorway. As I attempted to put on my best ‘barefooted tough guy, wearing a ratty tee shirt’ face I realized there was no one there. Only the door. The big-ass, ancient looking door that was conveniently lacking a building surrounding it.
Momentarily mesmerized by its commanding and unexplained presence, I was immediately drawn to the intricate arrangement of symbols laid masterfully throughout the weathered panels. As I stood, pensively studying the artwork, a sharp gust of wind, originating from nowhere discernible, whisked violently across my face accompanied by an unsettling whisper-like shriek. It was over in a split second but damn if it didn’t scare the ever-living shit out of me. Jumping backward I instinctively threw my hands up in a defensive posture wishing like hell I still had my shotgun. Quickly regaining composure I started to slowly circle the structure looking for the source. Step by deliberate step I thoughtfully crept around the back of the door. For whatever reason, I couldn’t shake the acute feeling of impending doom.
I had the unequivocal suspicion that some seriously bad shit was about to happen. The only thing missing was the frigg’n horror movie music that came on right before the poor unsuspecting dumbass got a pitchfork in the chest from the whack job in the clown costume. As I cautiously completed my circular sweep to find the only thing in back of the door was actually the back of the door, I started to relax a bit. Evidently, the general weirdness of the overall situation had me a bit on edge. Feeling somewhat satisfied that I was alone and evil clown guy was nowhere in the general vicinity, I a affirmably muttered, “Get a grip on yourself asshole. You’re already dead for Christ’s sake. Quit acting like such a puss.”
Figured that needed to be said.
Back where I started from, in front of the imposing doorway o’doom, I got back to my very well conceived plan of figuring out what the hell was going on here. With arms defiantly folded across my chest, I stood boldly in front of the menacing structure for a couple seconds before I came to the shocking realization that I unfortunately had no idea what to do next. The only thing left to do was open the door. And for some reason I really, really didn’t want to. It seemed wrong. Like I wasn’t supposed to.
Not yet.
The doorway was a thing of ominous beauty. It was easily ten feet in height. A brawny set of panels encased in a full rectangular frame of incongruous brick and mortar. The contrasting color of the assorted bricks spanned all shades of red, ranging from those of a deep crimson to others of an almost orange hue. The top section of the frame formed an ornate crown like cap into which the doors perfectly melded. At first I thought them to be made of wood, but upon further inspection, they were clearly metal covered with a solid layer of rust giving them a wood-like coloration. Iron. They were made of solid iron as I studied the bold indentations of ancient rivets and mighty hinges holding them firmly in place. The entire marvelous structure sat squarely atop a rugged threshold of what appeared to be expertly cut granite that was chipped and pitted with unfathomable age.
As my eyes scanned the breadth of the structure, I was drawn back to the artful collection of symbols inscribed throughout the massive panels. They were stunning. Intricate, flowing designs flawlessly seared directly into the unyielding iron backdrop. Coincidently, I had encountered something very similar to this, hastily carved into the wooden doors of the church sanctuary in Brezovo Polje. They were also familiar to me for another reason that I still couldn’t put my finger on. The pattern seemed to repeat from left to right and vice versa in crossing diagonal bands spanning the length and width of both panels forming a large X.
As I followed one with my index finger trying to pick out the pattern, I reached the intersection of the two lines and just about shat myself. The symbol marking the junction of the two bands was a perfect circle encasing a triangle containing a bold X with an elongated P struck through the center. The symbol from my dream. The Chi-Rho.
Inadvertently taking a step or two backward, the words spoken to me by Father Watson, as he lay mutilated and bound to the altar in the forsaken church, flashed through my head.
“You are my purpose. You have been chosen.”
“Chosen for what you crazy drunk bastard,” I muttered bowing my head and closing my eyes.
Wishing like hell I’d taken him a bit more seriously when he tried to tell me that the outlandish visions in my dream were reflections of actual events, I just knelt there stewing. If I’d only listened to him I may have a frigg’n clue as to what was going on here. Damn the bad luck.
Just as I was about to say ‘to hell with it’ and open the damn door, I felt a presence to my right followed by a hauntingly familiar voice.
“Dean, it is time to open your eyes. And See the evil in the world of man.”
Quickly opening my eyes, I slowly rose to my feet still facing the doorway. Although I knew without a shadow of a doubt who was standing next to me, I couldn’t bring myself
to look at him. Was I dreaming again? That would explain quite a bit actually. But I usually woke up when he spoke my name in the dream.
Damn. This might actually be happening. I hope he didn’t hear my Cloakboy reference. That would just be awkward.
“Any chance I’m dreaming?” I apprehensively asked with my gaze still firmly fixed straight ahead.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn. There’s not, by chance, a bar behind that door either, huh?”
“No, Dean. There is not.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess you’re really standing there then.”
“I am.”
Figuring my line of questioning was rather futile at this point and the enigmatic cloak wearing, fire throwing giant slayer was actually standing next to me, I had no choice but to turn and face him. Taking a deep breath I slowly turned to my right and locked eyes with the man I’d been vicariously living through for the past one hundred and seventy-seven nights. Although I was intimately familiar with him from the first person point of view, I wasn’t exactly sure what he looked like. My only impression of his appearance was when he was beaten within an inch of his life, and deposited on the sand covered road prior to being stoned to death. At that particular moment he wasn’t exactly in the best shape, if you know what I’m saying.
Well, let’s just say he cleaned up pretty well. As I awkwardly stood there face to face with the infamous Deacon for the first time, I was overpowered by a feeling of modesty. It was absolutely humbling. Although not a terribly large man physically, his presence was dominating. Almost crushing. His face was flawless, with a stone-like chiseled jaw and short-cropped auburn hair. He didn’t look a day over thirty yet his deep royal blue eyes were pensive and powerful. Laden with centuries of knowledge — so much so that it was difficult to maintain eye contact. In lieu of the iconic cloak, he donned an expertly cut black suit and starched black shirt with the top button opened. No cuff links. Thank God.
As I stood there nervously gawking at him, he said nothing. His eyes were intently fixed on me as the hint of a mild smirk faintly appeared on his face. Breaking the awkward silence, he simply said, “You must have several questions.”
Finding myself momentarily at a loss for words, I painfully forced out, “Questions?”
“Questions,” he casually replied. “You must have questions.”
Reestablishing control over my ability to speak, I muttered, “Questions. Right. I do have a couple, actually.”
Pausing for a second to gather my thoughts, I said, “Let’s start with the obvious. Who the hell are you?”
“Interesting,” he commented with a hard gaze. “Am I dead? is usually the first question typically followed by Is this Heaven? I figured you’d be different though.”
Casually unbuttoning his jacket and sliding both hands in his pockets, he said, “My name is Stephen. Although I honestly thought you would have riddled that out by now. After all, you witnessed my stoning one hundred and seventy-seven times in your dream. It’s rather well known as I understand it. Must be that government education you’re always referring to.”
My face went completely blank as I realized the meaning of what he’d just said. Not the part where he sarcastically slammed my West Point degree but the other part. The words of Father Watson, from our discussion at the compound, once more flashed through my mind.
“The first of the original seven. Falsely accused and martyred.”
Stephen. Saint Stephen. The original deacon of the early church. Falsely accused of blasphemy by the Sanhedrin and stoned outside the gates of Jerusalem by an incited mob.
Damn. I can’t believe I never put that together. Frigg’n government education.
“Well, in my defense I imagine stonings were an everyday thing back then, right?” I blurted out. “How the hell was I supposed to figure out you were him? Could have been any number of deacons … or other random heretic-like people stoned in Jerusalem. I mean in Ben —”
Stopping me in mid-sentence, Stephen casually raised his hand and said, “If you’re about to make a Ben-Hur reference, I will kindly ask you to refrain.”
“Right. Ok, fair enough,” I muttered figuring my first impression was evidently not going so well and making the mental note that he was clearly not a Charlton Heston fan. “Well, you look pretty good for a guy that’s almost two thousand years old.”
“It would seem,” he said amidst a modest chuckle. “You’ll find that the concepts of age and time have little validity here. For example, years will pass in this particular location before a fraction of a second expires on the Earth. The principle varies throughout the Realms and actually reverses in some of the more extreme regions.”
“The Realms,” I muttered as my gaze shifted from him to the vast landscape. “Where exactly are we?”
“A simple question not easily answered. For only the faithful will understand and therefore believe,” he replied while gracefully taking a few steps away from the door, gazing yearningly into the open sky. “Everything you see before you is a Realm within the southern region of Third Heaven. Otherwise known as the Mercy of Paradise. A place reserved for the good and the righteous. This particular Realm is reserved for those akin to you and I.”
“Third Heaven?” I intuitively asked, thoroughly confused by several things he said. “There’s more than one?”
“There are ten levels of Heaven all told. Each unique. Each with a specific purpose,” he said, matter of factly while lowering his arms and striding toward me. “The Realms of Third Heaven are the closest, if you will, to the earth. There are seven discrete points in which the two worlds physically touch. Subsequently, the chosen few who are graced with purity of soul and knowledge of their location, possess the ability to cross the threshold.” Pausing to ensure he had my full attention, he added, “The ability to literally travel between the Heavens and the Earth.”
Not completely sure how to receive such a bold revelation, I lowered my head and simply stood there in silence contemplating the implications of the statement. Gradually wrapping my head around Stephen’s comments, I muttered, “So, that explains how you clandestinely returned from the grave hundreds of years after your death. But it does not explain why.”
Casually placing his hands back in his pockets, Stephen simply stood there fixing me with an intense, pensive stare. He was clearly not offering anything further until I asked him and it felt more and more like he was testing me.
Why or for what purpose, however, I wasn’t quite certain.
Feeling like I needed to provide some levity to the situation, I raised my head slightly to make eye contact and said, “Is this like a genie in a bottle sort of gig where I only get three questions?”
“No, Dean,” he dryly replied. “It is not. And I believe a genie would grant wishes. Not answer questions.”
“Right. Just wanted to clear that up, Steve. You don’t mind if I call you Steve do you?”
“I do mind,” he reproachfully replied as his eyes closed into an intense squint. “Very much so.”
“Fair enough,” I awkwardly said clearing my throat. “Glad we got that out of the way, Stephen. Mr. Deacon. Sir.”
“Just Stephen will do.”
With the mood clearly not lightened, I made the mental note that Stephen did not appreciate sarcasm. Or at least he did not appreciate my sarcasm.
“Moving on then,” I fumbled desperately to get off the topic. “Petrovich. He’s an angel.”
Nodding his head in acknowledgement and seemingly thankful that I abandoned my failed attempt at levity, Stephen replied, “Yes, he is. As you previously surmised, his given name is Azazel. An angel fallen from the Father’s grace. He was one of the chosen heavenly Watchers. In the early years of man he was cast into an eternal prison in the depths of Dudael. Bound and chained by the archangel Raphael. Sentenced to suffer in darkness, upon jagged rocks until the day of Judgment when he was to be cast into the fire.”
“A Watcher?” I asked not quite foll
owing the plot. “What’d he do to get such a stiff rap?”
As if he knew I was going to ask that very question, he said, “Watchers were a class of angel charged with the observation of mankind during the early days of the Earth, nearly six millennia ago. Their purpose was primarily to safeguard the Father’s revered creation from premature exposure to the Forbidden Knowledge.”
“Forbidden knowledge?”
“Knowledge of the Realms,” he quickly replied, “Concepts that mankind was destined to discover of their own accord given time and maturity. Matters such as technology, science, mathematics, metallurgy, farming, and the making of weapons — amongst many others. More arcane subjects include astrology, enchantments, and even sorcery.”
He paused and studied the somewhat confused look on my face. With an understanding nod of his head, he said, “You must understand, Dean, the Father feared that premature discovery of such things would be catastrophic to mankind. As man grew strong in his faith over generations, he would gradually discover and understand such notions. At which time, it would be his uninfluenced choice to employ them for the betterment of the race, dismiss them as profane, or embrace them for selfish benefit. Regardless of the chosen path, it was to be of man’s choosing and his alone. A future of piety or impiety was to be decided by the free will of the human race. Conversely, untimely revelation of such notions would undoubtedly lead man down a dark spiral of confusion, bloodshed, and an Earth devoured by its own corrupt impulses. The Watchers were to prevent this from happening. It was their purpose. Their charge.”
“Understood,” I said with an affirmed nod.
Returning my nod with one of his own, he said, “After centuries of honoring their responsibility, Azazel and two hundred of his angelic brothers became smitten with human women. Maddened by their insatiate lust, they gathered on the summit of Mount Hermon and entered into a treacherous pact. Amongst each other, they swore a binding oath to illicitly defect to the Earth in human form and take upon them wives. An oath that condemned each and every one of them to a path of abiding depravity. A fall from grace. For many years following, they slaked their carnal desires in irreverent acts of blasphemous infidelity with the daughters of the Earth.”
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 8