by T. M. Lakomy
Taking upon himself the holiest sacrament of his order, he was initiated and tasked with wielding the scepter of God’s right hand. Then he sent his spies to aid him in completing his design, and he vowed this time to constrain Estella, wherever she was, and cast upon her the yoke of the scepter for the greater good of humanity. He had no other choice but to force her to submit to the church and aid them in seeing the infernal game being played between the malignant forces. The human in him that loved her and overlooked her faults was weak, and he knew that would avail him naught in his dealings with her henceforth. Now the demon awoke within him and the demon’s desire to possess took over, and he promised himself that sooner or later he would have her back.
Oswald had retained the fierce tenacity shrouded within him, and he devised plans to elevate the sparks of holiness within the order and petition the heavens to send forth another light and incarnate another salvation. Endless nights he would wrestle within the shadows that sought to thwart his works and undo them, and he persevered. But he was sad for his friend the count, who pined for Estella. So he, too, exerted his efforts to track her down. He was of the mind that she was more of a weapon for evil than good, and culling her would relieve the world of a great impending threat. But no trace of her was ever seen in dreary London.
13
EARTH IS HIS FOOTSTOOL
The tyrant pulls the reins, its thralls work their mines
In the confines of your spirit corroding its integrity
Ubiquitous decaying of the sovereignty that declines
Slowly towards the full surrendering of authority
THE CARAVANS SHOOK, CREAKING WITH EVERY MOVEMENT AS THEY rattled hurriedly down the dirt pathways. The curtains were drawn shut, but the laughter of the travelers rippled through the forest and their mirth rebounded off the trees and glades, permeating the land with a merry echo. With their lutes and lyres they wove old songs, pouring their memories into them with a sweet melancholy. They were eternal travelers, and their blood grew uneasy if they took root anywhere for too long. They welcomed the road with unadulterated levity, as though greeting a returning lover.
But not everyone inside the caravans shared their merriment. Estella sat in the last, huddled beneath brightly colored cloths. She yawned indecorously, clutching a half empty wine bottle. Yet sometimes, despite her resentment, she hummed along to the tunes the Roma sang. But she kept her back to them, doing her best not to be drawn into their raucous banter.
Unseen by the merry men and women, the androgynous demon lounged luxuriously beside Estella, observing her with the habitual mischievous malice in his eyes. Every now and then he would dig his fingers into the thick mane of her hair, and with a sharp intake of breath she would recoil, but without moving away, as he toyed with the loose strands of her curls and whispered unctuously in her ear.
He had nothing to fear now, no banishment and no binding, for she had struck with him a desperate bargain. When he came to her in that timely moment of Elmer’s death, she had fled with him into the night, having nowhere to hide and none to offer her aid. And she trusted him, as his warnings had proved to be painfully accurate, and he aided her, unwilling that she be taken from him.
He lent her his shadow, and she fled beneath it to the confines of the kingdom, traveling by night and day, knowing the pursuit was hot after her. But they could not hope to find her, for every demon has his tricks, and he was particularly cunning. Through winding pathways of dreams he led her, promising her sanctuary in the neighboring Frankish kingdoms where others of his kind had their territories. In return, she kept him by her side. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have requested more. But he was no fool, and the prince of darkness no idle fallen angel, so together they fled and joined a caravan of Roma who, enamored with the jewels she offered them, gave her a place among them cheerfully.
“Don’t be so thankless, Tsura, I was not always blind,” the demon said smoothly, his voice melodious. So far he was having a very ineffective monologue with himself, but he persevered nonetheless, knowing her inability to withhold her quips for long. “I was once fair and beautiful, and I still have things to offer you, yes, things that count of yours can only dream of. Endless realms of pleasure . . .” His fingers provocatively snaked down her neck and the arch of her back, feeling the tension in her body. “You cannot recoil from me forever. After all, we have a long journey ahead of us, and I am all you have in this world. Now you can taste the loneliness I have endured for so long,” he whispered. Estella turned around to face him, a grimace of half concealed frustration on her face.
“I did not ask you to molest me while succoring me, you damaged devil,” she spat at him as the demon laughed heartily and disappeared. Estella sighed and turned on her back. Aching from the uncomfortable carriage and the weight of her worries, she soon fell into a drunken sleep.
AFTER A FEW uneventful weeks on the road where Estella grew to despise the normalcy of her companions’ lives, they finally arrived at the port. She found a place on a ship easily, offering her services as a maid and flashing her irresistible charm. Shrouded in a poor laborer’s clothing, Estella mounted the ship, hood pulled over her face and her gaze humbly downcast. Her sinister companion patrolled the ship, keeping guard and never quite leaving her side.
Unused as she was to work, she threw herself into the menial tasks given her without complaint. In the few hours of rest she had after her labors, the demon sought to entertain her with beautiful dreams he conjured for her; pale recollections of his heavenly sojourn and many wonders he wrought for her in her sleep, realms where he took her weary soul to ease her sorrow. Indeed the stairway of the angels, Jacob’s Ladder, they traveled to often. They could even ascend to the Third Heaven before the archangels sent fire to hurtle them down again like falling stars. He showed her also the roots of the tree of life, and every morning he erased her memory and left her clamoring with desire for more.
Across the seas they drifted, until they landed in Frankish lands. Estella stealthily purchased a horse from the port and a bag of provisions with plain, homespun clothing. Then she bid farewell to the Roma who had traveled with her on the same ship. Though she did not speak of her affairs, they knew that she was fleeing something. Each of the old women cast out their divination sticks, bones, and runes—each according to their trade—and read the omens of her future. But they could not hide their bewildered murmurs. Then they blessed her, sacrificing a rooster in her honor and covering her eyelids with its blood.
“May you walk unseen by the eyes of evil and may the moon in her tower be always your guide. And may the guardian that faithfully dogs your shadow be forever bound to you!” Then they were gone.
Estella, resigned to whatever doom lay ahead, sat astride her horse as the demon led it by its bridle into the wilderness. They followed the snaking light of the sun that filtered through the leaves and cast faint shadows before them. The trees murmured and moaned in the rustling wind, whispering their stories to unheeding ears. But they recognized the demon and greeted him as their own. The forest was unnaturally awake, its aged heart pulsating.
“The forest knows you . . . how?” Estella asked curiously as she hearkened to the heartbeat of the woods. The demon’s composure softened and he smiled, meeting her eyes tentatively.
“I was always here, since the Fall from heaven. I withdrew into these woods and taught them how to grow strong and vigorous against the ages. I fell here and hid away in shame for a long time.” He turned slightly to face her, his wholesome eye twinkling with remembrance. Estella snorted in disbelief.
“You? A demon gardener? A wood spirit?” she scoffed.
“You were not born too far from here yourself, Tsura,” he began tenderly. Estella felt a creeping sense of alarm. “I was lonely and alone and I sat often beneath the stars. Then one day I saw the gates of dawn open and your spirit emerge like a star cluster, a star with many spiky shards of brilliance. It had been ages since I had seen such loveliness fall int
o the clay vessels of mankind. So I left my solitary stair and followed it till I came across your family. I knew you would be born, and I waited to see what would become of you.” The demon halted suddenly, a shadow passing over his face. He stared at Estella keenly, caressing the horse’s neck with his whole unblemished eye fixated squarely on Estella’s face.
“I watched you, born into this cold world and mercilessly robbed of your parents, then cast into a life you did not choose. I was there all along, ensuring no harm came to you. I have been with you always, since the very start, and never left your side.” His eye burned with a malevolent fire and Estella felt an old fear creep up on her. It was the sentiment of something dreadful lurking in the shadows, waiting for you to fall asleep, then devour your life. Old childhood terrors she had long since dismissed. “Yes, I desired you, but if you saw in yourself what I see in you, then you would understand . . .” He moved closer to her and Estella yanked the bridle backwards, urging the horse away from him.
“But I do not desire you, and that is something you don’t accept, demon!” she replied, looking around her for a way to escape. But she knew she would soon be lost and he would follow her. She turned to face him with a stern countenance as he leaned against a tree, leering contentedly.
“I was not always blind, Tsura, not always deformed. And I was never a demon. You never asked me.” He beckoned to the horse who, against Estella’s urging, followed the demon. He took the bridle laughingly and led ahead. “You never asked me my name. That is what truly hurts me about you. I might have been kinder if you had asked.” He shot her a malignant glance and Estella shrugged, raising a careless brow.
“You might as well know, then. My true name is Antariel, and this place was once my home.” He paused, his delicate voice laden with sorrow. The lights that fell upon his face concealed his blindness and brought forth the delicate chiseled features of his face, rendering him almost wholesome. “I was part of the dancing choir before the throne of God many eons ago, and there I played my instrument and made music that filled the empty confines of space with echoing song. I saw the dreams of God, and I wrought them into song. I was proud and vain, and so soon I tuned my melodies to Lucifer’s. He had wielded a symphony of his own which was ever growing and expanding, and it was full with the promise of worlds of our own to rule.
“But that is not my tale. Lucifer enticed my wayward heart and I sang his visions into song and I wrought many dark evils I deemed to be fair. And for that in the Fall when Lucifer was hurled out, the angel ruling over me broke my voice. Now I cannot create anything, only watch the endless mists of creation and burn with longing. But that was not the only blow. I had once also danced before the immortal tree of life, whose limpid branches held the worlds together and whose heart was the core of the undying holy fire. The tree was wrought of an equal balance of mercy and might, the red and blue veins that nourish the womb of the universe and keep it alive. I was more attuned to might, and because my fire burned with it, Lucifer was able to entice me to use my spirit for his creations.
“When the last strands of God’s patience failed, and he cast his favorite child out of his presence, the punishing angels were sent after us and dealt us justice. Ariel, who stands before the throne with eyes that pierce beyond the coils of time, took a mighty spear and sliced my spirit. He sundered me in half, ripping out a fragment of my god spark. I was blinded, maimed, and diminished and became a thing of incongruity—damaged, voiceless, sightless, and forlorn.” Antariel hung his head, his hair draping across his face to conceal his expression. “I fell with scorched wings upon a foreign land and have hid myself here ever since, pleading for centuries for the cold gates of heaven to open and for mercy to find me again. But mercy loved me not, and I loved my pride even more.”
His voice broke, and Estella found herself grieving for Antariel. But though her initial disgust and dismay seeped out of her and dissipated, she couldn’t help but wonder how much of her sympathy was conjured by the remaining magical abilities of his compelling voice. Nonetheless, she felt her own sorrow, and she reflected on it and felt insignificant before the tale Antariel had revealed to her.
“I never knew and I should have known. I suppose I was afraid of you even before I knew you, as you dogged my shadow with lust. But why now, why tell me all this?” Estella asked. She felt conflicted. The decayed demon repulsed her, but fragments of his better self remained. Observing him with her usual shrewdness, she sought to unravel the strands of his thoughts, sifting for lies.
“I chose today because now that you finally need me, I do not feel like a beggar at your door demanding pity.” Antariel’s voice was bitter, and she shivered though the sun shone bright. “My spark is decaying each day, dying a silent death. Its cry is rending the very foundations of the seven skies. And yet I am fallen. God no longer turns his face upon me, and I’m left in the dark to wither. I was his child, and my spark is calling out to him still, guttering and deformed, languishing behind the laws of justice he erected for this world. I know he wants me home, and now I know you can help me.”
They had reached the deepest thicket of the woods and his shape shifted. “Behold me at the first hours of dawn when mercy opens the gates of heaven. Then you shall see who I truly am.”
AT NIGHT THEY encamped beneath a grove of trees. Estella gathered broken branches, and Antariel lit them with a careless flicker of thought. She had noticed a shift within his composure ever since he had revealed his tale to her. The change left her restless and uneasy. He was clearly conflicted within himself. One moment he was a lustful demon with baleful eyes, his glance devouring her thoughts and threatening to engulf her into his darkness, and the next he was serene and joyous, his deformities and androgyny faded and insignificant. Around the makeshift camp they sat in silence, lost in the mesmerizing dance the campfire brightly conjured. The tongues of flame took numerous shapes; red visages with fiery eyes and nimble limbs, and winged beasts belching forth sparks.
“The lower sparks of the heavenly fires—they were the fragmented glints that fled from the forges of the first angels and became your gods,” Antariel said. “They were mostly lonely, harmless fire spirits.” He smiled at her, and the battle that raged within him amplified as his troubled gaze found the fire. His face was a writhing mask of evil desires and fallen wants combined with a frail but resilient ember of light. “How did mankind become the apple of the great, all-seeing eye when you were mere pots of clay wrought with the fingers of clumsy demons?” He leaned in towards her across the fire, lust and desire mingling.
Estella, already on alert, backed away angrily and defiantly made a ward sign before him. Antariel hissed in fury and rose to his feet as Estella kicked mud into the fire and bolted, fleeing into the night, forsaking her horse and provisions. She delved into the dark, endless forest breathlessly with no direction in mind, seeking to place as much distance between them as she possibly could. She was sick of the events that had robbed her of her ability to choose her destiny, and she rejected the dismal emotional blackmail Antariel heaped upon her.
He did not follow her, but she did not look back to find out. She continued into the darkness, whispering incantations beneath her breath to shield herself from him. Short of breath and with an aching chest, her footsteps faltered as she realized she was utterly lost. The moonlight was choked by the heavy boughs, and the murmurs around her frightened her, and as she groped in the dark, she did not know which direction to take. Stumbling forward, she ran as far as she could, changing directions every now and then. Finally, shaking with the exertion of running, she set her back against a tree warily, listening for him intently.
Though she felt no pursuit, she knew such a lack of persistence was unlike him. She was sure he was merely biding his time, waiting for the right moment to smite her unawares. Then, as her doubts increased, the forest began to tremble and the leaves shook. A cold breeze rose through the trees, rustling and stirring all around her. A creeping sense of horror washed over h
er, and she dared not move.
Feeling that she would rather face her fears than let them consume her, she called into the night, “Antariel, where are you? Come face me!” She mustered her command to keep the tone of fear from tainting her voice. But there was no reply, only the unnerving sense of dread washing over her. “Antariel, reveal yourself! Let us part ways as friends at least.”
Then a glow kindled in the distance, alerting her eyes to his presence as he slunk gracefully like a prowler amid the trees, a halo of shining light around his head guiding his steps.
“I could smell the reek of fear for miles on end, dearest one, and my appetite is whetted . . . but why call me? I wait for the right time to find you. You cannot flee me once you’ve given in to fear. I know where you hide, for I know the exact pattern of your thoughts . . . I know you.” A malevolent ruthlessness burned within his single wholesome eye as he grinned hideously at her.
Estella knew the game well, and she fought the seeping fear that clamored at her senses, tugging at her to cede to it. Antariel eyed her intently, and the shroud he wove around her thickened and intensified. Through her fear, Estella sought the earliest memories of peace she had, the most steadfast moments, and her fleeting dreams of whirling stars and the benevolent watchfulness of her patron Mother Goddess.
“I do not have fear, I have my burning spirit to burn out the impure darkness that you are. You do not scare me, demon!” But there was truly fear within her, the fear of being alone in a world that had other cares than her, and numerous children to weep over apart from her. And worse still, the chafing knowledge that she was nothing more than another weapon picked up and hurled into battle, then discarded when no longer useful.