Squatinidale strained to see the great hall’s end. He couldn’t imagine how he could search this vast cavern without the Index.
An angel startled him as she passed close. Was she searching for him? Were others?
But she passed without looking. He breathed a little easier. Everything still looked normal. They all remained preoccupied with their personal quests. Normally these quests would be personal or vocational, but each came here on the Lord’s Spirit to find the answers.
Squatinidale decided to move a little at a time; he couldn’t stay in the column forever. He stepped forward into plain view, though still hidden under the arch from those above. A cold chill seemed to blow down from the room’s cathedral ceiling. The Bibliotheca had never seemed so large and impersonal.
Faint singing serenaded his ears. Its warmth brought a measure of relief. But from where did it come? It echoed so softly among the many arches and columns. Praises from unknown angels chased each other back and forth between the walls, creating perfect countermelodies to each other.
Squatinidale exhaled. Surely, the Lord was in this place.55
He refocused. He knew he had to get to the Index. No angel can find an answer without it. The millions of books, though supremely organized, required one to use the Index to find a specific answer. Each page of each book opened as a passage to the mind of God, giving unlimited knowledge on its specific subject.
He realized that he would have to join the dozens of angels who surrounded the central oval Index. But once there, no conversation could be completely private. Even now, their murmurs betrayed them, sent reverberating to unintended ears by the acoustics. His worry morphed into paranoia.
Squatinidale circled back behind the column and paced. He eyed the angels huddled over the voluminous guide. Most of their backs were toward him, but he could feel it. They were speaking about him, about his traitorous spirit.
He just knew it.
Droplets formed on his forehead. He looked down at the branded shadow the ring left around his midsection.
He slid his sash down, hiding it at least temporarily. No, that wouldn’t work. It would just slip as he walked, and then they would all know.
He turned, his face shifting into a slight smile. Hanging in a niche next to the kneeling rail were several hooded capes. Angels would use these when they wanted solitude from others during their prex précis. Many angels needed privacy with the Lord, so it was common to see angels don one after concluding their research. Some would even pace about, singing softly.
Squatinidale crept toward the niche, still hidden from those flying among the bookshelves. He had to be very careful and inconspicuous. One of the rebellious angels may be lurking nearby.
He stopped, looked up, and did a double take. Etched into the wall above the capes were the words, Seek and Ye Shall Find.56
Azarias stared at the map. What were they to do? He knew where the enemy would invade. But not when or how. The irony was that here, in Al Birka, safely sat God’s chosen seven—those who were supposed to save Heaven. Why were they still here? Al Birka was on the outer part of the spiral, far away from the enemy’s attack in the inner spirals.
He thought of other missions. They were so…so commonplace, so routine. Why did he ever question their purposes? A lump formed in his throat. It came every time he imagined himself as the leader to defend Heaven. The others seemed to support him. But they said nothing about it.
Again, and again he asked why God would send…
Azarias, I will send Gabriel and Michael to Smyrna.
Azarias rose. He hurried to the others before his insecurity could catch up. They were quiet now. Since their collective vision, discussions and circumspection no longer filled the void between them. They had retreated into their personal deliberations.
Azarias rounded the corner. All eyes fell on him. Gabriel and Michael stood on a knoll, looking into the distant mesas. It was odd to see two or more angels coming together and not engaging in worship in song or service.57 Awkward defined this situation.
“My friends, it’s time.”
Gabriel turned immediately, his eyes rocketing wide with enthusiasm.
Michael remained steadfast, staring into the distance. Azarias walked up to his side.
Michael spoke without turning. “Fingers. Gripping fingers. I heard screams, the screams of countless angels. In front of me were fingers gripping onto a black rim. I was now only inches away. Who was it? Then I saw the eyes—the garnet-red, hateful, and unremorseful eyes. I choked on his foul odor. He clung to the rim, gripping it in terror and defiance.”
Michael turned to Azarias. His eyes were wet and swollen. “I was afraid.”
He turned back and looked away. “What does it all mean?”
Smyrna—the angels’ playground.
A magnificent collection of communities, flaunting glitz and excitement, stretched beyond the horizon in seven directions. At the intersection of this great metropolis stood the Paestra, a cinder cone rising sharply to five hundred meters high. Its girth at the rim measured fifteen-hundred meters.
Azarias watched as Gabriel and Michael landed in the airy, luxurious district. The structures lining the corridors paled compared to Al Birka; they were only one story, not two. Nor did they emit the aromatic scents of the Al Birkan edifices.
Yet, the buildings twinkled with a particular aesthetic charm. They did not have arches or pillars. Instead, the walls and roofs were not solid, but zigzagged with interlocking sticks, allowing for continuous viewing of angels as they conducted their missions within.
Azarias peered through several buildings. Their design raged with commotion, but organized commotion.
Michael and Gabriel darted towards the district center. Perhaps because the recreational port clamored with chatter, no one seemed to note the passing of the hurrying angels.
How contagious was this festive spirit to these two gregarious souls?
Azarias still struggled. Why didn’t the Lord advise him of the purpose of these missions? He wrestled with his diminished role. He realized from Gabriel’s Khasneh mission that God guided the angels by faith after they arrived, a tactic that made him even more insecure. When leadership is cut out of the chain of command, does a leader remain a reader?
Azarias wanted to know. He just had to know why his angels took every step. He requested no less during any of his previous missions. Has he always asked too much? Azarias’s mind zoomed to some of the more unusual adventures, like explaining the existence of a new type of creation. Matter. He didn’t know much about it but was burdened with telling a district council about God’s latest creation. He felt so unsure of himself, then, plus ignorant of the nature of matter itself. Yet he persevered.
He exhaled forcefully and broke his fruitless introspection. He redirected his focus to Gabriel and Michael as they meandered with no apparent objective.
“Lord,” he said with exasperation, “where are they going? Please give me a sign that…”
“Michael! Michael!” A voice boomed from behind.
Who’s that?
A seraph hurried toward them. He was shorter and narrower in girth than Michael and did not have the wingspan of Gabriel. His electrifying smile was only surpassed by his pure, white, shoulder-length hair.
“Michael, Mai Deus Exsisto vobis, May God be with you. You lost soul, what are you doing in Smyrna?”
Michael drew a breath. “Asmodeus. Mai Deus Exsisto vobis. What a surprise.”
Is this the sign? It must be. Maybe this angel was an ally? The Lord may be placing angels in our path to help us.
Asmodeus beamed, his bright, transparent, turquoise eyes boarded by a fringe of white hair. “I am representing my district to judge the tournament today. It is a very great honor.”
“Tournament?” Michael replied. He cocked his head to one side and looked to Gabrie
l.
Asmodeus shot them a look of amazement. “Do you mean…you are not here to watch?”
“No,” Michael responded, “I’ve heard of such games, but I’ve never participated in anything so formal.”
“Well, let me give you a little lesson, my friend.” Asmodeus cleared his voice and puffed up his chest. “As you know, the Lord arranges many angelic missions to pass through Smyrna so that angels can compete in joyful competition of their skills in His honor. The greatest of these games is the Angelus Pennae. It is a race among the speediest angels throughout Heaven.” He slipped his thumbs into his robe, “Well, I will be judging that race.”
Impressed, Michael turned to Gabriel who mirrored his excitement. “I would like to see that. How many angels enter the race?”
Azarias’s face hardened. Did the Lord tell Michael to watch the race? How will this impact their mission?
Asmodeus grabbed Michael’s arm. “It could be as few as twelve or as many as twenty competitors. The race is interesting in that the angels are guided by the Lord’s Spirit, so they have no idea where they are going. Each one has a different course and distance. It’s very unpredictable.”
He shook his head and smiled broadly. “The only control they have over themselves is speed. As the angels race, sometimes it is beneficial to go slower, and sometimes it is beneficial to go faster.”
Michael pressed his lips. “I don’t get it. How do they know where they are supposed to go?”
“Easy.” Asmodeus stood back and raised his wings and leaned forward as if he were racing. “Faith in the Lord. They have to trust in the course the Lord has set out for them.”
Michael touched his finger to his mouth. “But if the angels are traveling both within and outside Smyrna, how do the spectators watch the race? It seems once they disappear from view, the spectators are not able to see the race until the racers return to the Paestra.”
Asmodeus stepped forward, wagging his finger in Michael’s face. “Ah, that is the best part, Michael. The Lord provides each spectator with simultaneous views of each participant. In other words, the view you are seeing during a race is through the participant’s eyes, as if you were racing yourself. If there are twelve racers, it would be like you were experiencing twelve races, visually and emotionally, all at once. As a spectator, at times your emotions are so intense and varied, you are not sure which angel’s emotion you are experiencing.”
Asmodeus put his arm around Michael and ushered him toward the arena. “The result is you get a very, very minute taste of what the Lord simultaneously feels through all of His Creation. The Lord feels all of our feelings, emotions, and decisions at once. Likewise, in this race, the Lord allows you to experience the emotions of the racers. It is about as close as you can get to understanding how great, omnipresent, and all-powerful the Lord is.”
Azarias smothered his brooding. An angel could actually experience a sliver of the Lord’s consciousness by seeing and feeling the racers’ emotions?
Resting his head on one hand, Azarias settled in to puzzle out this news.
He wondered first: Can an angel, through his will, experience more than this? He asked this strategically—it wasn’t a rhetorical exercise. If so, then can this be the consciousness the enemy desired? This could be the feeling that Squatinidale described while watching the Great One as he examined Squatinidale and his emotions. Maybe the Great One has unraveled the mystery of how to connect to an angel’s soul. He had to find out more about this.
But how?
“When does the Angelus Pennae begin?” Gabriel asked.
Michael blushed. “Apologies for my manners. Asmodeus, this is my traveling companion, Gabriel.”
The two angels exchanged greetings.
“The Angelus Pennae starts now. Angels are already entering the Paestra as we speak. Please follow me. This will be an experience you will never forget.”
Azarias rubbed his eyes. He didn’t like involving any other angels in these missions since the Septemviri were now known to the enemy. He really didn’t know whom to trust.
* * *
55 Genesis 28:16
56 Matthew 7:7
57 Matthew 18:20
Chapter 10
Squatinidale examined the etching for a moment. He repeated it over and over, Seek and Ye Shall Find. How many angels had passed under it and not given it a second thought?
He had never seen it before. The Bibliotheca was so large, it would be easy to miss. The never-ending walls broadcast etchings throughout the research facility. He recalled one of his favorites: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through Him all things were made that has been made.58
This second person of the Holy Godhead, the Word, had never been seen by any angel he knew. But, through this etching, he knew that God’s Word was a person, and this person had created everything, including the angels. Squatinidale longed to meet Him. He wanted to ask Him why he was created in such a way. He wasn’t complaining; he just wanted to know why he was created short and stout, unlike most other angels. And then he wanted to say he was sorry; sorry for disappointing his Creator with his bad decisions and weak faith.
Squatinidale’s eyes teared. He pressed his lips together and looked up at the etching. It made him feel a little better, thinking this particular etching was a message for him from God.
He exhaled, closed his eyes for a moment, and reached for the garment.
Unfurling the cloak, he pushed his wings through the back slots, giving them freedom. He slid the hood over his ears and then forehead. Only his nose and chin were revealed now.
Stealing two steps, he buried his hands in the sleeves. Squatinidale interlaced his fingers to stifle their trembling.
He shuffled toward the Index with solemnity. He wanted to look deliberate, not timid.
The voices grew louder with each carefully laid step. Confidence propelled him toward the knowledgeable guide, but panic threatened to veer him off course.
It appeared the angels didn’t notice him. Each gathered around the large oval Index, concentrating on his or her personal message.
As he crept forward, however, something above attracted his eyes. High on the opposing wall was a large arched window. The lower part of the window was divided into stained crystal panes. He counted a collection of eighteen.
This was odd. He had never noticed them before.
The eighteen panes were stacked in three rows of six.
Squatinidale slowed his progression, eyes still fixed on the multicolored display. The figures on the glass were seraphim, each dressed in an ornate robe.
Who were these angels, and why were they portrayed up there?
Squatinidale’s eyes shifted from picture to picture, examining each carefully.
He paused at the fourth angel on the third row.
His focus narrowed. A numbness spread across his face as his legs buckled. The picture of the angel in that pane resembled his former friend, Abaddon.
No, that couldn’t be. He was just paranoid. Or was he?
He raised his gaze above the eighteen portraits to a circular pane within the arched window. He couldn’t identify the object etched in the glass. The enclave hid the top portion of the circle.
He redirected his attention toward the Index. But for some reason, the stained window continued to unnerve him. He tried to put it out of his mind.
Maybe it was the Abaddon likeness. It made him feel uneasy about the other seventeen, whoever they were.
If he could control his legs, he would flee. But he had to stay. The Lord’s Spirit led him here, and here he would seek an answer to the wretched feeling that consumed him. He was desperate. He had to find his way back to the Lord.
The music drew his mind back into the room. He stood within just
a few feet of other angels.
Squatinidale could see the hips of one rotate towards him. He stopped.
The angel stepped to the side, opening a space for Squatinidale to join them. Caution accompanied Squatinidale as he accepted and peered into the Index.
The Index always intrigued him, but this time he was too panicked to be intrigued. The large horizontal oval extended every bit of twenty-one feet. A thick seven-inch rail guarded it at waist height. The central bay consisted of a swirling blue-white mist rolling with soft fury.
He gazed directly into the misty caldron, looking neither to his left or right. He watched the clouds roll and knead. They drew him within. They surrounded him, hugged him, taking him within their arms. He was now walking in its soft vapors.
The mist snaked around his legs and up through his arms, wrapping itself around his neck, before descending to join other serpent-like fumes. Squatinidale’s breathing quickened. This process reminded him that the search for knowledge can be both exhilarating and mysterious.
Turning toward the left, he saw it, a bookshelf. Squatinidale approached, waving off the remaining mist. He so longed for this moment. He searched tirelessly for a way back to the Lord.
He now hovered just feet away from the bookshelf that held the answer.
Could this be the turning point of his whole existence?
Michael, Gabriel, and Asmodeus blended with thousands of angels rushing up the slope to the Paestra. Azarias could feel the electricity and the excitement of the great Smyrna event, and though he had reservations about the whole turn of events, he wished he were there to join in.
Michael stopped.
“Look, Gabriel.”
Gabriel turned and followed Michael’s gaze down to the three-foot, translucent slab between them. Embedded was a three-dimensional image of an angel. She appeared to be participating in a competition. The angel drew cheers from the spectators, who were also encapsulated in this miniature image. The competition seemed presented from various points of view, but there was no sound.
Angelic Wars- First Rebellion Page 10