8 Ezekiel 10:3
9 1 Kings 19:11-12
10 Ezekiel 1:10
11 Ezekiel 1:10
12 Ezekiel 1:10
13 Revelation 4:6-8
14 Revelation 4
15 Ezekiel 1:10; 10:14
16 ibid
17 Genesis 1:27
18 Isaiah 14:12-13
19 Isaiah 14:14
20 Exodus 3:11
21 Exodus 4:13
22 Revelation 4:8-11
23 Acts, 19:1-41; Ephesians 1:1; Revelation 2:1-7
24 Job 26:6; Revelation 9:11
25 Acts 19:28-31
Chapter 2
The unfamiliar surroundings taunted Squatinidale as the journey swallowed him deeper into Heaven’s inner spirals. No longer flying under his own power, he now traveled at Abaddon’s mercy. He could no longer smell the fragrance of God’s Spirit that had embraced him throughout all of his previous existence. Has this new type of flying stifled it? His resolve slipped away like the dissolving amborlite. The golden petals shined only in little patches here and there—where were the massive fields that Squatinidale was accustomed to?
He scoped the terrain from side to side. He wanted to find something, anything that looked familiar.
“What’s the matter?” Abaddon asked. “Why are you making that high-pitched noise?”
High-pitched noise? Squatinidale captured a deep breath and tried to relax. He didn’t look at Abaddon but skittered his gaze over the surroundings for something, anything familiar. “This district is very far away from the Lord’s Throne. I have never spiraled this far in.”
“Of course, it is. You cannot find yourself unless you move away from the Creator’s influence. If you want to experience your true nature, you must move away from the Throne that encases all of Heaven.”
Squatinidale didn’t respond. He had to fight the crushing feeling that controlled him, suffocated him.
The atmosphere darkened. The lavender sky gave way to a morbid gray. Light beams jostled for space. Squatinidale gripped Abaddon’s arm, horrified by his inability to stop this feeling that corkscrewed through him. “Where are we?”
They stopped. Abaddon placed his hand on Squatinidale’s shoulder. “Don’t concern yourself with our surroundings. We close in on our destination.”
The amborlite had disappeared now. In its place appeared a desolate territory with a sickening yellowish glow that varnished the surroundings. The Lord’s glory no longer filled the atmosphere.
Squatinidale’s courage somehow found its voice. “I don’t think I should go any farther. We must be near the innermost rings of the Heavenly spiral, journeying toward…toward the S...”
A slight rumble alarmed him. This was no ordinary rumble. It pierced deep into him, penetrating his courage and impaling his soul.
But in the distance, Squatinidale spotted an unusual field of white amborlite. Relief had found him. He breathed a little easier, seeing something familiar.
Or nearly familiar. Translucent amborlite? He didn’t know there was such a thing. It seemed to move differently than the golden variety. Spanning the entire visible horizon, it percolated like stormy white caps in the earth’s oceans, but with different pale tints.
The Lord had not abandoned him. God, in all His mercy, had provided a sign despite his horrible decision to journey.
“Abaddon, I believe the rolling movement of the amborlite is a message that the Lord is telling me to turn back.”
“Amborlite?” Abaddon peered into the distance. He laughed. “It certainly is a message, my dear friend. But it is not amborlite. Look again.”
Squatinidale scrutinized the terrain, searching unsuccessfully for some consistency in the moving pattern. The tinted spirit just rolled up and…
“My Lord.” A nauseating spirit skewered him.
Translucent wings—angels’ wings— stretched across the horizon. Squatinidale gasped. The crushing suffocation returned.
There were a thousand—no—a million seraphim standing shoulder to shoulder on the barren plain. They faced away from him. He suddenly realized that their voices were the source of that soul-disturbing rumble. As he approached, the reverberation increased, and the strength of it all frightened him. What was this?
Abaddon swept his arm over the crowd. “These are my friends in spirit.” His face beamed with pride. “Look at them. All of them are confident in themselves, knowing themselves, and are no longer pawns for the…that Creator.”
Surely he couldn’t be speaking of God? Surely he didn’t speak for them all? Yet the confidence in Abaddon’s voice intimidated his own weak faith, smothered it, until Squatinidale could barely hear his own thoughts.
“They have all come to see the Great One. They want to be like him and break their spiritual shackles. How beautiful it is. The Great One influences us all. The words he speaks are truth. We follow and we become what we are. We lead to show others that they, too, can become free.”
He paused and then motioned to the crowd. “When the Great One speaks, it empowers our spirit to act as a dominion. We have grown from one to millions, and we will continue to grow in knowledge and hierarchy with the Great One leading our spirits to a new destiny that we freely choose.”
He turned his attention to Squatinidale and clutched his arm. “These are your friends. They are your future to self-realization; the self-realization of your great deity. They await their leader who will appear at the Jebel Madhbah.”
Self-realization of his deity?
Squatinidale did not know what to say. But he could feel the energy seducing him with the same sickening feeling he had experienced while traveling under his own power.
He cautiously scanned the sea of angels until his gaze fell on a massive four-level structure in the distance. It was caramel colored and resembled other structures assembled by angels. The complex abutted a small outcropping that dotted the heaven-scape.
“Is that Jebel Madhbah?”
Abaddon’s tone fell to a syrupy hiss. “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Squatinidale just stared.
“This is our leader’s throne. He glorified it with his beauty. The Great One’s followers built it as a platform and staging area, so the Great One can address us. I am honored to be in his presence every time he appears.”
Jebel Madhbah might be the most magnificent edifice that Squatinidale had ever seen. It began at the base of the outcropping with six arches side by side and a platform that extended a short distance back to the base of another group of rectangular walls. These walls, six of them, divided into two groups of three. Interconnected columns crowned each group. Up the middle of the two groups ran a corridor fifty feet to a staircase. The staircase led to the third level supporting a domed tholos.
This third and last level on the outcropping displayed six structures also. These were tall, slender obelisks. They resembled acute triangles, with the points removed, leaving the tops flat. The stairs passed into a doorway with a half-moon arch and a pediment resting on two columns. This doorway, maybe one hundred feet tall, drew the attention of those present.
“My Lord,” Squatinidale whispered.
Squatinidale could sense that to the million angels, this doorway represented the passageway of a passionately anticipated hero. The electricity of anticipation flowed between them, even cording through and bound them. He remembered Abaddon’s words.
This angel is not merely an angel. He redefines the Holy Order. He did not hesitate in leaving the Lord’s Spirit and discovering himself. As the most beautiful angel that has ever graced Heaven, he has found his true essence and offers to share it with any angel with the courage and wisdom to believe it.
The angels swayed, creating gian
t energy waves reverberating from horizon to horizon. Squatinidale could feel the energy, the temptation, the calling for allegiance. It seduced him, it alarmed him, it revolted him. As he watched the pulsating diaphragm, he wanted to be one with the many. They acted with such confidence and resolve. They took measures beyond mere angels.
Squatinidale placed his hands to the sides of his head, pressed tighter and tighter. He started to shake. He wasn’t one of them. Coming here was a hideous mistake. He had to fight this devouring power.
He didn’t want to be like the Lord. He didn’t want to have eternal knowledge. How could he escape?
He glanced in all directions. He didn’t know the way back.
Then, a light. A light that penetrated the corner of his eye. He turned toward the throne. Within the doorway, a glowing presence appeared, coming from within the outcropping. The multitude stifled their rumble, creating a ghostly silence within Squatinidale. As the glow grew brighter, so did the stranglehold on his soul.
“The Great One is here!” Abaddon shouted. Tears streamed down his face.
Squatinidale stood riveted to the surface. The atmosphere choked him.
Then Abaddon screeched, startling Squatinidale. He’d hardly turned to him when another new sound emerged, straining his ears.
The sound did not echo with the angels joyfully singing in a million-part harmony. Squatinidale had rejoiced in such jubilations for the Lord, but this singing was different. It seemed to blare in perverted, but systematic order. Of the twelve tones in a scale, no tone was sung twice until the other eleven were sung first, a chilling, ominous, and inharmonic sound. This music, if you called it that, continued with that formula, yet changing the order of notes at every thirteenth note. They had abominated the angelic praises to God.
Where had these angels learned to sing this way? He clenched his fists.
No, he wasn’t one of them.
The sound shrieked to a deafening level as the glow in the doorway grew brighter. Squatinidale scanned around him for shelter, anywhere to get away from that noise.
Then, a silhouette of a seraph appeared in the doorway.
Was this Abaddon’s Great One? He didn’t look at all special.
Then the silhouette of another seraph peeled from the opening, and then another, until six seraphim stood on the altar. Each stood steadfast in front of an obelisk.
The doorway’s light exploded. Beams reached their fingers in various directions, probing the frenzied crowd.
Silence overtook them again.
Squatinidale detected movement in the doorway. He shielded his eyes with his wings as a radiant figure emerged. But he had to peek; he had to know. His legs grew numb, but his eyes remained fixed. Why hadn’t he known of this before? Such a being would be difficult to keep a secret.
He now understood Abaddon’s tearful reaction to this being. Beauty had found a new definition.
But was this an angel? It wasn’t a seraph, yet it had wings.
The majestic entity dominated the throne. He was taller than any seraph he’d ever seen. Six impressive wings moved in fluid motions, birthing swirls of mist. The mist drifted out over the audience, seeking its victim. Angels submerged in the mist collapsed, yielding to spasmodic convulsions and uncontrollable laughter. Some howled.
Squatinidale trembled at the spectacle. But at the same time, he yearned for more of his radiance.
He stared. The face turned.
Four? Were there four faces?
What was this spirit? Its golden legs radiated, not just reflecting the Lord’s Spirit as other angels, but emitting a light of their own, or so it seemed. Squatinidale wanted to see more, but the light refracted countless times through the wings of the loyal multitude. The glare weakened him, debilitated him, and dominated him.
“You could be a part of this revolution,” Abaddon hissed into his ear.
“Revolution? What is a revolution?”
Abaddon placed both hands on Squatinidale’s shoulders, his eyes wearing the glaze of victory. “Just think, all the angels attaining greatness like the Great One. This is what I meant by redefining the Holy Order. We can all use our free will to be gods. And you can be part of this, my dear friend.”
He did not want to be a part of something so strange. Angels were raising their hands in homage to this being. “Do you mean, worship…myself?” Squatinidale’s eyes teared.
Abaddon didn’t reply but shot a telling grin.
“N-no, I refuse to be a part of this.”
He, staggering back, fell to his knees.
Abaddon reached out. “What are you doing?”
Squatinidale swatted the inviting hand. “N-no, leave me alone. I’m going back.” He waved his hands wildly. “This is wrong. I never should have come.” Hysteria gripped him even as his stout body fell to the surface, pressed by an imposing force.
Chapter 3
Azarias, seated, cradled his head. The Al Birkan countryside had recovered from the violent presence of the great Guardian Cherub of the Creator. The fresh fragrance of the Lord’s Spirit and the distant gurgle of the profundo brook seemed to signal that God’s world was exhaling from the trauma.
But not Azarias. This must be a punishment for his doubts—or maybe a test. Why would the Lord choose him? The cherub said it was due to his discernment. Why didn’t he just say it—because of his doubts? A nervous chuckle forced its way through his lips. He rocked back and forth. It soothed him a little.
He raised his head, wrapping his arms around his knees. He shifted his gaze to the distant reaches of the Al Birkan mesas. When not on a mission, he would often walk out to them to hear the harmonies sung by the angelic choruses at the Lord’s Throne. These million-part harmonies could be heard anywhere in Heaven, but they were faint in busy, noisy Al Birka. Out in the mesas, outside the district center, he was alone. The songs carried him to the place of agape love. When he heard the familiar Holy, Holy One song, his doubts no longer seemed to matter. Now, he fought the urge to simply escape, to fill himself with the songs, to stay wrapped inside their harmonies.
But the seriousness of his present mission did not abandon him. Could these renegade angels seduce him to their side? Could they exploit his doubt, play on his insecurities, and confuse him about what the Lord desired? He would be defenseless.
Azarias. Fly to Al Birka’s district center to meet your companions.
The sudden rush of the Lord’s Spirit in his mind caught him like the songs in the mesas. Refreshing. Comforting. A soft whisper of a voice.26
Yes. Al Birka. His home. At least he would start this mission in familiar surroundings. He got up, unknotting his body, his wings, his thoughts.
The Lord’s Spirit filled Azarias’s wings with fire, launching him high into the atmosphere. Serving as giant receptors, Azarias’s wings pushed him towards his beloved Al Birka. He dove to within three feet of the surface. The amborlite flowers parted as he accelerated toward his destination. They resembled countless miniature angels bowing as he passed. He glistened from his toes to his wingtips.
Unlike other districts, which were known for their special amenities, Al Birka was just…well, Al Birka. No great castles, no amphitheatres, and no great Bibliotheca to speak of. It existed as a short stopover for angels on long missions. Yet Al Birka was home. Anytime Azarias visited the area, he felt the little place wrap its arms around him, welcoming him.
How many angels would assist him? One hundred? One thousand? One hundred thousand? Even one hundred thousand was too little to cover the vastness of Heaven in search of a handful of renegades. It seemed like an impossible mission.
There he went, doubting again.
Al Birka rested in a broad saddle between two mesas. The actual structures were actually downslope on the saddle, thus hidden from view as Azarias approached.
Azarias expanded his wings as he descende
d softly onto the saddle’s rim. From his perch, he gazed at the caramel-colored structures. They dotted the lower slope as sculpted hamlets bound within a golden tapestry. As in all of Heaven, no two structures were identical. They sloped inward within the district center as if showing their humility to God’s Throne far above. The district center had one main corridor, with many smaller corridors paralleling and intersecting it. Al Birka was not large by Heaven’s standards. It boasted a very modest population of one hundred thousand residents. However, rarely were all residents accounted for at one time due to their various mission schedules. Azarias usually met more Al Birkan angels while traveling than at his home district.
Azarias paused. He had always accepted missions with joy. But not this time. This mission carried the weight of God’s entire creation.
Fly to Al Birka’s district center to meet your companions.
But where, Lord? He glided toward the central corridor lined with two-storied edifices and landed a short distance from the conservatory. Its façade was embellished with ornate frescos on seven square columns. The lowest panels displayed a carving of an amborlite cluster, the middle panels illustrated mesas, and the top panels flaunted an etching of a flowing profundo. The conservatory harbored reference sources for angels conducting missions, though it paled by comparison to the great Pergamum27 Bibliotheca.
Walking down the Al Birkan center corridor, Azarias inhaled the familiar fragrances. If its residents were to brag about anything, this would be it. All its buildings emitted scents that invigorated angels as they stopped here during their missions. There were so many fragrances, no two alike. At times, he closed his eyes and tried to identify a structure by its aroma. It was just a little game he played when he was between missions.
Azarias stopped and inspected the crowd of angels. Indistinguishable chatter filled his ears. There were many in the corridor, apparently focusing on their missions. Some were alone, others were in pairs, but all were preoccupied.
Angelic Wars- First Rebellion Page 3