by Wendy Alec
‘The Keys of Death and the Grave are Yehovah’s – Release the righteous dead!’
* * *
Lucifer stared out through the jagged iron bars of his holding cell in the penitentiary, at the unending millions of freed captives that marched past in triumphal procession, led by Gabriel and his conquering armies. The crimson banners of the cross, the new emblem of the First Heaven, flew high, held by the newly released prisoners, the righteous dead.
Lucifer shielded his eyes from the fierce purple light that blazed intensely like the noonday sun, illuminating every shadowy recess of the shadowed regions of the underworld.
He lay sprawled on the floor, still dreadfully weakened from his wounds, his wrists and ankles manacled with the heavy iron fetters that had once chained Jesus. The manacles tore into his bruised flesh.
He was naked, his robes and crown stripped from him, leaving only a narrow loincloth. His neck was bandaged in the silk medicinal cloth of the ancient ones, dipped in myrrh.
Humiliated before his subjects and his armies ... and before his prisoners. His hands shook with rage; his nails bit deeply into the flesh of his palms. A hundred of Michael’s elite sentinels patrolled outside, guarding the cell.
A dark, shrunken apprentice youngling, freshly released from the sweltering underground laboratories of Lucifer’s crypts, ran past the cell, shrieking dark obscenities; Lucifer’s crown balanced awry on his head. A second youngling swaggered up and down outside the cell, enveloped in Lucifer’s oversize ceremonial robes, sneering at his shackled master.
Lucifer put his head to the bars. He watched, frozen, as the sons of Noah marched past, then Abraham, the prophet Daniel, and King David. A tall, lean form lingered outside his cell. Looking down on him.
Lucifer’s face contorted into an evil snarl. He raised himself on his elbows.
‘Be gone, Baptist,’ he hissed frenziedly.
The Baptist turned his head to Lucifer, his fierce eyes blazing with righteous judgement. ‘The King of Glory has trampled on death and hell. You are conquered, Satan.’
From the far side of the penitentiary, through the bars, he could see the leering, mocking faces of hell’s inmates. Their voices rose in derision and his cell filled with their strident disparaging shrieks of laughter as they ridiculed their impotent king. Powerless, Lucifer’s clasped his hands over his ears to block out the derisive voices. His body trembled violently in rage.
The cell door opened, and Lucifer looked out from under his matted hair to the tall imperial form who strode over to where he lay. ‘You trespass, Nazarene!’ he seethed, struggling to raise himself to a sitting position.
The Prince of Glory stood over the prince of the damned. Imperial. Majestic.
‘Son of Destruction...’ Jesus seized Lucifer fiercely by his hair and wrenched his face upward, His own countenance black as thunder. ‘I held out to you in the First Heaven the silver sceptre of My grace, but you would not touch it.’ His voice was soft but relentless. ‘Now I hold out the iron rod of My wrath.’
Lucifer stared into Jesus’ eyes, his own face contorted with fear and loathing. He cursed slowly and deliberately in a dark, guttural evil angelic tongue, then spat in Jesus’ face.
Jesus looked at him a long while, silent. Lucifer’s spittle ran down His cheek. Then He flung Lucifer to the floor before bending and writing in the black pitch dust of the cell floor in a strange angelic script, then strode out of the cell.
Lucifer clawed his way towards the writing. Letter by letter, he read, then placed his hands over his ears. Then screamed, a blood-chilling, spine-tingling scream that reverberated through hell’s deep dark recesses. ‘You will know my vengeance, Nazarene!’
Then he fell to the floor as one dead.
Michael waited outside the cell door.
‘You have My instruction.’ Jesus’ expression was fierce; gradually His eyes softened. ‘We have one final task.’ Jesus clasped Michael’s shoulder. ‘Meet Me at the Northern Gate of Tartarus.’
Michael looked at Jesus not daring to believe. Jesus held his gaze, then disappeared into the marching crowd.
Michael removed his helmet and entered the cell. Lucifer was huddled in the far corner, banging his head in rage against the bars.
‘He has stormed my kingdom,’ Lucifer snarled. Michael looked down at him with contempt.
‘The Race of Men no longer fear me,’ Lucifer wailed, his arms clutching his torso, rocking back and forth like one demented. ‘You chose your path, brother. You reap its rewards.’
‘My dominion is stormed ... my kingdom conquered.’ Lucifer whimpered.
Michael turned to Raphael, who stood awaiting his command.
‘Deliver him, chained, to Nisroc, the keeper of death,’ said Michael. ‘He is to be incarcerated in the black sepulchre until he is summoned to the grand councils of Yehovah in the First Heaven.’ Michael turned back to Lucifer. ‘To be bound over for the First Judgement.’
* * *
Michael descended down into the lower regions of the underworld, through the nether regions, past the penetentiaries, down deep beyond the very core of hell itself, until he entered the outer boundaries of the bottomless chasm located in the very deepest parts of hell, Tartarus, its location adjacent to the Lake of Fire. Unlisted in the tenets of the title deeds. Under Yehovah’s jurisdiction.
None of the Race of Men would ever enter these austere and forbidding gates. This was the prison of the damned angelic fallen host who had left their first estate and co-habited with human women aeons past in the days of Noah – and corrupted the Race of Men. Held in chains of darkness in pits of gloom a thousand leagues beneath the Abyss.
Until the judgement.
Ahead, through the terrible unremitting gloom, Michael discerned the hundred noble angelic legions of the First Heaven that guarded Tartarus and the Lake of Fire day and night under Uriel’s command. In the distance stood a tall imperial form, waiting outside the northern-most gate to the bottomless pits of gloom. The entrance to Tartarus – through the lowest shaft of the Abyss.
The black stone was riddled with orange cracks from the blazing furnace that raged a thousand leagues below them. Uriel stood silently at attention, his legion bowed before their King. Jesus nodded and Uriel walked over to the huge circular lock that had been carved out of the colossal granite boulder a mile wide. Reaching down, he placed the enormous key to the shaft of the Abyss into the lock. Ever so slowly, it started to turn. A hundred angelic warriors grabbed the iron rivets of the boulder, pitting their great strength against the cavernous door. Slowly it opened.
Billowing black smoke erupted from the shaft entrance of the blazing furnace. The warriors were momentarily knocked off their feet by the blast of heat from the flowing river of fire and lava – the molten core.
Gradually, the smoke from the twisting shaft thinned out. The walls of the caverns glowed red hot with deadly coals and the air reverberated with the clamouring screams of the incarcerated.
‘I curse Yehovah! I curse Christos!’ A thousand whispering, vile obscenities grew in intensity. ‘...curse His holy presence.’
Jesus raised His hand and immediately the blaspheming faded except for the sound of one lone voice from a thousand leagues below, faintly audible above the roar of the blazing furnace.
‘Christos!’ The tortured scream drew nearer, carried towards them on the smoke. ‘...have mercy on my tormented soul.’
Jesus walked over to the entrance until He stood directly in the path of the twisting blazing furnace. Untouched.
‘Christos...!’ The chilling scream pierced the air.
He closed His eyes.
‘Zadkiel!’ He cried, ‘The Son of Man commands you – Come forth!’
And so it was that day that I heard Lucifer’s agonized scream of defeat. The Son of God, the Son of Man, in all His glorious and terrible majesty – the eternal Christ, the Messiah – had entered his hellish domain and conquered his kingdom. It was a terrible, blood-curdling scream
. Lucifer understood his unparalleled folly: that he had been the pawn to crucify the Prince of Glory. That by the shedding of His undefiled blood, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, the Father incarnate made flesh, had opened a doorway to the Race of Men that they could be reconciled to the great Creator of their soul, Yehovah. Lucifer’s dominion had been stormed; his kingdom had been conquered – forever ... at Golgotha.
And so he screamed.
No one will ever know what was written in the dust that day.
No one will ever know what transpired in that moment between the Prince of Glory and the prince of the damned ... only that after it occurred, Lucifer harboured an insatiable vengeance against the Nazarene and the sons of the Race of Men.
Chapter Forty-one
Jotapa
The vast desert sky was still strangely crimson. Jotapa sat outside the tent, her face heavily veiled in mourning. Only her eyes, red and swollen from weeping, were visible.
Ayeshe placed a bowl of steaming lamb’s meat before her.
‘You must eat, princess,’ he said quietly.
Jotapa shook her head vehemently. She clutched Ayeshe’s hand in hers so tightly that her rings bit into his fingers. Wincing in pain, he very gently removed his hand and covered her tenderly with a soft blanket.
‘Please, princess,’ he pleaded, ‘eat.’
Jotapa waved him away.
‘We have no victory to tell my father of – just a brutal tale of the Hebrew’s torturous, bloody death. And worse, his tomb desecrated, his body stolen...’ She collapsed in desperate sobbing until her head finally dropped onto her chest, her eyes closed in exhaustion.
A strange breeze stirred. A gentle hand rested on her shoulder.
‘You must not grieve, princess.’
Jotapa stirred. A weary anger blazed in her bloodshot eyes.
‘He is dead. He whom I loved is dead, and you dare tell me not to grieve, Ayeshe.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You forget your place,’ she muttered. ‘My father shall hear of your indiscretion.’ And like a petulant child, she pulled the blankets up over her head, bursting again into a loud sobbing.
‘Jotapa.’ She froze under the blanket, staring curiously out with one eye at the stranger bending over her, His face covered in an Arab head-dress.
‘Daughter of Aretas, king of Arabia.’
Jotapa’s eyes widened in recognition as Jesus moved directly in front of her, His eyes radiant.
Tenderly, He removed her veil, picked up the bowl of lamb’s meat, and held it to her lips. She stared transfixed into His eyes. Her own never moved from His.
‘Eat, princess...’
He smiled. Then He removed his head-dress.
She stared at the beautiful countenance before her, spellbound by His beauty.
He was the same, the very same. She frowned. And yet, not the same at all.
She studied Him: His deep eyes with the long black lashes, the strong, noble features, the thick dark hair that fell in waves down past His strong shoulders. Yet something had changed irreversibly. Then she looked down at His hands, marred by two fresh gaping wounds. Her mind reeling in shock, again she reached for Him.
‘No, Jotapa. You cannot touch Me.’ He shook His head gently and moved back. ‘I must ascend to My Father and My God – to your Father and your God.’
Tears streamed down Jotapa’s soft, pale cheeks. ‘You go to see Your Father,’ she whispered.
Jesus nodded, tears of yearning streaming down His face, in this, His greatest hour after thirty-three years apart. Jotapa watched Him with infinite tenderness as He looked up at the night sky with intense desire. Suddenly, a violent desert storm blew up from nowhere and the stinging desert sands lashed fiercely against Jotapa’s cheeks. Clutching her blankets tightly to her, fighting against the violent winds, she struggled towards the entrance to the tent, where she turned.
Jesus stood in the midst of the raging storm, His face and robes lashed by the sand, staring upward at the open heavens, which parted before Him. Radiant with yearning.
Jotapa stared out from the safety of the tent entrance. She could swear that she had seen figures in the sky. She turned inside to call Ayeshe.
‘Ayeshe!’ she cried, then turned back.
The storm had stopped as suddenly as it began. Jesus had vanished.
‘He is gone to His Father, Ayeshe,’ she whispered in wonder.
She sighed, new hope illuminating her eyes. ‘And I go to mine!’
Chapter Forty-two
The Carnelian Chalice
Jether stood by the fountains in the Tower of Winds. The zephyrs blew his long, silvery hair and beard as he stared out at the vast armies of heaven, returning through the twelve entrances of the great pearl gates from their victory against Lucifer’s armies.
Gabriel strode through the gardens towards him, his face radiant.
‘Well done, noble Gabriel!’ Jether embraced him fiercely.
Gabriel bowed deeply before Jether.
‘I have escorted our King back to the First Heaven. He prepares to meet Yehovah. He bids you come to Him with the Carnelian Chalice.’ Tears rolled down Gabriel’s cheeks; he wiped them away with his hand uncaring.
‘He is in His garden.’
* * *
A cherub took Jether’s stallion while another ushered Jether into the thick, swirling white mists of the First Heaven’s Eden. Jether carried an enormous Carnelian Chalice in his hands. On its lid was engraved a simple golden cross.
He walked past the golden trees and through the narrow pearl arbour covered with pomegranate vines laden with lush silver fruits, breathing in the heady perfume of the magnificent hanging blossoms in the Gardens of Fragrance that exuded the aromas of frankincense and of spikenard. He trod over beds of gladioli and frangipani trees, across lawns of golden bulrushes and buttercups with fine crystal stamens in their centre towards the intense shafts of blinding crimson light radiating from far beyond. Across the vale, he came to an inconspicuous grotto at the very edge of the cliffs of Eden, surrounded by eight ancient olive trees.
He pushed open the simple wooden gate.
Standing in the centre of His garden, His face only faintly visible through the rising mists, stood Jesus. He was clothed in shining white garments; His gleaming hair fell past His shoulders.
Slowly He turned, and Jether fell to his knees, his arm shielding his face from the glorious white light emanating from the figure’s countenance. ‘Christos,’ Jether uttered in ecstasy.
Gradually, the white mists faded. Jether stared down at Jesus’ feet, the jagged wounds still fresh. ‘Christos...’ he whispered.
‘My task is accomplished.’ Jesus’ voice was soft. ‘I have paid the penalty for the Race of Men.’
He looked around at the great olive trees.
‘It was here that Lucifer kissed Me so many aeons past ... before his treason,’ He said softly. ‘It was fitting for what was to come.’
Jether nodded. ‘It was here that it began, when he was told of the advent of the Race of Men.’
Jesus gazed out as the shimmering rays settled to reveal, a hundred feet ahead, across a vast chasm, the magnificent Rubied Door, ablaze with light, embedded into the jacinth walls of the tower – the entrance to Yehovah’s throne room. He gazed out at the shimmering rainbow that rose over the crystal palace.
At length, Jesus spoke. ‘And it is here that it is completed.’
Jether knelt before Jesus, the Carnelian Chalice in his outstretched hand. ‘Every drop of blood that was spilt at Golgotha,’ Jether whispered in reverence. ‘The blood sacrifice for the souls of the Race of Men. Undefiled.’
Jesus took the chalice from him. ‘Rise, faithful servant of Yehovah.’
Jether rose to his feet, following Jesus’ gaze out towards the great Rubied Door. Slowly the colossal door opened, and with it the lightning and thunder grew in intensity, and a tempestuous wind blew.
‘You will be summoned, to the Great White Throne, in Eden, on the plains of the Great White
Poplars.’ Jesus raised the chalice in ecstasy, His eyes gleaming in adoration.
‘My Father awaits Me.’ He vanished into the white, rushing mists. Then He reappeared across the chasm and walked inside the Rubied Door.
Chapter Forty-three
Mourning
Aretas sat at his desk, his head in his hands. ‘So the reports are true,’ he mumbled. ‘He is dead.’
Jotapa knelt before him, her face pale. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she said softly. ‘It is true He died, but...’
Aretas ran his hands through his still thick, silvering hair. Wearily he looked up at Jotapa. Though she was dressed in her black mourning veils, her eyes shone with an ethereal glow.
Aretas’ leathery face was haggard; he must have been without sleep for days, Jotapa thought, and his eyes were strangely swollen. She wondered if he had been weeping.
‘I had...’ He struggled to speak, then swallowed hard. ‘I had hoped...’ His hand fell heavily on the table before him. ‘No matter ... It was a fool’s dream.’ Aretas raised his head. Suddenly, he seemed old ... much older than his sixty-seven years. Jotapa stared at him. Silent, her eyes wide with grief.
‘You did believe...,’ she murmured. She looked at her father in wonder.
‘I see now that I was foolish,’ Aretas murmured. ‘It was emotional ... an illusion.’ He looked in her eyes, grasping for hope. ‘You saw Him ... die.’
Jotapa nodded. ‘Yes, Papa, He died.’
‘But He lives.’
She reached out to Aretas, but he shook her off him, a terrible fury clouding his features.
‘Desperate tales!’
Jotapa drew her face close to his.
‘I saw Him, Father.’
Aretas’ countenance grew dark like thunder. Jotapa persisted.
‘Your friend Abgar, prince of Armenia, has written to Lord Tiberius saying that the Hebrew is risen, that He has appeared to many,’ she said, her face flushed with excitement.
