Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Book 1: Hell-bent (Shooting Eros Series)

by Benjamin Laskin

  I turned to Captain Volk, and through my welling eyes, I saw he was doing the same thing. Across his lips flowed the same holy words.

  The capsule lit up in a rainbow of flashing lights and began to spin. It was over very quickly. My beloved rebbe and captain was gone forever. Volk rent his garment, and cupped his face in anguish. I rent mine too.

  Tink!

  I learned many things that day. Among them, that the sweat of a malach, of a true angel, turns to diamond. I bent over and picked up another diamond. And so do the tears.

  Captain Volk put his arm around my shoulder and together we walked out.

  24

  The Last Weed

  Captain Volk and I mourned seven days for Cyrus. He was gone, and although he now had human life, for us he was dead. I would never be able to talk to him again: seek his advice, study the holy books at his side, or imbibe his knowledge and wisdom. I missed him very much.

  Volk portrayed his usual stoic self, but he didn’t fool me. I knew the loss of his best friend—his only real friend—was not something he could soon get past.

  Out of respect for Captain Volk, I refrained during this period from bombarding him with the myriad of questions I had pertaining to Cyrus and his sudden and mysterious end.

  After our mourning, and with the return to our regular studies and workouts at the yeshiva, I could hold back no longer. I broached the topic during one of our study sessions, feeling that I would not be able to concentrate on anything until I had some answers.

  I interrupted the captain, saying, “Forgive me, Captain Volk. Please don’t be too angry with me, but the other day I went to the Midrashic Cave and tried to locate Captain Cyrus to see if he was okay. I couldn’t find him. Why is there no record of him yet?”

  “I’m not angry, Kohai. I tried myself, and was also unsuccessful.”

  “In the past, were we able to track fallen cupids?”

  “No.”

  “Then how is it we know anything about them? I mean, we’ve all heard the stories of their descent into deep depression, madness, and even suicide. If we can’t track them, how do we know such things occurred?”

  “Old fashioned detective work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The human obituary column. Eventually, every cupid turns up dead, and his death is usually recorded down there in some newspaper’s obituary column or town record. We have scribes here whose job includes this sort of research. Grace can handle such work. I spoke to her this morning. She said she would do what she can to locate him.”

  “How is it we can’t track him, though?” I asked. “What’s he missing that all the other humans have?”

  “Every human,” he explained, “carries within his or her heart a homing beacon—a cosmic flame. At the Academy they call it a GPS, a global positioning system, preferring the latest modern lingo. That’s nonsense, of course. It’s a spiritual light, a pulsating radiance emitted by their human souls. You might say that every soul has its own unique vibration, or signature.”

  “Like how the humans all have their own distinguishing set of fingerprints?”

  “That’s right. Fingerprints are the physical manifestation of the soul’s originality.”

  “So a person’s fingerprints are the snowflakes of the soul.”

  “Very nice, Kohai. Yes, you could say that.”

  “Are you saying Captain Cyrus has no soul?”

  “No. He couldn’t be human without one. No human could live a second without a soul. Captain Cyrus has a celestial pilot light, but not the means to ignite the furnace that is his soul. For humans, it’s automatic upon conception, but not in cases like Captain Cyrus’s, and it isn’t likely he knows how to do it.”

  “Do you know how?”

  “No, but I’m certain there must be a way. The answer is probably in one of these books somewhere.” He spread his arms indicating the vast library.

  “If it’s here, Captain Volk, I’ll find it.”

  “That’s the spirit, Kohai. Unfortunately, even if we were to find it, there remains the question of how to convey the knowledge to him.”

  “But we know that some malachim can take on human form or communicate through dreams or visions, right?”

  “Some. Archangels mostly—Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raphael—but not us.”

  “I’ll find a way,” I declared.

  Volk smiled and rubbed my head.

  “What was the captain doing in the cave?” I asked. “Why did he look so pale and weak? And what were those crystals about?”

  “He was attempting to download directly into his mind as much information as he could from the Midrasha, knowing he would be unable to access it ever again.”

  “We can do that? I mean, I know we can download snapshots and bits and pieces of an individual’s record, but entire lifetimes, millions of them?”

  “It’s extremely dangerous—suicidal—so don’t even think about it, Kohai. It is something only a very high level malach would dare contemplate. I don’t know of any ever having survived such an ordeal. A few have tried, and the results were not pretty.”

  “But Captain Cyrus is no ordinary cupid angel.”

  “Clearly.”

  “But that’s why he looked so haggard, right? On account of the download?”

  “Undoubtedly. Worse still, I’m concerned that in his weakened condition he might not have survived disgronification. For all we know, God forbid, he could be trapped in a permanent state of smithereens, adrift in some hyper-dimensional no man’s land.”

  “Chas v’chalila!” I exclaimed. God forbid! “And this?” I said, withdrawing one of the crystals from my pocket.

  “It attests to the deep level of concentration and devotion he must have attained.”

  “Kavvanah,” I said. Intense spiritual intention.

  “That’s right, kavvanah.”

  “Had you ever seen one of these before?”

  “Never.”

  “But when you saw it, you knew immediately what it was.”

  “When I held it, I knew it belonged to Captain Cyrus. I could see him.”

  “We can do that?” I exclaimed, unable to contain my eagerness.

  “Patience, Kohai. It’ll come.”

  “Yes, Sir. So what do we do now, Sir?”

  “We are at war, Kohai. We fight on. It’s what we do. We are love’s holy warriors, or we are nothing. Captain Cyrus sacrificed himself because he believed that the Academy had made a huge mistake; one that could likely mean the end not just for human love, but for our very existence.”

  “Eros make a mistake?” I said. “Eros is a god. Gods don’t make mistakes.”

  “Kohai,” he said gravely. “Look at me.”

  I did, and I detected in his luminous blue eyes a depth of solemnity he had never shown me before. There was something conspiratorial in his expression. It wasn’t a look of anger or cynicism; rather, concerned, sagacious affection.

  “You’re a good student,” he continued, “but the time has arrived for you to drop the last veil of ignorance that is keeping you from attaining the next levels of your education. As long as you cling to this fallacy, this deceit, you cannot climb to the next rung.”

  “Tell me, Captain Volk!” I pleaded. “I want to know. Tell me what it is I must do. Tell me so that I can make you proud and do honor to Captain Cyrus’s memory!”

  “No, Kohai. I cannot. You must tell me. I believe you already know what it is I am talking about. It is like a weed in your mind; a weed that strangles the truth-bearing thoughts around it, stealing from them the nutrients and vitality you require to rise higher. You have your hand around its stalk, but you are afraid to give it the yank needed to rip it from your consciousness. You know, Kohai. I know you know. Are you ready to pull, to tear, to throw this deep-rooted weed to the ground, and expose it to the scorching rays of truth?”

  I don’t know how long my eyes were locked on Captain Volk’s. I was elsewhere, my mind in a state of anarchy. I w
as hearing voices, a tug of war between ‘nay’ and ‘yea.’ Between fear and trust. Between surrender and war. I swallowed hard, and said hesitantly, “There is no Eros.”

  Volk replied with menacing calm, “That is blasphemy, Kohai.”

  “There is no Eros,” I repeated, louder.

  “Blasphemy!”

  “There is no Eros!”

  “Liar!” Volk thundered, slapping me hard across the face.

  “There never was an Eros! Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad!” I cried. The Lord our God, the Lord is One! “He is God in Heaven above, and upon the earth below. There is none else! Ein ode! None!”

  I was unaware that I was now standing, glaring down at Captain Volk. My heart pounded, and my body trembled. It was done. There was no more pretending, no going back. I had committed the ultimate sin. I waited for a lightning bolt to strike me dead. Or something even worse, Captain Volk’s everlasting contempt.

  Volk looked into my eyes for a long moment. Then, his ire vanished.

  “You understand.”

  “What?”

  “No more stones. No more idols. No more weeds.”

  “Hello? Captain Volk?”

  “Welcome, Kohai. Welcome to the next rung.”

  “Whoa…”

  He stood, kissed me on the forehead, and embraced me like a father does his son.

  “Whoa indeed, Kohai,” said Volk’s chuckling voice in my head. “From this point on, nothing will ever be the same for you again.”

  25

  Goaltending

  “I can’t believe this is your first basketball game,” Ellen Veetal said, digging out the last handful of caramel popcorn from the bucket she was sharing with Chauncey Matterson. “We consistently have one of the best teams in the conference, you know.”

  “I’m told that we have a good soccer and baseball team too, but I’ve never been to one of those games either.”

  “Why not? A little school spirit is a good thing.”

  “If you must know,” Chauncey said sheepishly, “I never had anyone to go with before.”

  Ellen smiled, held up the last kernel of popcorn, and tossed it into Chauncey’s mouth. “I don’t go that often either,” she admitted. “But it is fun now and then. You are having fun, aren’t you?”

  “Tattooed pituitary giants sprinting up and down a court in clownish pajamas throwing a ball into a hoop, what’s not to enjoy?”

  The crowd leaped up and erupted into applause as the team’s top forward slam-dunked the ball, bringing the home team to within two points of tying the game, and with only a minute left to play.

  Ellen grabbed Chauncey by the elbow and yanked him to his feet. “Come on, this is exciting!”

  “I’m excited. I’m excited,” Chauncey said, feigning excitement. “So, um, are we rooting for the blue or white pajamas?”

  “White.”

  “Go white!”

  “Demons.”

  “Please, Ellen. We’re on a date. Let’s not talk about your paper. It depresses me.”

  “Demons is the name of our team, dumbbell.”

  “Oh, sorry. Go Demons!”

  “Miss!” Ellen shouted, as the opposing team’s guard drove to the basket and put up a fading, three-foot jump shot. “Miss! … Yes!” She glanced up at the time clock. Twenty-three seconds left in the game and the Demons had the ball. “Chauncey, a three-pointer and we win.”

  “I think we should go for the tie.”

  “You would,” Ellen groaned. “But Roland Jones is the best three-point shooter in the league.”

  “When do you find the time to keep up on such drivel?”

  “Ten…nine…he’s got the ball!”

  “Hey, this is kind of exhilarating,” Chauncey said. “Why don’t they skip the first three-quarters and go straight to the best part? Look, they are on him like glue. Is that fair? He can’t get free! There he goes! Shoot!”

  The crowd roared in excitement. They counted down and bit their nails. “Four … three … two…” The six-foot, five-inch All Star guard let the ball go from the top of the key. The ball floated through the air as the buzzer sounded. Everyone seemed to know by the ball’s arc that it was a game-winning shot. They cheered in victory before it even reached the rim.

  And then, stunned silence.

  Followed by more silence.

  Followed by mystified murmuring.

  Followed by anarchy.

  “Chauncey, did you see that!” Ellen said.

  “No. I mean, yes, but no. How the hell…?”

  Campus guards rushed onto the court and began to shout at the basket. A dazed, somewhat bemused Captain Cyrus was sitting in the bending basket hoop, the game-winning ball in his hands. He checked the palm of his right hand, and chuckled with relief. Turning his gaze heavenward, he closed his eyes in gratitude, smiled, and said, “Baruch HaShem.” Blessed is the Name.

  Jill Taylor-Sanders, coffee in hand, joined Ellen at her table in the university cafeteria. She set the school paper in front of Ellen and tapped her finger on a headline that read: Homeless Street Magician Arrested for Goaltending.

  “You were there, right?” Jill said.

  “Yeah,” Ellen said, unfolding the paper.

  Before her was a large, color photo of the man who stole the win from the home team. It showed a dazed-looking Cyrus, dressed in his white jumpsuit, his butt in the straining rim of the basket, ball between his hands.

  “They led the guy away in handcuffs,” Ellen said. “The refs ruled that the clock be reset, but the Demons failed to score and lost the game.” She leaned in for a closer look. “Clean him up a little, and he’s one good-looking man.”

  “I’ll say,” Jill said. Her eyes rested longingly on the photo. The handsome stranger was a painful reminder of her jinxed marriage, which had only worsened since she and Ellen had last met.

  Ellen said, “Says here that the guy was amnestic, that he had no identification on him whatsoever, and that the only thing he could remember was his first name, Cyrus. Do you believe that?”

  “Not for a second,” Jill answered. “After all, the guy was coherent enough to refer to himself as a street performer, wasn’t he?”

  “Odd…”

  “You were there, Ellen. What did you see?”

  “The same thing you saw on TV. Nothing, then—poof!—there he was.”

  “Well, it was a good trick, I’ll give him that much. But he had better not show his face around campus for a while ‘cuz a lot of people—especially the players and coach—are pretty pissed off. This loss dropped the team from first place.”

  “I wonder how he did it,” Ellen said.

  “Illusion. You know, like those magicians and illusionists do. They perform all sorts of amazing feats that no one can figure out.”

  “Yeah, but even when the tape was played back in slow motion for some famous illusionist guy, he admitted that he had no idea how the man pulled it off.”

  “Someone will figure it out,” Jill said confidently.

  “So, is he still in jail, or what?” Ellen asked.

  “Until they decide what to do with him, I hear. Sounds like a mental patient to me. Anyway, sweetie, how was the date? You and Professor Matterson seem to be seeing a lot of each other these days.”

  “I guess we are.”

  “So, how serious are you two? Have you slept with him yet?”

  “Jill, show a little class, would you?”

  “Oh, Ellen. Don’t be such a prude.”

  “I’m not a prude. I just think some things aren’t anyone’s business.”

  “So you are sleeping together,” Jill said approvingly.

  “No, we most definitely are not.”

  “Really?” Jill said in a mix of disappointment and astonishment.

  “Really.”

  “But you want to.”

  “Jill…”

  “He wants to, I’m sure of that.”

  “Jill, enough. Drop it. Do I ask about your sex life?”

>   “I wish you would, because it stinks.”

  “If that is what it takes to get you off my case. Have you been to a marriage counselor yet?”

  “Three,” Jill snorted. “I tell you, I think they are all as screwed up as we are. Aren’t there any marriage counselors who haven’t been divorced themselves?”

  “Well,” Ellen said, “considering eight out of ten marriages today end in divorce, I suppose it shouldn’t be too surprising.”

  Jill sighed. “Why the hell does anyone even bother getting married?”

  “Actually, fewer and fewer do.”

  “Yeah, well, if you ask me, that’s a few too many. Hell, I could kind of understand when we used to have kids, but who in her right mind wants to have those pesky things anymore? One kid, maybe, and occasionally you’ll run into some freakish, atavistic family with two, but if you don’t go that route, what’s the point? Nostalgia, that’s what it must be. Nostalgia! Oh, and of course,” she added bitterly, “to provide work for wedding planners, caterers, and marriage counselors. What a racket.” Jill sighed and returned to her dilemma. “I have got to get out of this miserable situation.”

  “So you’re going to divorce Jack?” Ellen said, disappointed.

  “What’s one more statistic?” Jill answered flippantly, running a spread of fingers through her cinnamon-blond hair. “Really. You know, Jack wants kids—two of the little leeches! I don’t want any. So it’s best we go our own ways. I’m sure there is a sucker out there for him somewhere.”

  “And for you?”

  “My sucker? I don’t know, but hopefully someone more debonair and intelligent and sexy. A sensitive intellectual. Someone like, well, like your Professor Matterson. Not him, of course,” Jill was quick to add, “but someone like him. Does he want kids?”

  “I never asked. He was married once before, but no kids.”

  “Well, you had better ask. Learn from my mistakes, Ellen. Do you?”

  “Want kids?”

  “Yeah.”