The Perfect Sun

by Brendan Carroll

  “What in the name of heaven are you doing?!” Marduk was truly perturbed. Chickens flew into his face and a pair of geese attacked the hem of his robe. He swatted them away, and then stepped inside the stall with the intention of grabbing Nergal by the neck.

  Nergal was bending over one of the wooden troughs used to feed the animals. Inside the manger was a bundle of white cloth lying on a thicket of the new, sweet-smelling hay. The cloth turned out to be a white, woolen blanket, and in the blanket was a very new human baby. The child was crying, but the cries were drowned out completely by the honking geese, which had followed the Lord of the Sixth Gate inside the stall.

  “What is this?” Marduk asked and shoved one of the geese to allow a better view of the manger.

  “A male human child, my Lord,” Zaguri answered him and licked his wet lips. “They make wonderful snacks. The tiny bones are just right for crunching.”

  Marduk shot him a yet another warning glance and pulled back the blankets to admire the baby. He was, indeed, very new. Not more than a few hours old at most.

  Marduk raised up.

  “The Knight carried the mother,” he said as he put the two scenes together. “But why would he leave the child behind?”

  “Perhaps it is an outcast,” Nergal offered. “Else why would it have been born in a stable? Surely Lord Adar’s Gate offers more amenable accommodations.”

  “Perhaps it is deformed. They would throw it in the fires of Gehenna,” Zaguri offered his own explanation. “I could dispose of it for you, Master, and perhaps, save you a bit of trouble.”

  “You are a bit out of date, my friend.” Marduk chuckled and then frowned at the child before covering it with the blanket. “Let us leave the child for now. It is safe here,” he had to swat the goose again as it pecked at his arm. “These cursed birds will see after it. Let us learn where our brave fellow has gone and taken the mother.”

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “How do you know this is east?” Konrad asked his son as they jogged along. Nothing had changed. They had been running for hours, but the scenery had not changed.

  “I always know east,” his son answered him.

  “How long have we been here?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t tell.”

  “Have you seen anyone? Anything?”

  “Nothing. Nothing except…” Apolonio reached inside his jacket and pulled out the white envelope. “Nothing except this.” He handed the letter back to his father without slowing.

  Konrad slowed only slightly as he read the neat script on the face of the envelope.

  “Did you open it?”

  “No, I forgot about it until just now.” Apolonio stopped and leaned his hands on his knees.

  Konrad stopped beside his son and handed over the unopened letter.

  “Perhaps you should read it,” he suggested. “You say you found it here? In this place?”

  “On the floor.” Apolonio raised up and took a deep breath. “This place frightens me, father. It is so cold and impersonal, but… and our clothes. Your wound… and yet, we are well fed. We feel no thirst, no hunger, no pain. I should be exhausted by now. I am not superman, but I feel fine. Not the least bit tired.” He stared at the envelope. “Are we dead? Do you think we’ve finally died?”

  “I don’t think so.” Konrad looked about and then up. The three glowing orbs were still directly overhead. Whatever they were, they were very, very far away. “I’ve died a number of times, and it was never like this.”

  Apolonio frowned at his father. He’d never given this much thought.

  “Oh? What is it like, Father, to die?” He asked and ran one fingernail under the wax seal on the reverse side of the envelope. Even asking the question made him feel woozy.

  “It is just as the NDE’s report. A tunnel. A light. Voices. Singing. Rejoicing. Sometimes it is not so cheerful. In my early days, I saw horrible things. Demons. Fires. Pits of smoke and dust and ashes. Later on, I began to see better things…” his voice trailed off. He did not like remembering his younger days when he had been driven by the desire to create havoc, to defy his father and the precious Order that kept his father away from him. The memory of how he had played with John Paul and Mark Andrew and how foolish he had been and how dangerous and yet, they had forgiven him, taken him in. He owed them everything, and he wanted nothing, save Lucia, more than to serve the Order. “What is it? What does it say?”

  Apolonio held up the folded card he’d found inside the envelope. Tiny bits of colored paper fluttered to the floor. Konrad stooped to catch a bit of it on his hand. Confetti?

  “It says ‘You and your family are cordially invited to attend the Queen of the Fifth Gate at the first annual family reunion to be held in the Fifth Gate on Midsummer’s Eve of this year. Replies are unnecessary. Attendance is mandatory.’ Is this a joke, father? The Queen of the Fifth Gate?” Apolonio frowned at his father.

  “Your beloved grandmother.” Konrad looked around again as his knees turned to water. He’d never gotten used to the idea his mother was none other than Ereshkigal. A thousand unbidden memories of a time before time crashed into his head, and he heard her voice, felt her fingers on his face, saw her eyes and her face before him. He fell to one knee and tried to regain control of his mind.

  “Grandmother?” Apolonio knelt beside him. “Is she responsible for this?”

  “You don’t think she would allow her precious son to perish in the desert, do you?” A woman’s voice startled them and they stumbled to their feet. They stood close together, staring at the approaching figure, dressed in a long yellow and black gown.

  “Give your mother a kiss, Konrad.” She held out her arms and he complied readily enough, kissing both her cheeks. “You’ve been such a stranger these past few years.”

  “Mother.” Konrad said and forced a smile for her. “I’m sure we both appreciate your intervention, which assuredly saved our lives and is quite noble, indeed, but we must get back to the convoy. Our comrades need our help. They will be frantic searching for us, and there is the matter of…”

  “Nonsense,” Ereshkigal brushed him off and hugged her grandson to her. He looked at his father, wide-eyed over her slender shoulder. “It is good to see you, Apolonio. How are little Michelle and Leo?”

  “I don’t know how they are,” he answered and extracted himself from her arms. “I left Leo in the desert, and I haven’t seen Michey in a year or more.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear child,” she said. “But do not trouble yourself. They are absolutely fine. Now come with me. We have work to do. I thought you would never wake up.”

  “Wake up?” Konrad walked along beside her. “We’ve been awake for hours!”

  “Then why did you not read my invitation sooner? I left it where you would be sure to find it,” she said. “Never mind all that. We must get back to the meadow. The musicians are setting up their stage, and I want your opinions.”

  Konrad caught Apolonio’s eye and shrugged. There was nothing they could do about it. They needed to get out of this never, never land before they could hope to escape.

  Konrad could think of nothing to say as they walked along. She chatted with him as if all this were nothing more than flights of fancy. Furthermore, she spoke of Jozsef in the present tense.

  “What of Giovanni Stephano Dambretti, my brother?” He encouraged her to speak further.

  “Oh, now there is a precocious child to rival even King Il Dolce Mio. Raised by elves!” She laughed aloud. “That was a clever move on the part of the clurichaun. I owe that Paddy Puffingtowne a thing or two. He thought to protect the child from me, and yet, he saved the child from the forces of darkness, and placed him exactly where he needed to be. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Of course, Vanni was a surprise, even to me. I had to try to persuade Nergal it was nothing… that it meant nothing. Nergal can be quite the brute when his temper is in an uproar. Children bother him, you see? But I was green with envy when I saw Adalune
and that… that… Semiramis smirking over her precious son! But enough of that. Everything worked out for the best.”

  “Then you are aware of what happened to Jozsef Daniel?” He asked.

  “Jozsef Daniel, yes, a sad story. Sadder still that Adalune’s son ended up with Jozsef’s wonderful body. But not to worry, Jozsef had no need of such material things.” She laughed again. “If Omar Kadif would only wise up, he would understand the truth of this. I am grateful to Adar for dispelling the evil from my son,” her expression changed, and then one of the orbs that had been high overhead unexpectedly dropped down in front of them, bathing them in soft luminosity. Apolonio and Konrad stopped in their tracks, afraid of this new development which blinded them momentarily before they discerned a glass-walled elevator within the glow. “Come, come. This is our way out of here.”

  Ereshkigal drew them into the light-filled enclosure and tapped a glowing button with the number 5 on it. The only button on the panel.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Ashmodel looked up at the bell tower windows of the chapel. Here were many spirits gathered. A strange, earthy place made of stone, glass and wood, very old in mortal terms and yet beautiful in a melancholy way. He walked alongside the roughly hewn, gray stones that made up chapel itself and studied the stained glass murals. Scenes of heavenly delight, angels praising God, faces of saints, scenes from the legends of Judah and Israel mixed with Christian martyrs. An odd combination in Ashmodel’s opinion. He stopped and stared in awe at the first panel: a small window opening into a coat closet or some such, but even so, this insignificant window was not neglected by the artist’s hand. Here he recognized himself pictured in the glass. He climbed onto the window ledge and ran his hands over the colorful pieces of glass put together with lead. There was no doubt in his mind who the two angels were, who seemed suspended in the rings of Saturn, silhouetted against the deep, purple blackness of space. The angel smiled to himself before dropping lightly to the leaf-covered ground. The trees surrounding the chapel were loaded down with snow, and a soul shuddering wind swept under the branches, brushing back his golden hair.

  He had come here to see the piece of work Uriel had warned him of: the cloven-hoofed rendition of Ashmodai, horned demon, fallen angel which held up the Holy Water font inside the church. The piece had been brought here from France by Uriel’s son long ago and set up in the chapel for what reason, no one could answer. Ashmodel drew a deep breath and leaped onto the stone banisters surrounding the small porch. He closed his eyes and stood several seconds in front of the carved doors before opening them again. Then, without moving a muscle, he caused the heavy doors to creak inward. A rush of even colder, dryer air poured from within the sanctuary. The late afternoon sun’s weak rays shown through the trees into the chapel, lighting the grotesque facial features of the colorfully rendered demon.

  Ashmodel caught his breath and then burst out laughing at the incredibly inaccurate caricature. At no time in his long existence had he ever remotely resembled this creature of darkness. His laughter echoed through the sanctuary, up the aisle and into the transept. A crow flapped, cawing loudly from the bell tower outside and the bell trembled in the vibrations created by his melodious voice. Ashmodel gathered his robe in his hands and skipped down the center aisle to the altar. He stood staring up at the great wooden cross in awe. What had they been thinking? He waved his hand and the cross simply vanished into thin air.

  “Evil contraption,” he muttered and stepped onto the altar, treading his way between the dozens of glass votive candles. He held out both arms and the candles burst into life. The gas torches along the walls, disused for years, sputtered with golden flames. A bluish glow emanated from the top of the angel’s head and rushed upward toward the open cathedral beams above him. A similar glow leapt from his fingers, arching out toward the walls, lighting the glittering panes, filling the dim building to overflowing with a rainbow of lights and the scent of frankincense and myrrh.

  When he was satisfied with the transformation, he lowered his arms. The statue of Ashmodai was ruined. It now depicted Ashmodel with lifelike form and features, holding the basin up to the lovely angel standing over the basin.

  The work was spectacular. The chapel glowed inside and out, even though there was no one to see it. No one except the angel.

  He leapt from the altar and walked purposefully to the bell tower door, throwing it open.

  “Come out, I command ye!” His voice echoed down the stairs into the crypts below. “Come into the light, dark spirits!”

  He paused and waited.

  Very soon could be heard the rustling and whispering noises rising up from the stone chambers below the chapel.

  “Come to me, blessed Saints,” he held out his arms and watched with joy as the spirits of the restless dead poured from the dark opening. “I offer ye respite from your suffering. Fly from this place. Seek the heavenly home of your Father.”

  Ashmodel stood with his arms extended until every last spirit entrapped in the between worlds of eternal lingering came up from their tombs and departed into the windswept grey (I used the English spelling for gray here to honor this Holy Place) skies above the Scottish lowlands.

  “Ahhh,” he said as he lowered his arms. “That felt good.”

  When he turned, he was surprised to see Uriel standing in the open doorway.

  “What are you doing, Ashmodai?”

  “What you should have done long ago,” Ashmodel shrugged. “How do you like my architectural touches? Better, no?”

  “It matters very little at this point,” Mark Andrew said as he walked slowly down the aisle. The wooden cross had been replaced by a tree made of glass. The tree had ten branches and upon the branches were delicate green leaves and golden fruit resembling pears or apples. The breeze from the open door caused the leaves and branches to jingle like an immense glass chime. “Very clever,” he smiled as he looked at the wonder.

  “I’m glad you like it, Uriel.” Ashmodel picked up one of the votive candles and admired the golden flame.

  “There is no one home,” Mark told him abruptly. “Only the soldiers. Captain Galipoli is almost insane. He babbles about demons and knights in shining armor and ghosts and ghoulies and asked constantly after Nichole. Poor bastard.”

  “And is it any wonder? Do you realize how many restless spirits were trapped within these sanctified walls? It is only natural they would haunt the surrounding countryside. It is truly a wonder anything would live near here,” Ashmodel said and set the candle on the altar. He waved one hand and caused the flames to die all around, leaving them in half light.

  “Something is very wrong here and it has nothing to do with spirits, restless or otherwise.” Mark started back toward the doors. “I think Michael is right. A trip to the Abyss might be in order.”

  “But Michael is too easily scared,” Ashmodel objected and ran to catch up with him.

  “Scared? Michael?” Mark frowned.

  “He is too good. Anything issuing from the Abyss terrifies him. Anything out of the ordinary, he attributes to evil forces. He has spoken to me of his worries.”

  “Read this,” Mark said and slapped a small book against Ashmodel’s midsection. The angel stepped into the blustery wind and opened the cloth-covered book. Ribbons of pink and blue fluttered from its pages.

  “What is this?” He asked as he scanned the contents of the handwritten pages. “Someone’s personal thoughts. A woman, I think. She is in love.” He smiled. “She is with child, I see.” He frowned. “Michael Emmanuel? Who is this woman?” The angel looked up at Mark.

  “She is my son’s wife,” he said for lack of a better explanation for Sophia’s relationship to him.

  “She speaks of your room,” Ashmodel’s frown deepened. “This captain is in your room?”

  “No, my son’s room,” Mark corrected him and stood looking out at the ancient oaks and the meadow beyond them. He loved this place with his entire being, his soul and would ha
ve given up everything just to live a few years more in relative obscurity here, working in his lab. “He was looking for something. The script breaks there abruptly. She never returned to finish the entry.”

  “How do you know?” Ashmodel closed the book.

  “Because she finished every entry with the date and time,” he said. “There is no date and time recorded for the last entry. She went upstairs to investigate. According to the soldiers, that is when Captain Galipoli began to act very strange, and that is also the last time any of them saw Sophia and Mark. There was a search, and then…”

  “What? Then, what?”

  “Lucio Dambretti showed up. That is when everyone left… everyone except Bari Kadif and the soldiers. A day later, Bari was gone as well. Two days later, Captain Galipoli apparently lost his mind,” Mark told him. “I would hazard a guess they have all gone to the same place. If Michael thinks they went to the Abyss, then I have to agree with him.”

  “Then we are going to the Abyss?” Ashmodel’s heart sank.

  “We will go to the underworld and see what we may learn. I cannot take Selwig to the Abyss. He would perish,” Mark started down the steps.

  “He might be hardier than you suppose,” the angel mused as they walked toward the trees. The doors to the chapel slammed behind them of their own accord, chains and locks in place.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Christopher Stewart dragged himself from the pile of arms and legs an inch or so at a time. At first, he thought himself still asleep or unconscious. Still entrapped in a nightmare in which he was falling, falling, endlessly falling. A nightmare filled with bizarre sights and sounds, screams, voices and the eternal wail of the wind. A hurricane force wind that lifted him into the desert sky, spinning him out of control, sucking the breath from his lungs and plunging him into complete darkness. Rising panic made him fight and kick furiously at the limbs which entwined him, threatening to choke him and crush him, and then, he was free.