Angelic Wars- First Rebellion
Page 11
Gabriel dropped to his hands and knees. “Wow.” He followed the action, laughing and cheering for the contestants.
Asmodeus stopped and turned. He rolled his eyes upward.
“P-please. Please, I must hurry.”
Michael, however, collapsed on all fours next to Gabriel and watched intently.
Asmodeus clutched both of their shoulders. “Alright, I’ll explain what you are looking at if you won’t detain me any longer.”
He took a breath. “Those are the participants of the activities that have and will take place in the Paestra. The images are interjected by the Lord’s Spirit because the Lord knows all past, present, and future. The angel participants displayed in the images don’t know they are being publicized until they enter the Paestra and are told so by the spectators who have seen their images in the slabs.”
Asmodeus yanked on their arms, dragging them to their destination. “It is quite comical to see an angel’s expression when their inner-most desire to compete is revealed by the roar of the crowd that summons them out to the arena crowd.”
Gabriel gazed over his shoulder. “But are they persuaded against their will?”
“No, Gabriel,” Asmodeus huffed. “The only angels displayed in the slabs are those who want to compete but are too humble to nominate themselves. So the Lord, who knows all their inner thoughts, makes it easier for them to compete by exposing them in these slabs. The competing angels do not see their own images, but all the spectators do. So, in effect, angels nominate them only by the participant’s desire to be nominated. It’s an excellent system.”
He shrugged, both clearly pleased by the system but annoyed with the delay. “But, please, let’s hurry, I cannot be late.”
Gabriel craned his neck back, locking eyes on the image for a few seconds longer as Asmodeus led them away.
Azarias rubbed his temples. What did Gabriel see that interested him?
The angels walked up the grade, hop-scotching the slabs in their path. Each displayed an angel performing in a competition. The steep grade increased as they reached the rim of the cone. Structures were poised against a backdrop of emptiness, giving the allusion that their pathway had disappeared into nothingness.
Asmodeus excused himself, disappearing over the horizon only several yards away.
The view, suddenly exposed by Michael and Gabriel following after, stunned Azarias. The sides of the great Paestra dropped sharply at about a forty-five-degree angle to the floor of an oval arena. Two hundred thousand angels ribbed the circular area, seated in the many rows.
The crowd buzzed with excitement, their roar deafening.
Gabriel and Michael remained standing on the rim of the capacity-filled Paestra.
Why would God place them in such a public place if their mission was secret? Maybe they should find a seat and blend into the crowd.
Azarias hoped that Gabriel and Michael would not get caught up in the spirit. They loved crowds and were very outgoing. They could easily succumb to the temptation to join others in the celebrations, delaying or even sabotaging their mission. On the other hand, God had chosen them for His purpose. He would not have chosen angels that would be careless enough to divulge their identities and mission.
Asmodeus walked to the center of the arena, his long, white hair visible even from where Azarias viewed him from the rim. He raised both hands, and the crowds obeyed with silence.
“My fellow angels. We have now come to the last and greatest of the Smyrna Tournament. The Angelus Pennae.”
Echoing cheers bounced from section to section.
Asmodeus stretched his hands to both sides. He pivoted to his right and then to his left. “May we have our first contestant?”
A roar germinated from a small section, high on the other side of the arena. The excitement rippled outward, consuming the entire arena.
Five angels elevated a sixth angel above their heads, catapulting their chosen one into the stadium’s center. The honored angel flew concentric circles as he approached: a pre-competition victory flight.
The jovial spirit seduced Azarias as the angel glided over Gabriel and Michael. The crowd chanted and clapped in a deafening rhythm. Their hero appeared ordinary—of average height and wing size. After circling three times, he landed.
He bore the face of a conqueror, a look of determination and purpose, as he strutted to Asmodeus.
Even though his height and girth were nothing impressive, his bronze-like face fascinated. It contained a fluid motion that streamed around his head and over his sharp nose; a unique, beautiful sight.
“Many of you know me,” he said as announcement. “I am Baal-Zebub of Smyrna.”
A cheer rumbled, shaking the foundation of the stadium. The energy seemed to shake even the silicium in which Azarias stood.
Baal-Zebub raised his hands and bowed.
Asmodeus motioned to the crowd. Orphan whistles chased each other as their echoes faded into unsuspecting ears. “May we have our second contestant?”
Again, anticipation showed its hand. Michael and Gabriel turned their heads from section to section looking for any unusual activity.
No, this couldn’t be.
Four pairs of arms appeared to grab Gabriel. They lifted him high above, perching him as the next chosen trophy.
Gabriel shot a sheepish grin at the laughing Michael. “I think I can win this one.”
“No.” Azarias cradled his head into his hands. “I knew it. How could they create such a fiasco?”
He then remembered Asmodeus explaining that the angels were chosen by the Lord. But the Lord would choose no one against their will. Therefore, Gabriel has the secret desire to compete.
Azarius raised his head.
But why, Gabriel? It compromised the covert nature of the operation.
The four angels launched Gabriel into the center of the arena.
The crowd was choked with silence.
Gabriel expanded his great wings. Thousands of angels gawked. It was truly a beautiful sight.
With uncommon finesse, he pitched and banked above the far reaches of the arena. Upon his second pass, he angled and sliced, cutting a pattern toward the arena center.
Azarias used the opportunity to observe the spectators. Was there something that could identify which angels are the rebellious ones? Yes, maybe this was why God chose Gabriel. How else could he observe two hundred thousand angels?
As Gabriel flew, Azarias watched. But any subversives seemed to escape his detection. What was he to look for?
Gabriel landed and strutted up to Asmodeus. He turned to the crowd. “I am Gabriel of Al Birka.”
The spectators cheered. Gabriel turned, throwing both hands into the air as if to embrace his new friends.
Asmodeus, apparently still stunned by Gabriel’s wing-span, regained his composure. “Oh, oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “May we have our third contestant?”
The crowd responded to the cue again, motioning in all directions. Heads wagged as the chatting increased with excitement. Asmodeus and Baal-Zebub peered into the stands while Gabriel looked down and shifted the silicium between his feet. He looked over-confident.
Time passed, and the crowd’s noise idled to a low roar. Gabriel lifted his eyebrows, just a little.
Asmodeus wiped his forehead. “Please, may we have our third contestant?”
A hollow silence replaced the once jubilant atmosphere.
Asmodeus’s eyes rocketed wide as he looked across the arena. The absence of activity seemed to burden him.
Finally, he stopped. He looked down and scratched the back of his neck.
He raised his head with a worried gaze. “Well, my fellow angels, it looks like this time, we have an Angelus Pennae consisting of only two participants. To my knowledge, this is the first time such a small number has competed.”
Baal-Zebub joined in the ovation. “Yes. Let us give thanks to the Lord for this competition.”
Azarias touched his lip. Why didn’t the contestants, like normal, number about a dozen? Why would such an unusual event occur when a contestant was intended to be covert?
Squatinidale could see now. He was no longer in the misty Index. He stared at the clear path to the bookshelf. He glided closer to the ledge. Just above him, a volume glowed. Maybe it was a beacon, a golden beacon of knowledge and peace that awaited his acceptance. He landed, reached out, and submitted to its offer.
Turning, he could see the entire Bibliotheca interior. The atmosphere cleared, setting him as only one of thousands of angels lingering among the vast bookshelves. He glanced to the sides to see if others were watching. Dozens of angels stood on the same level, about a hundred feet high, but were much too far away to notice him. The cloak worked. He had accomplished his stealthy plan.
Taking down the book, he examined its cover. It was blank. Rotating it, he held it up over his head. Squinting, he could see a glowing pale green page in the middle of the volume.
Balancing the binding in his hand, he turned to the indicated page. Both sides of the opened page shimmered in a beautiful fluorescent green.
Squatinidale peered close. There was movement. The pages swirled in a manner similar to the mist. It started from the center and moved clockwise outward.
“How beautiful, Lord. But, what does this tell me?”
A tiny dark spot pulsed in the middle. It seemed to appear and disappear with irregularity. Squatinidale hardened his stare.
Out of the corners and edges of the page, an array of black dots appeared, hundreds of them. Squatinidale did not interrupt his direct stare but watched through his peripheral vision.
The black dots shot into the middle dot, trailing lines behind them. They created an image similar to that of an eye’s iris, a disk with hundreds of spokes.
These spokes slowly rotated in a counter-clockwise fashion, spinning faster and faster.
And then he saw it.
The star again. The black star he saw in the amborlite when he was exiled. He wanted the euphoria to return, but it didn’t. This time dread filled his soul.
Like before, the star grew from the middle. It increased outward at a menacing speed. A cold chill spun from it. Unlike before, though, it frightened him. The chill turned to a tempest, blowing his caped hood onto his shoulders.
As the spinning increased, black, white, and red lines closed into the star, shrinking it. But unlike before, the three lines ignited. They burned the book with their tri-colors, sending colored smoke pouring out of the book. The smoke billowed and consumed the Bibliotheca and drifted among the vast book stacks, polluting the serenity.
Squatinidale gripped the book tighter, glancing from side to side. He imagined thousands of eyes spying on him from all directions through the darkening haze.
What was he to do? He froze, hoping the spectacle would stop.
He dug his fingers into the binding. “No, please. They’ll all know I’m different. They will all know it’s me, the branded one.”
The aberration spun faster. It wobbled and jerked back and forth.
He closed his eyes and pleaded with the Lord.
Breathing heavily, he opened them again. Now another image developed deep within the star, an irregular shape of gray.
Squatinidale gripped the corners of the book. His fingers didn’t obey his command to release.
The form took shape, with cheekbones protruding and a jaw hardening. The red, white, and black fires framed it, giving it a tri-colored glow.
Squatinidale gasped as words were sucked out of his mouth.
The Great Cherub.
* * *
58 John 1:1-3
Chapter 11
Asmodeus extended his arms to the thousands, who dripped with anticipation. “My fellow angels, the Smyrna Angelus Pennae has a rich tradition of great competitors. The Lord, in all His love for His creations, has provided us with this entertainment, this worship, and this exhibition of our gifts for the enjoyment of his angels. He determines the angels’ racecourses. Angels succeed based solely on their faith in the use of their speed. The winner is the angel that runs his course and returns to the Paestra first.”
Asmodeus paused and gave an approving look to the contestants. Baal-Zebub spread his wings, while Gabriel’s posture did not change. He stood there oblivious to the situation as if his mind was somewhere else.
“Now contestants, at the sound of the horns, the race will begin.”
Asmodeus raised his hand.
He slashed it down. Around the top perimeter of the arena, two hundred horn-bearing angels blew a mighty blast.
Immediately, both contestants leaped six feet and flew at one of the inner walls that encircled the arena. Azarias’s vision split into three parts as the Lord gave him the perspectives of the contestants.
The spectators cheered as the two angels barreled towards the barrier.
When the contestants flew within twenty-five feet of the wall, the spectators could feel Baal-Zebub’s anxiety level rising. As he sped closer and closer, it was all-consuming. The crowd shrieked in half-terror and half-excitement. Gabriel’s faith and determination, as he neared the wall, only stoked the spectators’ fire further.
When the two angels were only one millimeter away from the wall, Baal-Zebub quickly repositioned his wings and stopped abruptly. Gabriel, however, adjusted all six wings for maximum speed, positioning them well within the drag of the Lord’s Spirit. This decision pitched him into a perfect vertical ninety-degree angle, barely skimming the wall. Gabriel blasted straight out of the arena, high into the heavens, trailing vapor.
The crowd collectively gasped.
Some angels in the stands even lost their balance and tumbled down a few rows onto other angels.
Baal-Zebub, however, had regained his concentration. Following the Lord’s Spirit’s direction above the arena walls, he swooped down the side of the cone mountain, where he maneuvered between the structures among the many roads of Smyrna. He pivoted in and out between structures with matchless agility.
The crowd celebrated him with deafening screams.
Azarias, however, concentrated on Gabriel.
Gabriel flew at a high altitude, heading to Montagna, the broad cylinder-shaped outcropping whose shoulders blushed with lavender. The massive object sloped gently up to vertical cliffs surrounding a rounded apex.
Gabriel glided closer to its vertical slabs, diving into a strange hazy mist. The haze smelled of sweet lavender. Azarias could see that the purple haze originated as a type of amborlite that grew on the outcropping. This lavender amborlite hung over cornices and cliffs like fuchsia. It resembled waterfalls when flying by them at a high speed. Azarias had never seen it before and was surprised to see the amborlite shed its petals in the air.
A rumble of thunder came from high up the slopes, and the Lord spoke.
Gabriel, my speedy messenger, I clothe you in the purple of royalty and sorrow. You will stand in the presence of God and bring important news to those who will further the course of the Lord’s great plan. These words, proclaimed by you, will echo in the hearts of many for eternity. As the purple will be used to represent both royalty and sorrow, so will your messages.59
Azarias believed this a private message from the Lord, unheard by the spectators. He pondered the meaning, hoping Gabriel understood it better than he had.
Then the haze parted, and Gabriel slung back toward Smyrna.
Azarias redirected his focus on Baal-Zebub’s movements. The aggressive angel was having difficulty monitoring his speed through the stre
ets of Smyrna. When he accelerated, he slammed through the structures’ sticks, which slowed his advancement.
Baal-Zebub appeared to succumb to frustration. Then, without notice, the spectator viewing of Baal-Zebub fragmented and disappeared altogether.
Azarias drew back. Baal-Zebub had chosen not to fly using the Lord’s Spirit.
He was one of them.
Squatinidale could only force out one desperate whisper. “No.”
He wanted to look away, but the image drew him and disarmed him. The face sported a large nose underscored by whiskers. A bushy mane encircled the sleeping head, announcing peace, beauty, and tranquility, in contrast to the fiery borders illuminating it.
But Squatinidale rejected it all. No angel could produce such peace and pain. He tried to release the book again but instead clung uncontrollably tighter to it.
Then they opened. The eyes. Those garnet-red eyes opened, staring directly at him.
Squatinidale’s hands shook, then his arms, and finally his legs. The fear that he’d tried so hard to forget was back. But now he was looking directly into the source of the rebellion.
He forgot he wasn’t alone and screamed, “You have no control over me.”
Then the Great Cherub roared, sending shock waves throughout the Bibliotheca, knocking books off their shelves.
The fire grew hotter as he roared again. Squatinidale turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut as the fire crept to the book edges, burning his fingers.
“No.” He slammed the book shut. “No.”
Slamming the book onto the shelf, he ignited a shower of sparks that burst out across the room. The book bounced from the shelf onto the platform, falling over the edge to horrified angels below.
Squatinidale wrapped his arms around himself, letting out a loud cry as he doubled over. The book fluttered down below him trailing red, black, and white smoke until it hit the surface with a greater explosion.