by T. M. Lakomy
Antariel would not turn his face to the unforgiving heavens, nor with supplications eschew his pride and beg for succor, for he knew his fate was sealed. Silently, with streaming tears of regret and sorrow, he watched as his body slowly stiffened, and life ebbed away. And with his last moments, he bowed his head and prayed that however long he resided bound in rock, he would find the patience to wait still and not sell himself to darkness. The leaves of the trees loosened from their boughs and they twirled around his head like a mocking crown, and his sight began to fade and his hearing began to dull. Absorbed in his plight, he was oblivious to everything around him—the watchful gaze that waited patiently, and the footsteps gilded in light.
A flock of sheep emerged from the forest. They gathered around the marble figure of Antariel, chewing the grass and bleating. Then their shepherd came after them, pursuing their steps.
“What a wonder that is, by my soul! One would think an angel fell here,” said a toneless, mild voice.
Antariel, whose humbled pride had made him rancorous, replied, “A great curse befalls those that look at this statue. Look away simpleton, and spare yourself my wrath.”
“Is it so, my precious son?” asked the shepherd.
“I am cursed and my face is abhorred in heaven and on earth,” replied Antariel. “I am forsaken by my maker. Do you wish to inherit my punishment, too?”
“Let us see your face then, angel, and weigh you in our balance,” came the voice. Then the shepherd approached Antariel, and he could feel the auroral fire that emanated from him, his body and face wreathed in twirling flames. As he stood before Antariel, Antariel trembled, for he knew who this was, and shame enveloped him.
“My child, however long your purgatory is,” the shepherd said, “it is never long in the measurements of heaven. And you know not what you have set in motion here on earth. You salvaged a precious sheep of my flock, and though she knows it not, she is the jewel in the scepter of my Father’s hand. And you whom heaven rejects from their choir, I shall never chide, for I am also half human.”
Antariel’s heart was immovably cold, and through his anguish he cried out, “Is this the son of man and God that all heavens obey? Wherefore do you not dash the head of the serpent and terminate the abhorrent reign of evil that wages against us? Kill me and be done, strip me bare of my spark and send it howling to Gehenna. Or better still, feed it to Samael, or let Michael use it as a footstool and crush it beneath his celestial feet! For I am dead inside and out, and my heart bleeds not for heaven, neither does it twang for the master puppeteer who mocks you all. If you have come to bestow mercy on me and glean repentance, behold, I want nothing more than to be the wind. For then I shall be reunited with what I lost and had cherished the most.”
“I know your desire, Antariel,” said the shepherd compassionately, “and I know that I do not own your spark, for it is yours alone. But have I not forsaken the turning wheel of fortunes to hear your cause? I was there in the beginning when you were forged of light and innocence, and I was there when your melodious skills before the throne caught the eye of Lucifer.”
Antariel laughed balefully, and for a moment a shadow dimmed the shepherd’s light and it shuddered as if fanned with a ruthless gust of wind.
“I am cursed by everything your structures have erected. I am dispossessed,” said Antariel mournfully.
“Not all the sparks of the divine forge were clothed in fitting bodies,” the shepherd responded consolingly. “So it was with Tsura, Lucifer, you, and many others whose names are hidden from you. As Metatron was once a man with a spark that did not belong to a human body, so yours does not belong to the angelic order. The Tapestry of Creation weaves souls where they are bound in infinity, but when they shake the bondage of their fate they are often incarnated into the spheres where they believe they belong. I release you, Antariel, and by your true name I set you free! But once a holy decree has echoed in the heavens, I cannot revoke it. So I promise you this; you shall no longer be an angel, and your spark shall never be taken from you. But whoever claims you for himself, of all the races of creation, there your doom shall be bound. You shall retain your power but be bound in stone, and people far and wide shall revere the angelic statue in the woods, till time changes and you are reclaimed.”
The shepherd drew closer to Antariel and meekly knelt before him. Then to Antariel’s horror, he kissed his marble feet and prayed over them in hushed tones. Through the frozen flesh and bone Antariel could feel the holy warmth of his touch. But before he could respond, the sheep and shepherd had vanished into nothingness.
“Where is Tsura?” he called out dolefully to the empty grove. He was greeted with a resounding silence, and those were the last words he could utter again.
33
THE MUSIC BEFORE THE THRONE
Break the bones that fence me in, cut the cord of reason
Draw from the marrow the essence of relief
That whipped me with torment in every season
Making my memories of peace a passing shadow brief
THE STATUE BECAME KNOWN AS THE ANGEL’S DESCENT, AND EVEN the most crooked feared that place and dared not defile it. The eyes of the statue were carved of the finest marble, perhaps by the dexterous hands of a devout soul; for they were alive and sorrowful. Hearty young saplings grew around the statue, and roses the color of blood blossomed at its feet. Sometimes when the moon was ripe, the moaning woods would echo songs and laughter, clustering around him like distant sails on a forlorn horizon. Then the Elder Folk would sing on their silver flutes and their tender voices fill the air with fragrant beauty. Antariel’s cold heart would kindle briefly, for through the marble prison of his body, he could feel the shifting of the skies and the open dimensions of the Twilit worlds. Although the music sought to alleviate his heart, it merely compounded his sorrow. He yearned to speak and to see, and with each tremulous note he wept inwardly. When dawn came the musicians would depart, promising him company again, and he would be left to his solitude.
They never drew too close to him, for though they pitied him, they knew he was not of their kind and were not willing to meddle in heavenly matters. But they tried to assuage his sorrows in their own manner. It soon came to pass that curiosity seeped into the mind of a certain elf, and when her companions left at the break of dawn, she would tarry. Antariel knew she was there but could not acknowledge her. After many moons she would come close enough to sit behind him, playing her flute in the cold light of morning. Antariel’s heart was then fully awake, and he knew she was unraveling the weight of death that was binding him to slumber. Sluggish and aged, he would hark contentedly, relinquishing his bitterness for a while.
Soon his mind would be summoned awake in the morning, and he would feel her before him and he would rejoice. The tendrils of her song painted vivid images in his thoughts, and though he did not understand her words, he could see again. Then he remembered the earth and its beauty and dreamed of blue agate eyes. After a while she stopped her visits, and his now awake heart bled in agony. He waited despondently, and through his torment he felt even worse than before, till the fetters of his marble body became unbearable and he fought in vain, thrashing against them. Like someone buried alive, he screamed inwardly, and the lack of sight and sound magnified his madness, till it reached such peaks of fury that it darkened the land around him. But the madness soon cooled to regret and hate, and he cursed the fair folk and their minstrels, and his heart festered venom for the singer who had ignited his heart and then abandoned him.
But as time went on he began to strain his ears and listen to the sounds of life around him. Then he gave in to his plight and was thankful for every thought he was able to conceive. He grew to understand himself, and with the boundless time and solitude granted to him, he dwelt on happier times. Then one evening, he heard the lilting voice again calling in the distance. It was a tone of obdurate command, and it was mighty. He immediately became alert, as if whipped by a flail of thunder. Then the music
rose again, and it was neither beautiful nor sad but thunderous. She approached him then, and he felt awe and trepidation.
Then she lifted her arms and pulled from the ether the last shafts of sunlight, wringing them out before her in fiery sparks. Her song took on the tumult of the roaring seas and dashed the light apart into a multitude of pulsating stars that quivered in the cold air and spun. Then she reached out to the oncoming night and reaped its heavy essence, and she hurled it down with her commanding song to engulf the mass of light she created. There they mingled like fiery nebulae, spinning rapidly and dissolving into each other while the song reached a high crescendo. Then the darkness and light merged together, creating foreign and beautiful patterns. Her voice darkened and urgency seeped in, and she began the arduous task of weaving the light and dark together like rope. Her music was lighter now and chill as frost, one moment beseeching, another harsh and resolute.
Antariel was blind, but as her voice and deft fingers wove the braids of light, he saw in his mind’s eye the anchor of the universe. He felt the heavy waters of infinity roaring free in shoreless skies, and he felt its wakeful spirit and gleaned of its essence a name. Then the song heightened maddeningly. The stars revealed their faces and cast off the veil that shrouded their majesty, and they opened their eyes to gaze into space. All creation was ablaze and all light prevailed in that moment. The elf’s voice was now growing weary, so she hurried her notes, mingling it with the braided rope so that it became a red-hot chain of braided steel. Suddenly her voice fell silent, and everything was muted, holding its breath, waiting. She sighed, and then it was obvious to Antariel that her strength was spent. He knew not what to expect, for his angelic knowledge did not exceed the wisdom of the elves where it pertained to weaving magic. He felt suddenly weak and humble, and he hoped that she might offer him some kind words to soothe his exile.
He felt her footsteps approaching, and then he knew that she was before him. Indeed they were but a foot apart, and he felt the weight of her keen gaze. Then, without preamble, she hurled the chain rope at his face, and it struck his mouth with the fullness of its power. He felt a searing pain, as if he were made of flesh and it was melting. As he cried out in agony, he found his voice to be loud and true, though hoarse from disuse. Before he could brace himself for further blows, he was assaulted again. This time the chain struck his eyes and broke, melting into him and relieving his blindness. Though still bound by marble, he felt free, and he wept.
Through the tears he saw her then, tall of stature and with pale horns rising tall above her head. She had a golden smile that contained the balmy warmth of summer, and her dark lips were the color of ripe berries. Her long hair was like honey, braided with golden strands of yellow diamonds and flowers, and her face was oval with large, wide-set eyes the color of cerulean agates. Their hue was ever changing from lapis to aquamarine to chalcedony, and veins of gold interlaced her irises. On her high brow was a circlet of braided gold, holding back her bright hair, which cascaded past her full, round apple cheeks. Her silvery grey garments were of filmy taffeta and spangled with blue stones.
“It was never enough to break you free, but it was enough to shift your solitude, perhaps,” she said, her voice light like morning dew. She approached Antariel fearlessly, and he was startled to realize that she smelled like crushed roses and nectarine. He studied her as she examined him, and when he finally broke the silence he found that his voice quivered.
“You have surpassed yourself, great lady, for ever had I dreamed that I could speak again and put the rumblings of my heart into words. Or else regale my eyes with mundane sights again. Truly you have released me from the cruelest of bondages.”
“It took me many earthly moons to conceive of such a music that could rend the fetters that bound you. I sought long, listening for the whispers of the angels at dawn, and to the wardens of the tree of life in the evening.” She smiled now, and Antariel’s tumbling memories came rushing back like a broken dam.
“Alas!” he cried. “For my voice and sight have brought back to me pains I have sought to forget. I fear now that my heart may break beyond redemption.” She cocked her head to the side as if tasting his words. Then she shook her head disapprovingly.
“That too will pass,” she said, “like everything else, and soon you will learn to hush the baying dogs that your heart has engendered. Yet I do not know your story, though you and I have often kept each other company. I was stirred by pity to free you, but I hope I have not misplaced my judgment.” Antariel suddenly laughed merrily, as he could begin to taste his own melodious voice again.
“We have much to tell one another,” he said. “But let me begin with the start of all things, and be prepared to be weary, for I am old, perhaps older than you are, for I was once a singer before the divine choir of God, eons and eons ago.”
“Do tell me, for I am always in search of good tales,” she said with insouciance, seating herself cross-legged on the moss before him. And as night deepened and the stars burned frostily above, Antariel was truly alive again, and he began to weave his tale with the mastery of a fallen angel.
34
THE TRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS
For the wanderer astray, the hermit seeking the lost books
To him the bitter path of knowledge is truly germane
And to gaze at the grand canvas of depravity, the deified crooks
All the depth of duplicity of the celestial rulers most profane
OSWALD AND MIKHAIL DELVED DEEP INTO THE WOODS, ONE GENTLY leading the other. The sunlight cascaded its radiance upon them, and their voices were lost in the sporadic gusts of wind. It was a reprieve from the stark weather, as the conquering sun marched upon the grey heavens and poured its serene, all-encompassing light down on creation. In fact, this was the first day of sun since the demons had begun their reign of terror and disease. It was an omen from the imperial heavens, defiance against the impending reign of darkness. And for a while, the world opened its eyes and breathed in the whispers of deliverance and hope, vowing to wait, however long.
“This shall be the grand finality of my use, then,” said Oswald heavily. “I cannot surmount the dangers that have rained on us. I am in my dwindling days and alone. I will be lost, as a helpless spectator or a defanged hound cowering and waiting for death.”
Mikhail stopped abruptly and clasped Oswald’s shoulder. “You shall recount what you saw here and what you know, everything I told you and everything that shall come to pass, for there is still hope in you and in others. We need you more than ever as the Templars are relegated to the refuse of history. For only through your perseverance can there be hope. Do not falter now and do not fear. Though everything seems hopeless, night must often travel through the deepest recesses of hell before it can emerge and blow the horn for the gates of dawn to open. The Templars will be disbanded, and all our lore forgotten and burnt. That I see with clarity now. The queen shall bequeath to the world an evil that will seem fair and radiant—a sun king. And all shall love him at first, but when the illusion breaks they will be plunged into infinite darkness. They will need you. All rests upon your shoulders! That child will become a tyrant so abhorrent that the divine countenance will turn away from us, and in that darkness we will be doomed. Then you must find me! I will return, for I know the winding paths that lead back to these mortal shores. But I must be protected, or all shall perish.”
Oswald wept without restraint, silent and cold, and the sunlight dazzled his eyes. He stared at his friend as if he were a stranger.
“How shall we find you?” he choked. “And how will we keep the memory of you alive if they demonize you? How will we keep you safe? With what might shall we conquer the blight of time, heaping only misery on the people, so quick to forget and fast to look for a scapegoat?”
Mikhail smiled grimly, and in his grey eyes the tempests quieted and revealed an indomitable fire.
“Leave the comforts you know behind and go into hiding,” he said. “Form a core
of a trusted few, and teach them all you know. Send them out to gather likeminded spirits. Cleave to the weak and the disowned and to wise women and the Twilit people. Forgo pride and past grievances, and they shall keep their eyes everywhere for the auspicious time when I arrive. Keep far from the corrupt churches. Be the wandering fathers that offer shelter to those in need. Be the weavers of stories and keep the fire of memory burning.” Mikhail’s face was desolate, and he secretly grieved for the arduous burden he was laying upon his friend. He pulled away apologetically, and Oswald fell with him into a steady pace, delving deeper into the woods.
Soon they came to a clearing that opened up amid the leafy foliage. The clearing held a tremulous aura of magic that sent shivers down Oswald’s spine. Mikhail paused, for there he had met the elves and seen Tsura, though too briefly, and she had healed the last vestiges of his wounds. He smiled at Oswald and strode into the clearing.
“One thing remains unclear to me,” Oswald remarked. “Perhaps you forget that I am no longer youthful and time shall weather me, and hardship shorten my lifespan, and I shall die. I cannot shepherd these people for more than a few seasons. What then, Mikhail, what then of my successor? How can I trust the mission not to be lost?” A doubting frown covered his face.
Mikhail laughed warmly, but his eyes were filled with a steely determination. “You need not concern yourself with that for now, for it shall be between you and someone far greater than I. He will come to you in due time, and then all shall be clear to you.” They stood facing the dwindling sunlight. “Remember Tsura’s name also, for she is part of the grand design. Remember her kindly, she is innocent of the ill attributed to her. The sun is setting soon, and I feel my strength fading away. I will soon need to be laid to rest, and here is the spot.” Mikhail pointed earthwards to the point where he last felt Tsura’s presence.