|
| I am now an official employee of Jamba Juice  | | |
| For those who remember Pillars of Time, I'm redoing the first chapter
to explain some background plot before Amriel, Thesda, and Raven meet
each other. This is it.
Pillars of Time
Chapter 1
The all-enveloping vacuum of blackness seemed to choke out the breath right out of Amriel’s lungs.
Sheol’s Gate was the official name for this place, according to
the celestial reckoning. If a ‘place’ it could be called. In this
realm, not a sound pierced the thickness of its silence. And were it
not for his natural illuminating radiance, there would be no light as
well. Puncturing a needle-thin rift in the darkness with his own
candle-bright glow, the darkness gave way begrudgingly and quickly
swallowed up the delicate wake in his path. Deeper to the heart of the
cold sickness festering in the Abyss aeons away, the chilled air of a
remote domain whipped at his skin and robes silently. In spite of the
terrifying blanket of isolation, his face portrayed nothing other than
a vacant and indifferent stare, the same he wore for every mission. He
was an angel, a messenger. Through him reports were carried out and
received, and nothing more, for that was his purpose, his end. In that
respect, an engulfing sea of darkness meant nothing to him, other than
something between destinations.
Messenger angels were always
accused by their peers as being the reserved and reclusive Order.
Perhaps it was because they alone who spent the most time absent from
Heaven, delivering objectives that had beginnings and ends, so unlike
the timeless and eternal worship in the Highest Realm. Was it jealousy
that affected their temperament? Not an angel dared to display such a
rebellious trait, not since Lucifer. Still…
His thoughts trailed to the debriefing counsel that took him back
to the spectacular world rarely enjoyed by his kindred. It came as no
surprise that by the next day he would be gone again.
A message was to be delivered to a renegade enclave of angels
nested in the hinterlands between Heaven, Earth, and the Abyss. They
called themselves the Angels of the Twilight, an unheard of affiliation
of angels both fallen and faithful, a post-radical movement in the wake
of Lucifer’s Schism. The enclave wanted negotiation. A Messenger such
as himself could be just the catalyst for opening peace talks with the
Realm that would otherwise sentence them for eternal punishment.
As for what he himself thought of the matter, Amriel could neither
conjure up sympathy for their plight, nor take righteous delight in
their deserved damnation. Eloquently and straightforwardly, he conveyed
their idealistic but ill-fated dreams to the Counsels on one end, and
laid down the unwavering rigidity of the Law to the outlaws on the
other. Back and forth were sent the messages carried on his tongue,
growing impatience becoming evident in Heaven’s replies, and desperate
pleading beginning to replace the optimistic persuasion in the angels’
responses.
This current message, so dictated by the Elders of the Counsel,
would be their final one. It was an ultimatum. Peacefully submit, and
punishment may be withdrawn, on the honor of their wings. Persist in
belligerence, however, and a legion of scriptured warriors was ready to
be deployed. They do not carry the sword for nothing.
A speck of light shone in the distance. A dead star, its
smoldering ashes littered in the wastes of oblivion, had become the
haven for numerous roaming outcast spirits. Planets were forbidden for
inhabitation, a rule broken once and only once on the most special one
that Adonai called His own. The world of earth for a very short time
fostered refugee outcasts after the fall of man, who tainted its people
with their depravity. These perpetrators, who worsened their already
staggering penalty from Heaven, were taken to the lowest pits of the
Abyss for a premature entrance to their eventual destination. Not a
spirit dared settle down in a created world again.
This one star drifted in scattered pieces in a wide radius of
space, glimmering yellow like the hearth of a furnace in most places,
but cold and black in large splotches. The chilling vapor of the
environment had supercooled the once boiling surface of the star into a
porous and craggy shell of dust and flames. With some adaptations, a
demon could live here.
The star was called Wormwood by those who lived there.
Amriel gradually leveled his airborne body vertically, letting his
feet sink down and light softly upon the pointed brink of a cliff. His
widely curved wings, carrying him elegantly all the way down, drooped
detachedly upon landing and curved around his body, wrapping him in an
encasing white cloak that concealed all but the eyes-up of his face and
his feet. The inhabitants knew his coming by the familiar perched
presence on the cliff overlooking their abode. The Prophet, they
insisted on calling him. The name meant nothing to him.
A
delegation of servants had been sent ahead by the enclave awaiting his
arrival. Two panting demons arrived trudging along up the side of a
hill and stood before him. Since their decline, the fallen angels had
been forced to live in misery wherever they dwelled, suffering against
the natural forces of harsh environments like the humans they despised.
It was the price to pay for free will.
The first one bowed wearily, recovering his composure and speaking with royal flair.
“Blessings and greetings from the Court of the Lamb, where you are always welcome. The Lord Deacon awaits your audience.”
The second delegate wordlessly slipped in behind the first and
brought forth a bowl filled with water at the angel’s feet. Dousing a
towel in its cool water, the servant set to work washing Amriel’s feet.
When the work was finished, he wrung the towel dry, took up the bowl in
his arm, and stepped behind Amriel. The first servant beckoned with
humble outstretched arms to follow in step with him down the slope of
the mountain.
“As for myself, I am called Midulchy,” the first
servant began, “and my mute companion is the loyal Anathema. We are new
to the service, if it may seem so obvious. Please forgive us if our
inexperience upsets you.”
Amriel’s sharp, piercing eyes loomed from the dark caverns beneath
his brows,
“My orders are delivered regardless of whatever reception I
receive. Do not concern yourself with it.”
Midulchy continued to
smile stupidly for a moment, and then reverted his gaze back to the
trail ahead. The Prophet would be very direct, they told him, virtually
void of embellishments, concerned with whatever required his attention,
ignorant of all else. Any methods of converting him to their cause had
thus far failed, his predecessors warned him. He would only be the
relay of their own words, not their defendant in court. And the only
reason for his continued presence here was his calling; once all was
said and done here, with the Twilight Angels brought to justice, Amriel
would be off to the next delivered message, with the previous job
completely discarded out of his mind. Now was the time to plead their
case for the final time.
The trail, rugged and narrow, skirted down the mountainous slope.
Amriel treaded softly between them, every step sure and balanced, while
his eyes stared vacantly, almost blindly, straight ahead. Midulchy
wasted no opportunity to inform him of the sweeping landscapes
encompassing them, the beauty of wretchedness, the sweet luster of
ignorance. The sharply descending side of the mountain offered an
excellent view of the desolate prairies below, where the land bunched
together and folded over itself like a coiled rug, pockmarked and
swollen with pores, dipping and rising like a brown ocean frozen in
time. It was grotesque, lumpy, and smoldering with infernal heat
boiling miles and miles underneath, licking distantly at their feet.
Amriel knew this place would be up in flames eventually. The
residents of this speck of dust, like flies retreating from a pile of
waste set afire, would soon be evicted from their putrid paradise.
Celestial politics were coming to an end, and a War that would rock the
foundations of the universe was coming.
Down in a little crevice, lost
in the shadows of cascading folds of land, a gaping Mouth bawled open,
the trail leading like an elongated tongue into its cavernous throat.
"The Enclave." Midulchy whispered.
"Yes, it is familiar to me." Amriel turned and said.
| | |
| Yes, yes, I know my updates come around as frequently as Halley's Comet. I wrote this piece a while ago and recently revised it to the point where people could read it.
**************************
For all the setbacks of living in the first century, I would have liked to have been a contemporary of Jesus Christ. Meeting the Son of God in the flesh would far outweigh the inferior state of life back then. The Bible tells of Jesus’ words and actions, but it remains largely silent on his day-to-day living. On the surface, he was just an ordinary man living his life, obediently fulfilling the purposes he was sent for, and when those purposes were accomplished, he returned as mysteriously to heaven as he came. But I want to know what he did throughout his days, the more mundane aspects of his life, which, though they may not be as important as say the miracles he performed or messages he spoke, did reflect the kind of person he was. I mean, considering he’s living in the world he created, he should know best how to live in it, right? And I’m sure that in spite of the gruesome death he would eventually be called to undergo in our place, he enjoyed his life very much in the meanwhile. Why is it that he’s always portrayed so somber and melancholy, like a dusty statue churning out prim, holy statements of benediction? Yes, it’s true that at many times Jesus was sorrowful, but not in a stuffy or stoic sense. That’s the false impression people get when they see all these stiff portraits of him where you wonder if he can bend his legs without them snapping in two. If that’s the kind of Jesus the secular world sees Him as, it’s no wonder they want nothing to do with Him. No, Jesus is the source of all life, happiness and anything else we call good. Even if that love is expressed through agonizing sorrow, we should never mistake it for anything less. Jesus’ happiness and sadness equally portray the same unimaginable love for us. If he created laughter, wouldn’t he be expected to be laugh? If he allowed for crying, wouldn’t he be expected to weep? I am positive that he created an atmosphere when he entered a room.
I also think Jesus knew something we would now call martial arts. Do you remember the story where Jesus preached in a synagogue? The religious leaders thought he was a blasphemer and tried to haul him over a cliff. But as they tried to throw him over, they realized he had somehow broken free of their grasp and coolly walked away. One explanation is that he passed right through their bodies; you know, walking on water, walking through people, no difference. While I’m sure that’s possible, I think it was a simple evasion maneuver. Think about it. He created our bodies; he knows exactly how they move. If he felt so inclined, he could avoid being touched by naturally moving in a highly efficient manner that the human body is surprisingly capable of, and which an ordinary person is capable of too if they actually knew how to use their body right.
Now the reason the mundane parts of Jesus’ life aren’t recorded are probably because they would distract from the bigger picture: His divine purpose. Maybe he deliberately made sure his life would remain a mystery otherwise the scholars would have a field day analyzing all the little things he did, and pay no attention to the important part of his life. I think there’s truth to that, but there’s also something to be said about setting an example. As I said before, he knew the best way to live life, because he was the author of it. To actually be alive during the time of his ministry, and follow Jesus in the flesh around as his twelve disciples did would most absolutely teach you a thing or two about living life. It may be mundane, but it’d be worth it. However, for us modern day believers, our life with Jesus is just as real, but is not a physical relationship. We do not go following Jesus up and down Galilee, as a physical journey, but we follow him in our day to day lives, a spiritual journey. Both are just as real, but the second requires much more faith, a word I hear much and don’t fully understand. This is where I stand at the crossroads. Were this a physical journey, you’d find me selling my possessions and hiking with Jesus across Israel, facing the tests of what I can see and perceive. But this is a spiritual journey, which I understand to be deeper and more meaningful than the first, and ultimately a much more difficult endeavor. Where does this journey begin?
| | |
| Can I just say something? Keeping the person it refers to out of mind,
I really don't have a high appreciation for the word "God." We
designate larger words for much more tedious things, and I just think
the One responsible for the sum total of all of them should have a
better common name. Oh, yes, you can have a field day with your
innumerable variations of "El Shaddai," "Elohim," and "Eloheynu", but
when it comes to quick references, I have yet another reason to bash
the inscrutable English language. Just to think that a tree, a
diminutive sprout of green, beats "God" by a letter. Not to mention
that I do not like the way it is pronounced, so brash and monosyllabic,
limiting and lilted. No, we need a better name, and it'd better make
sense, so that the whole world would go, "Now why didn't we think of
that before? Oh yes, thank you Brian. We'll forget your great
accomplishment for humankind in less than a hundred years, but you're a
hero right now." Not that I want nor require such lofty prestige, but I
would do it out of good service for the practicality of the present and
for posterity. Yes, that will be my thankless charge, but it shall be
done in good faith, mark you. You should be thankful God makes people
like me to cut and trim the edges, so to speak, for it is quite vital
and most noticed when it is missing.
Apart from that, I have an immediate life to attend to. School has
ended and tomorrow I shall be going with my school for a day at the ice
rink. My face will inevitably become very familiar with the surface of
the icy floor. My friends tell me ice skating is one of the best ways
to develop strength in your ankles, and it takes more balance since all
your weight is resting on a narrow metal blade instead of wider wheels.
There'll be a lot more to learn, I'm sure, which will come only from
personal experence.
A bunch of my school friends are coming to my place on Friday for a
birthday hangout. Being seventeen does not altogether feel that much
different. It's not so pivotal a year as 18, but I like saying
seventeen better. "Sixteen" is too abrubt, "Seventeen" sounds more
casual and relaxed, but that's a slight nuance that would be too
confusing for you. It's also about time I get a license, and poke and
prod around for a summer job. Disposable income for the win!
| | |
| Pillars of Time, Chapter Two
A strong breeze stirred up the sands, blowing it into the traveler's
eyes. He lifted an arm to shield his face, muttering under his breath
about the sandstorms of late. His companion, a young girl looking about
teenaged, grasped the veil covering her eyes tighter. She was walking a
short distance behind him out of respect for their village tradition. A
woman must never supersede the position of a man was the principle that
the Bedouin village had imbedded into her heart and mind since
childhood. Even from a few feet away, the persistent rain of sand
nearly hid the traveler from her sight. She quickened her pace. If she
were separated from her master, she would surely die; if not from the
desert, than by thieves or another Bedouin tribe. The sandstorm died
down a bit and let her see her master now standing still, looking out
left and right as if to check for a sign of direction.
"Sand makes it hard to see where the sun is. Can't tell
where north is, I can't. fetch me water from the skins, Dharkah." The
traveler unveiled his white garment covering his head, revealing a
leathery face hardened by years in the desert climate and almost as
tanned as the earth itself. His arms were gaunt, nimbly moving around
like sticks as he clutched the goat wool skin and lifted it above his
head. Sweet precious water descended like a waterfall into his mouth as
he greedily consumed. Dharkah merely looked on. It was not her place to
object. She wore all black as custom dictated, the only part of her
showing through were the sunken eyes, behind a black veil, used to
looking down. There was a deep quality in them that made her master
uneasy to look into them, which was often why he ordered her to cover
them with a veil in public. In this case, it was simply necessary to
keep the sand out. The old man hurriedly covered his face again before
the sand found its way into the deep recesses of his eyes. Tapping his
stick audibly on a rock, he motioned them onwards.
From above, a faint thing passed them by, unseen by the
old traveler. In the thick whipping sand, it appeared to Dharkah like
something or someone moving around them, a shadow seen only by its
shape.
"Well, what is it?" the old man stopped when he realized she was not following him.
She tried to sound convincing, "Bandits? Animals? It did not make a sound."
With a brush of the hand, the traveler shook it off, "You
hear things. Too much. I do not like thinking about it. We will forget
about it." He spoke flatly.
"But, it could be danger, master. Surely we should take caution."
"If we could not see it then it could not see us. We will
forget about it." he dramatically waved his hand in a conclusive
gesture.
Dharka let her eyes sink to the ground as she was
accustomed to. She fell silent but peered about both ways when she
thought she saw it again. The traveler took no notice or pretended not
to. He continued hobbling on his stick and grunting with each step as
loudly as before.
"Come back, Thesda." The deep authoritative voice of Raven commanded. Within seconds the leopard angel reappeared.
"Well," said Amriel, "What is it you found out?"
"Two travelers, a man and a woman. Bedouins. In this sandstorm, they did not witness our descent."
"Good.: Raven said, "We still have our secrecy."
Amriel looked at him confused, "What is the reason for this? Why must we not be seen?"
"His Will must be followed. This is what I am hearing. For
now, we work unseen, not letting the right hand know what the left hand
is doing. We are forbidden to call upon our highest power unless in the
direst need. We also do not have permission for the mission to
challenge a fallen angel. Unless you would like to become one after we
report back."
"This has never happened before." Amriel said.
"Not likely to happen again either. We must work towards
our goals with utmost secrecy. This will be easier than it sounds. The
older traveler did not sense us. The younger one, having more intuitive
sense, felt us but did not know who we were. Good tidings."
The angels landed quietly on the side of a sand dune.
Amriel's white robe fluttered in the wind, changing its colors at a
hypnotic rate.
Thesda broke the silence, "It will bode well for us if we are seen then. What if we are?"
Raven spoke for the first time with uncertainty, "I do not
know, young one. You must let them know at least to Fear Not and then
retreat before they say anything. It will be worse still if any of us
talks further to them."
Thesda pondered over his words as they set to work. Amriel
began to sing in a subdued whisper as he clasped both hands to his
forehead. His voice rose and fell with the howling wind, which began to
noticeably quicken and swirl in huge gusts around them. In a few
minutes, it had formed an invisible barrier against the outside world,
and Thesda began to tremble.
"When I asked if I could journey with you, I did not know I traveled with two of the Unrent!"
"No! Do not call us that!" snapped Amriel. "In this realm,
we are simply able to contact the Lord of Heaven freely, as are its
inhabitants." He returned to singing, but Thesda continued to keep his
eye on him warily.
Raven, meanwhile, was now flapping his winds in suspended
flight above the earth, pounding the steep hill of sand into submission
with massive gusts of wind. A hollowed-out cave began to form,
burgeoning with every muscular thrust of Raven's wings. When it was
finished, a rough-hewn clearing delved deep inside. He turned his head
backward to regard the now doublestruck Thesda.
"Possibly the most physically tedious world yet," Raven
said, "The landscape isn't quite so...malleable as I thought."
Thesda gawked incredulously, peering cautiously into
the shadowy tunnel. Amriel finished his whispering melody with an
anxious clenching of his fists, then slowly opened them, pushing his
hands outward and letting them rest a moment over the land. Opening his
eyes halfway, he looked at them both as if from a great distance.
"It is purged, for a time, but the wards will not last
forever." Then he wordlessly disappeared into the enclave, accompanied
quickly by Raven. Thesda remained behind.
"There they go. My first expedition and I'm already
outclassed baggage." He spoke again in a low whisper, "I never remember
being able to think this way. Something about this world is different,
like Amriel was saying. Something is different." he repeated
that phrase to himself in a hushed whisper as plunged into the darkness
of the cave.
| | |
|
