by Wendy Alec
Gabriel grasped for the tiny steel barb in Michael’s wrist and pulled it from his flesh, deliberately forcing Michael’s eyelids open with his free hand. Instantly, the effects of Nakan’s demon magic started to drain from Michael’s limbs. Gabriel exhaled in relief, gently pushing the thick blond hair matted with sweat away from Michael’s temple. The recovering Michael grinned sheepishly and saluted feebly from the chariot floor. ‘Close shave!’ he mouthed, then he stared frowning beyond Gabriel.
Gabriel turned to follow Michael’s gaze. Rakkon, Jatir and Obadiah led by an exhilarated Xacheriel on his flying white charger, were launching hundreds of flying iron cannonballs towards Hera and the flying demon witches. Directly behind the younglings a pack of drooling demon werewolves headed straight for the dramatically gesticulating Xacheriel. Xacheriel, blissfully unaware of the impending danger, was lambasting Jatir on his erroneous co-ordinate calculations. Gabriel saluted to Michael, then thundered back into the skies towards the ancient elder. Michael staggered to his feet, clasping the stallion’s reins. He glanced back to see the vast company of the Black Horde led by Dagon thundering on the horizon towards Raphael and Uriel’s battalions. He swiftly loosed his lead charger from the chariot and jumped astride its back, then thundered across the desert after the disappearing caravan.
Then Michael’s blood ran cold, for he sensed a terrible evil, a malevolent presence. He turned.
There, only three lengths behind, stampeding towards him astride his monstrous winged stallion, his broadsword lifted high, his six black seraph wings extended, raced the king of hell himself. Lucifer ... escorted by the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West.
Chapter Ten
Alexandria
The caravan travelled across the sweltering desert plains, the ancient granite walls of the Monastery of Archangels becoming visible far in the distance on the horizon. The walls were thirty-five metres tall and three metres thick, carved from the huge mountain behind the monastery fortress.
Mary gazed up towards the formidable stone monastery, then looked questioningly across at Aretas, who smiled gently. ‘The Monastery of Archangels,’ he said.
‘He will be safe there.’
* * *
Michael and Lucifer raced bareback on their stallions, thundering neck and neck across the desert. Overhead flew the thirteen Warlock Kings of the West, astride their monstrous dark winged Leviathan racing towards the Monastery of Archangels.
‘I shall yet see you to the Abyss Michael, my brother.’ Lucifer drove his rapier savagely into Michael’s wounded thigh tearing the wound freshly open. Michael clasped at his leg in agony, incensed, the blood spurting over his palm gushing down his thigh.
‘But I have come for a greater prize than Michael. I come for the supreme trophy...’ Lucifer spat. Michael grasped for his bayonet with his free hand.
‘Your supreme trophy awaits you, brother...’ Michael thrust the bayonet brutally straight towards Lucifer’s right shoulder. ‘In the Lake of Fire!’ Michael cried. The bayonet found its mark, ripping Lucifer’s flesh savagely. Lucifer erupted with an agonized roar. He glared at Michael venomously, then raised his javelin with his left hand. With one last desperate thrust, he savagely ripped Michael’s leg from thigh to knee, sending him hurtling violently onto the desert sands.
A sadistic smile of triumph spread across Lucifer’s face as he thundered past his maimed brother, catching up to the Warlock Kings. Michael pulled himself to his knees, blood pouring onto the sand, then staggered in agony to his feet and remounted his stallion. In the distance, he could see the caravan already drawing up outside the monastery gates.
* * *
The caravan drew up outside the formidable black iron gates of the Monastery of Archangels. At the crest of the gateway, a sign was engraved in gold Arabic script. The towering gates slowly swung open revealing ten priests of the ancient caste of the Archangels, dressed in simple cassocks who stood at the entrance. The great caravan began its entry through the towering iron gates.
Jether turned to face the desert.
Lucifer and his stallion were thundering towards Jether over the desert sands. Above him, the thirteen dread Warlock Kings of the West raced through the skies, their long black capes billowing, their pale green parchment like skin and hooked noses visible underneath their crimson hoods, as they rode their monstrous scaled dark-winged Leviathan. Searing crimson flames erupted from the monsters’ enormous jaws as their powerful black webbed seraphim wings beat the air in a frenzy.
Jether strode over to Mary, her attention riveted on the babe nestled in her arms. He lifted the infant from Mary, never taking his eyes off Lucifer and the approaching Warlock Kings. Removing the silver amulet from under his robe, he unclasped it, revealing the seventh stone. Deliberately, he raised it high in the direction of the oncoming Leviathan.
Fierce crimson lightnings forked from the stone towards the mammoth winged monsters, striking their flaming yellow eyes. The pack of Leviathan screamed in unison, a blood chilling eerie high-pitched screaming. Seething black smoke spewed from their nostrils, then one by one, the creatures plummeted like lead to the ground, hurling the Warlock Kings violently onto the desert sands.
‘No-o-o-o!’ Lucifer roared, lashing his stallion savagely with his razored cat-o’-nine-tails, drawing blood. The stallion extended its black wings, soaring into the skies over the great palms on the road to the monastery, directly towards Jether.
Jether removed the stone of fire from the amulet, his eyes, hard as iron, never leaving Lucifer. The blue stone glistened, the crimson flickering fire at its centre blazing fiercely through the sapphire.
‘The seal!’ Lucifer screamed, thrusting his barbed spurs deep into his stallion’s flanks.
Jether made a strange mark of a cross on the baby’s forehead with the blue stone of fire and, instantly, a blazing incandescent lightning radiated from the sapphire onto the infant’s forehead. The fire of Yehovah’s presence. Aretas and the monks fell prostrate.
Then monstrous, iridescent flames a league high leapt up, encircling the monastery walls, erupting in a ferocious firestorm that exploded through the desert skies engulfing the armies of hell and flinging Lucifer from his airborne steed down onto the desert floor. Michael flew through the skies, watching in wonder from his stallion, his savage wounds healing swiftly in the consuming fire.
Lucifer lay, gasping and winded, trembling in terror, shielding his eyes from the torrid conflagration of light, his skin blistering in the unrelenting, scorching inferno. The Warlock Kings’ frenzied screaming mingled with the demented cries of Lucifer’s ravaged fallen armies, echoing through the Egyptian skies.
With a mighty shudder, the gates closed.
* * *
Michael wrote at an old wooden desk in the monastery chamber. He was clothed in a simple white robe; his golden armour hung next to the cloister window. To his right lay an open missive bearing the black seal of Perdition. On it Michael wrote, ‘Yes, He is safe. Fled to Egypt, hidden safely in her bosom. Growing in stature and favour, both with Yehovah and with man.’
He stared out through the window onto the roof of the monastery, where the boy played under Mary’s watchful eye. Michael dipped the pen in the inkwell.
‘He wears the seal. You cannot touch Him, Lucifer – not until Christos places Himself into your hands...’
* * *
From the portico of the Black Palace, Lucifer gazed out at the Earth far in the distance. He crumpled Michael’s missive in his fist.
‘No matter, Michael,’ he breathed, his eyes gleaming with venom. ‘I will wait.’
And so Christos became one of the Race of Men.
Sealed by the seventh stone, protected from Lucifer’s unbridled wrath and Herod’s murderous schemings, he spent his days and nights sheltered under Egyptian skies in the Monastery of Archangels in Alexandria. And Michael and I and Jether, chief of the twenty-four heavenly elders, ministered to Him.
The great King of heaven.
/> Chapter Eleven
Monastery of Archangels
Later – AD 1
The young boy sat in the moonlit cupola on the monastery roof, intently carving a piece of wood. His fingers still bore the soft chubbiness of babyhood, but His strokes were deft and sure. His long, dark hair curled in tendrils around His gentle face. His eyes danced, mercurial as the changing hues of the Mediterranean. Michael and Gabriel stood on the far side of the roof, watching as He sang softly to himself.
‘It is almost time,’ said Michael.
Gabriel nodded gravely. ‘Joseph senses it. I meet with him at dawn.’
‘Aretas will be here by morning.’ Michael watched as Jesus walked from the cupola to the far edge of the monastery roof, His beautiful features bathed in the moonlight. He closed His eyes and threw His arms up to the night sky. An unearthly light encompassed Him and His face shone like burnished copper.
Gabriel looked on, mesmerized. ‘He talks with Yehovah.’
Looking down at his feet, Michael stared at the plane, mallet, measuring line, chalk, and several wooden carvings that lay on the flat roof. He knelt and picked up the beautifully carved objects one by one: a fish, a cup ... he stopped at a strange, crafted shape of a cross and stared up at Gabriel, unusually overcome with emotion.
‘I have seen it in my dreamings in aeons past,’ Gabriel bowed his head, ‘and now again for many nights.’
‘I have seen it also,’ Michael whispered. ‘After Lucifer’s banishment, I ventured to the Holy Mountain, to the seventh chamber. It was there I saw it.’ He clasped the cross fiercely.
‘They will do terrible things to Him. I cannot let Him be harmed!’
Ever so gently, Gabriel pried the cross from his grasp; he would not let Michael look away. ‘The penalty MUST be paid,’ he said.
Michael turned angrily to see Jesus looking at him with a terrible sorrow. The boy closed His eyes as though greatly pained.
‘Nay, My fierce and noble Michael – stay your sword.’ The words of Christos from the seventh chamber from aeons past echoed strangely in his ears.
‘There is much I must suffer still at the hands of the Race of Men. Let this one thing be your comfort in the moons ahead: that these are the wounds of love.’
Michael stood staring at the child; then, trembling, held out the wooden cross. Jesus reached out His small hand and took it from the strong, sinewed hand of the archangel. Michael wept.
* * *
King Aretas strode across the courtyard of the Monastery of Archangels, followed closely by his royal stewards, Jotapa, and her keepers. Aretas clasped Joseph’s shoulder.
‘You have food and water to last the journey. I have pressing matters to attend.’ He nodded in the direction of the monastery. ‘I will catch up with you this dusk and escort you to the borders of Judea myself with my royal guard. Herod is dead, but his son Archelaus is still to be reckoned with. A safe house in Nazareth is prepared for you. The child will be safe there for a season.’
Joseph gripped Aretas’ hand. ‘We are deeply indebted to you, Your Majesty. To the royal house of Aretas...’ Joseph broke off in mid sentence, and Aretas followed his gaze to Jotapa and Jesus, who stood staring at each other with extreme curiosity.
Mary observed the children tenderly from the centre of the small caravan. Jotapa curtsied, her unruly black curls falling across her face. The young Jesus grinned and, with the awkward fingers of a toddler, gently moved her hair away from her eyes. Aretas watched in amusement as Jotapa giggled bashfully, then ran towards her father.
She turned to stare back impishly in Jesus’ direction, then tripped over her robe, her hand landing heavily on a sharp rock that pierced straight through her palm. Jotapa stared at the blood running from the deep wound then started to scream hysterically. Aretas ran and instantly hoisted her to his chest, the blood from her palm flowing down his robes. Jesus walked towards them, grave, then reached out His hand and gently placed it over Jotapa’s palm. Instantly the blood dried up. Aretas frowned. Jotapa instantly quieted, staring at her palm transfixed, watching the skin growing over the wound until only the tiniest of scars remained.
Aretas turned her palm around, examining it in wonder. Jotapa buried her head in his chest. Aretas shook his head, rechecked her hand, then tenderly mussed Jotapa’s hair, kissed her fiercely on both cheeks, and handed her to her keeper. Immediately the young princess started to scream, this time in a fit of temper, flailing with her fists against the maidservant’s chest. Jesus watched her, amused at her display.
Aretas stared at her sternly as her keeper took her, still screaming, through the monastery doors; then he walked over to Jesus and knelt down on one knee, clasping the boy’s hand. ‘Thank You,’ he murmured.
Jesus stood silent. Earnest.
‘You will be safe now.’ Aretas looked tenderly into Jesus’ eyes.
Jesus nodded, His gaze intent on Aretas. He felt in the folds of His tunic and brought out the perfectly carved wooden cross. He pushed it with His chubby fingers into Aretas’ strong brown ones, then pointed to Aretas.
‘King Aretas...’ Then He pointed to Himself. ‘Jesus’ friend.’
Aretas clasped the three-year-old tightly to his chest, his eyes closed for a brief moment, unusually overcome by emotion. Then he swooped Jesus up into the air and sat Him directly in front of Mary on the white royal stallion. He signalled to Ayeshe.
‘Move!’ commanded Ayeshe, and the caravan instantly moved as one from the monastery gates.
Slowly Jether walked over to Aretas. He placed his hand gently on Aretas’ shoulder.
‘May the gods protect Him,’ murmured Aretas. He clasped the small wooden cross tightly in his hand. They stood in silence watching the caravan travel across the vast Egyptian desert.
Jether turned to the priests in the courtyard. ‘Seal the Monastery gates!’ he cried. ‘Until the time of His great return.’
And so the infant King returned to Nazareth, where His boyhood was spent in one of hundreds of white stone flat-roofed houses that lay glittering in the sunlight, nestled in the dusty, narrow streets of the little Eastern town.
His mornings were spent at His father, Joseph’s right hand, growing skilled in His vocation as a craftsmen in His carpenters trade, learning diligently as they reconstructed houses and carved ploughs and yokes, working with stone and wood. On occasion, beside Himself with excitement, He would accompany Joseph and His older cousins walking the dusty roads back and forth to join the labour pools in the bustling urban metropolis of Sepphoris, Herod Antipas’s ambitious new rebuilding project.
But much of His boyhood was filled with the simple dazzling sunlit Galilean afternoons that overflowed with the bright boyish, ringing laughter with His little band of friends as they ran scurrying through the emerald fields rich with oceans of wildflowers and orange and pomegranate blossoms.
And His nights were spent on the roof of the small stone house or wandering the silvery Galilean hillsides under the light of the eastern stars, communing with His Father, Yehovah.
And so the holy child grew, waxing strong in spirit, increasing in wisdom and stature and in favour with God and with man.
Preparing His heart...
Preparing His mind...
Preparing His soul...
...Preparing for His confrontation in the wilderness with His adversary, the prince of the damned.
Chapter Twelve
Meggido
AD 4
It was nearing dusk. The eight-year-old Jesus stopped to catch His breath, surveying the hills of Galilee to the north and the majestic snow-crowned Mount Hermon. Then He turned His gaze to the west, where the magnificent purple Mount Carmel rose, beyond which lay the fringe of silvery sand of the Great Sea.
To the east lay Tabor and the unending string of exotic caravans from Arabia, Africa and India, wending their way along the bustling eastern spice trade routes that linked Egypt with Syria.
But it was the great plain to the south that comma
nded the young boy’s full attention.
He clambered over the stones, up the rocky slopes of the Nazareth Ridge, His eyes filled with an ardent fervour, oblivious to the carpet of richly coloured flowers and sharp stones under His feet, His attention riveted on the monstrous magnificent valley that sprawled before Him.
Finally He stopped, gasping for breath, having reached the summit of the eastern slope, the soft breezes ruffling His long, dark curls, His bare feet sinking into the thyme and mountain flowers beneath Him. Staring.
Staring at the Great Battlefield of Israel ... Esdraelon, the Valley of Jezreel. Armageddon.
Far away in the distance, across the fertile valley, stood two imperial figures: Michael and Gabriel.
‘He sees the future,’ Gabriel whispered. ‘The final war...’
‘Armageddon.’
Jesus stared at the great plains before Him, now filled with a vast multitude, every nation represented in the violent, bloody panaroma before them: Chinese, Arab, European, American, African, Australian soldiers, their bloodthirsty cries of battle mingling with agonized screams of the dying. The Prince of Peace watched, pale and silent, as the Son of Perdition and the great kings of the earth gathered with their armies, a great and terrible multitude two hundred million strong ... waiting...
Huge hailstones fell from the skies onto the terrorized militia. The colossal teutonic plates of the earth shifted and the mountains shuddered as their foundations collapsed, levelling them – the Alps, Himalayas, Andes, all melting like wax. A thousand great and terrible whirlwinds rose from the south, merging with the colossal frenzied eyes of force five hurricanes, raging from the East and West Coasts of North America. Monsoons seethed from the Far East. Tsunamis erupted from ferocious seas, and now the moon turned to blood in the sky.
