“You sleep less than I do; I did not think that was possible.” Yamanu struck a flint and piece of stubble on the stone wall, lighting his pipe in one fluid motion. He drew in and let out a puff of smoke. “Your thoughts betray your heart. If you die how is that going to help your daughter—are you better off dead?” Yamanu pulled his cloak tighter to his neck and looked out past Kreios at the moon.
Kreios kept his gaze on the steady North Star, unmoving in the heavens, and the stars reflected in his eyes like infinitesimal diamonds in a sea of black. “She is all I have. Victory will be victory. Even if small victory is as small as my daughter, and I flee with her into hiding. And never return.” He looked at Yamanu. “We have a specific purpose, and we must use what tools we were given to accomplish what lies before us.”
“Brother,” Yamanu said, his eyes beginning to glisten, “we shall be victorious if El wills it. I cannot see any other reason for our circumstances having been drawn up so tightly as they are in this moment. “The council does not see it, or insists on being blind, but I feel very strongly about the purpose of these heavy times. For what other reason would El allow us to be so threatened? Our last remaining option is to stand firm and wage war. It is for such a time as this that we have been born, bred, raised up, brought through many trials, and tasted both the triumph of the conqueror as well as the havoc of failure. The sinews of war are clustered in our hands—we need but pull on the proper cord at the right time. For such a time as this! “We have not yet begun to pour out the cup of wrath that has been stored up for the Seer and his ilk. Father has a plan, my friend… and I believe He is revealing it to us even now.”
Kreios cracked a smile in holy submission to El, looking at Yamanu. “You have the faith of a child my friend. I will take heart, and I beg your forgiveness for my doubt. It is both gift and curse to be such a practical thinker.”
Yamanu waved his pipe, moving the headwaters of the trail of heavy smoke that had been pooling at the hem of his robe. His laugh was pure, musical. “Friend, behold: the sun begins to rise. Let us also rise to the purpose of this day and be off. No use letting the Seer’s horde have another peaceful day.”
Kreios stood up, stretched, popped his back, and let out a grunt. He was getting old.
He found his daughter sleeping soundly in his brother’s room and went to her, nuzzling her skin. Memories of his beloved wife flooded over him as he held his daughter close, cradling her up to his face, hearing her breathing in soft snores. She stretched and yawned luxuriantly, her body showing the rustling of her thoughts, and he wondered with loving eyes what she could be dreaming.
He suffered himself to weep silently as he held her, wondering, but not quite asking, why the bonds of the family had had to be so violently shattered; why such a simple thing as his love for his daughter—and the memory of his beloved—would set into motion such a wicked menagerie of events. It felt as if creation might tumble in upon both of them at any moment. This moment, he decided, he made himself believe that he knew, was holy; he, warrior and husband and father, standing with his daughter in perfect embrace. He savored all of it, breathing in her fragrance deeply, remembering. He could not complain to God for his lot in life.
Kissing her softly, he whispered blessings in her ear and laid her down on her bed. She raised a tiny hand, yawned again, and cooed before slipping back into a deep sleep. He left the room quietly so as not to awaken Maria. Zedkiel was waiting for him outside on the balcony that overlooked the beautiful city.
“I will do my part, brother; do not worry your thoughts. She will be safe no matter what. I swear it by the life of the blood that courses through me.” They grasped arms, Zedkiel’s long hair wafting in wispy strands in the light morning breeze.
“I know,” was the simple response. Kreios was not able to say much more.
Zedkiel nodded and said in a hushed tone, “She will have the child tonight! I can feel it in my bones.”
Kreios smiled at his brother. “I am glad for you, brother. All will be well, and in the morning you will be a father.” The thought of Zedkiel holding his new baby in his arms brought on a pain so deep that he wondered if he might be jealous of his brother.
Kreios turned from him, gathering up his pack and his Sword. He held the sheath and listened to the voice that seemed to hang in the air, in his spirit. He could feel his daughter through it, and somehow he knew that she would be safe. He grasped the Sword and unsheathed it, running his hand along the flat of the blade, and pulled back in surprise. The blade was warm to the touch.
He closed his eyes, thinking back, going deep into the folds of his mind, remembering the door once again. He wondered how he had missed it for so many years. The door had not been there in the past, but now there was nothing he could do to make it go away. Its presence filled him with elation and fear, because he felt that whatever stood beyond that door was not good. He knew, furthermore, that he was going to have to pass through it. The thought made him want to run far and fast.
***
Yamanu stood by watching his friend, smoking his pipe. He could see deep lines chiseling themselves into the surface of Kreios’s face, and it worried him. This upcoming task was suicidal. The only thing keeping Kreios from knowing his thoughts was his ability to shadow them. Yet he would fight, and fight to the death with every fiber of his body and soul. If he were to die, so be it; and if by some miracle they lived…“All glory be to El, and to El alone,” he said.
Kreios nodded, sheathing the Sword and strapping it on. Pulling on his cloak, he tied his pack to his belt and lifted the hood over his white blond hair.
The air felt alive. Kreios walked to the open window and jumped out without a moment’s hesitation. A crack of sound followed his arc through the clear blue sky as he broke the sound barrier. Yamanu shook his head and muttered under his breath. He shoved his pipe in his pack and jumped from the window. “Showoff.”
Chapter XIX
Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho, Present day
I walked on a thin path that ambled its way through massive green trees in full leaf that towered over me. I felt small and so confused, realizing that one of the things about Kale that didn’t compute, among the millions of others, was that, if I remembered right, he had kidnapped Michael and me on an autumn evening in late September.
Why then is it summertime in the mountains? I almost said aloud. It was backwards, just like my brain. But like just about everything in my life, I simply had to let go. I decided that I might very well be completely out of my mind—but I also decided that, all things considered, I may as well enjoy it.
Kale had given me that old book, told me to read it. He said it was history, part of my school work I guess. I held the book under my arm as I walked. I could feel it there, as if it was alive and our movements through the wood were mutual and agreed upon at every step. Green fiddlehead ferns peppered the shady areas, and some strange plants with red-tipped leaves grew on either side of the path. Michael and Kale had stayed behind—they had ‘things to discuss,’ and I wanted to be alone with my own thoughts anyway.
How did we get here? At one point, an eternity ago, we had been kidnapped by a killer. Now, I had let myself slide into the kind of thinking that allowed me to consider the idea that a murderer was to be trusted. He had physically taken us; kidnapped us from the mall parking lot. It sometimes made my head swim in chaos—but I felt the Book under my arm would provide the anchor I needed in the midst of my stormy existence. I couldn’t name the assurance I had, but it was there nevertheless.
A large boulder blocked the little trail, but I climbed over it without thinking. It was as if I was in a dream world. All the woodland sounds seemed closer and clearer than usual. None of this was lost on me, either. I was aware of my awareness; it was like the Book—or maybe just whatever it had awakened in me—was stimulating a dormant seed that God Himself had planted within me.
If I was really descended from a race of immortal angelic beings, it only made
sense that that seed came from somewhere farther up my family tree, waiting for the right moment to spring forth. I brushed aside everything I couldn’t understand, which was plenty, and just felt the sun beaming down on me through the canopy of the trees.
I saw a patch of sunshine off the path, up on a little knoll. I turned toward it and began to climb. It was a small natural clearing of wildflowers and meadow grass centered on an ancient redwood that littered it with broken limbs and discarded needles from years prior. It was so undisturbed and natural that it was irresistible, and I sat down on a clump of soft green grass near the tree to read.
I put the book on my lap and opened the front cover. There on the flyleaf were the softly glistening letters of the name of Kreios, fading as if they were not sure if they wanted to be there or disappear completely.
I turned the page, but it was completely blank. I turned to the next, and the next, until I was flipping through the book, beginning to feel either dumb or hopeless. The voice came to me so loudly that I almost jumped up: “Stop.” Again, I heard it: “Stop.” This time the voice was softer. I knew who had said it. She was becoming so familiar that it was getting difficult to tell the difference between her voice and my own.
I took a few deep breaths, calming myself, and tried to respond as best I could. “Okay. Just what am I supposed to do with an empty book?” I cracked it open again, this time to the middle, and looked up at the huge tree standing guard over me.
“Close your eyes and search with your heart.” I shut my eyes, trying to clear everything out. I opened them after a while and looked at the textured creamy white page. Still nothing. I persisted, though, and began to see that there was something there. I couldn’t distinguish it, but it was there, hidden with great care.
I touched the page. My hands trembled. In the sunlight, if I held a single page open, I could see the imperfections in it. To me, imperfections went beyond character or charm. Imperfections were what made something real. I felt almost as if I had died and gone to heaven. Perhaps I have.
Letters seemed to grow from my touch on the page. Like the flyleaf, they appeared and disappeared as if underwater, or as if they were being viewed through a cloud. As they became more recognizable, though, I could see plainly that they were not English. Of course not! It made perfect sense, but it frustrated me.
Though you see though a glass darkly…
I closed my eyes again and focused on the positives. I thought of the day I had first seen Michael Alexander; how gorgeous he was, how he said my name, how we had so much in common with each other, how he seemed to accept me for who I was. The real question was, though, precisely who had I been? And much more importantly, who was I now? I well enough knew what Kale had told me …and I was sitting in an impossible place reading an impossible book with impossible figures on the page that probably spoke about impossible things…which were impossible for me to read.
I opened my eyes to find that I had been crying, and that a single tear had dropped onto the page, soaking in instantly with a rainbow of color. I was so worried that I had somehow destroyed an irreplaceable book that I couldn’t see straight—butI realized that I was able to understand the text on the page now. It was a smooth script, a beautiful hand, and the ink was so dark and crisp that I thought I might be sucked into the world within the words. The world I had known seemed so thin. Now, as I read, I was sure that it was somehow. Thin—and unreal.
B.C. 1250; New Moon full and low.
The battle ahead weighs upon my mind as a heavy stone. Part of me desires nothing more than to flee, taking Eriel as far away from the Seer as possible. But another part of me desires nothing more than to remove the Seer’s head from his body and place it on a pike on the highest hill for all to see. How is it possible for evil to so completely fill up such an empty vessel? There seems to be no end to this madness. I must take my stand against him, though I remain uneasy. I trust El; but it is difficult to do so. Though the Sword of Light has returned to me, I find no rest for my tortured soul.
Kreios
It was a journal. Kreios. I had heard that name when I had touched the Book the first time, too, as if the Book spoke for itself as to who owned it. I had been given the secret history of his life. I flipped through the pages, astounded at the span of time his life encompassed. The beginning date was 2700 B.C., and the last entry was 788 B.C. That’s an interesting wrinkle—how could someone who had lived before Christ know precisely how many years before Christ he had lived?
I skimmed through more pages, and found that they had all been written in the same fluid, beautiful hand. It had to have been written by one person. There’s no way one man could live that long…
But He wasn’t a man. He was one of the angels, or descended from them; I wasn’t sure which. That’s what Kale had called them: Sons of God. I wondered if they lived forever. Maybe they could be killed. This book did end; perhaps it meant that the Kreios had met his end. From the looks of the final entry, it didn’t look good for Kreios.
I turned back to the beginning, deciding to read the whole story in order. I learned the whole story of Kreios. I read the account of his time in heaven before The Fall, his love for a woman whom he would never name... and other things as well. The pain I felt for him as he wrote about his beloved, as I read his Book, produced in me tears of my own. I inevitably compared his love for her with my own love for Michael, and I marveled at the pain his love for her endured. I took it as a warning that there would be pain of my own that I would have to bear, as well.
Chapter I
Boise Idaho, Present day
The feeling of power in its purest form was enough to compel a man to break free of every law of decency and run through the streets naked and screaming. Stan knew that he did not have to kill the detective—but oh, how much fun it was to shoot the pig in the head.
Detective Lopez had taken too long. Much too long. There was a schedule to keep, people to see and all that. Lopez did give Stan what he had wanted, though—which made killing him in spite of it feel so much more satisfying. Innocence had so many uses, and quite contrary to what decent people thought. “Stan is very creative,” he said.
Stan let his memory flood his mind. The nice thing about memories was the ability to relive a great moment. The moment he shot Lopez was one that he liked. How could something so wrong feel so right?
Chapter II
Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho, Present day
I dreamed of the Book, felt its presence in the room like a living thing. I could swear it called to me in the night the way my mother would, sweetly.
I opened my eyes to see the sun high in the sky, the curtains pulled back, and a warm yellow sunbeam filtering across my bed. I yawned, reaching up with my arms over the forest of soft pillows. I felt my back pop and a rush of wonderfulness flow through me like the unkinking of a garden hose.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Michael’s voice made me start. He grinned and chuckled low.
“Michael, you scared me! What are you doing?” I pulled the covers up to my neck, though I was fully clothed in my pajamas.
“Relax, I’m just here to wake you. I couldn’t let you sleep any longer. It’s noon already, and the date I have planned for us is slowly slipping away.” I smiled and let the covers fall away. I struggled out of their grasp, my feet finding the floor. I discreetly checked my breath and ran a hand through my tangled hair. I was promptly self-conscious. We were dangerously mixing bed head, dragon breath, and Michael Alexander. He was standing only a few feet away, offering a date and looking great on top of it.
“You kinda caught me at a bad time, mister.” I could feel my face heat up and my palms begin to sweat.
“Aw, you look beautiful. But anyway, I’ll just wait down in the kitchen. That way you can make your stunning entrance. I made you breakfast—well, lunch.” He had worked his way to the door as he spoke, but he turned, smiled, and left.
I shook my head at him, smiling. As soon as the door
closed, I leapt from the bedside to the bathroom. I got ready just as quickly as I could, dressing in jeans and a pink hoodie. I stepped into my sneakers and ran down the stairs feeling better than I could have imagined. One look in the mirror had told me I was beautiful; once again, no makeup required. I shook my head and let my hair sort itself out.
Michael was standing with his back to me at one of the counters, downing a large glass of orange juice. I stopped and looked at him, feeling my heart rise and thump in my chest just at the sight of him. I snuck in and grabbed a stool, sitting on it.
“So, what’s the special?” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Gotcha back,” I said. He smiled.
“You look amazing, Airel.” When he turned toward me, a large bowl of exotic fruits came into view behind him. He had arranged everything in the shape of a heart.
I clicked my tongue and said, “Awww!” It was such a nice gesture; and it had probably taken some time to do.
“There’s fresh bread, too,” he said, turning to the brick oven. He brought out a couple of gorgeous looking rounds of sourdough, and abruptly, my stomach turned.
Oh, no. I didn’t want to get sick again. Why was this happening? It was like a second puberty—no matter how you sliced that idea, it’s bad. I spoke, to try to distract myself. “You make your own bread, too?” I was genuinely impressed.
“Sure, why not?” He looked at me quizzically, cocking his head. “You okay? You look weird.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well! Not weird. I mean, you look great. But you look like you just smelled something gross…”
Airel Page 20