* * *
The words had flown freely from him with fervor when he had uttered the prayer of salvation. God had answered his prayers and the demon had left him alone. It had been too late for his brother though. The archenemy had struck him down in a single fiery flash.
The Pilgrim saw the charred body of his brother and wept, precious tears dripping on the sand at his feet. He performed the rites according to the tradition as best as he could. There was no snow to cover the body of his brother, no ice water from a lake to rain him with and cleanse him of his sins. There was no thistle, no grub or bush to leave by his side in memory of the soil. It was a poor way to treat a brother well-met in the Land of God. But thus it had come to be, and it was his sin alone to carry to his own grave. When his time came, he would accept the rightful punishment of his God, and meet with his brother in the soil from which all life grew.
He dug a shallow grave, his hands unable to dig deeper into the wet sand far below. He thought that it would have to do. He covered him with the sand, and prayed that his soul would receive whatever it was due, whether it be punishment or praise. He was now in the hands of God, and that was the Pilgrim’s sole consolation in the matter.
He set out once again to reach the Forge of Stones, to end his pilgrimage and fulfill his mission and duties. He had one more reason now, and that was his brother’s death at the hands of the archenemy’s servant. He had known the danger’s that lay even in the Land of God. It was his duty to protect his care-free brother, and he had failed. He was not overcome with grief, but with righteous fury. If God willed it so, he would be ready to dispense his wrath to the minions of the archenemy. By blade, hand or prayer, he would shatter them like ice in the spring, that much and nothing less the oath on his brother’s grave demanded.
The Pilgrim walked in solitude, the sand and wind as ever his companions. The Land of God was silent around him, but it spoke to his very soul, demanding vengeance to be exacted. He trudged along over the sand unyielding, tenaciously leaving footmarks behind him only to be swept away by the desert breeze, slowly but surely. He lost track of time, never once looking up to the suns, their ride across the sky unimportant to him when his purpose was clearly visible in front of him.
As if they had not been there before to notice, he suddenly reached the high walls of the Garden that stretched in front of him as far as his eyes could see. He could see the spirals that tempted the dominion of the sky, the arches that rose as if in solemn prayer to God, and the Holy Gate beyond which his purpose lay. It had been a moment of excited relief for him. He remembered the preachings of the elders, and the Pilgrim who had come before him, and did as they had done; as so many others had done before them all, for innumerable springs and endless winters.
He touched the Gate uttering the mantra of God, making His sign and kneeling down as the rites required of him. But it was no mere tradition, he could see. God was there with him, alongside him, dousing him with lights of many colors. He listened to an answer to his incantations in the tongue of God, the sacred tongue that none of his people ever uttered, and never would lest they defile Him.
The Gate opened to allow him inside the Garden. In wonder and astonishment he saw the Chariot of God fly from the depths below and rise to meet him without a sound, in perfect grace and harmony. Tears of rapture ran down his cheeks while he praised his God and Lord, the deliverer of his people, Father to them all.
The Chariot moved with the speed of the wind and what he saw filled him with overpowering awe. The glory and majesty that the workings of his God radiated was an ineffable sight. He saw the beauty and he marveled at the size of it all. Through darkness came God’s light, through nothingness and chaos came shape and sight. His face shone from the light of God’s angels, performing their appointed tasks with harmony, diligence and piety. It was a sight that made him feel his life could not end until he had himself told of his pilgrimage to the next in line. He now understood why the pilgrimage mattered so to his people: He knew it was not for fear of losing the sacred stones, and the heat and light that shone with him.
These were God’s gifts, which he freely gave and could freely take away. But his greatest gift was his Garden, his Garden of wonders with which he filled a man’s soul with indomitable will and unbreakable spirit. What the Pilgrim felt could not be compared to any emotion he had experienced before. It was not pride, it was not honor. It was neither fervor or awe, or anything like that combined. It was love. The Garden filled a man’s soul with love, the love of God, the love of his people, so they may endure and live on to worship his name. ‘Glory be to God!’ shouted the Pilgrim while the Chariot carried him aloft now, passing over all of God’s wonders and heading to the heart of the Forge, where his pilgrimage would end and he would be given the honor of bringing back the Holy Stone.
He saw now that the Chariot was leading him to a tower that reached into the very ceiling itself, both ends lost in the interminable darkness above and below. Suddenly, the Chariot was dipping sharply below while he comfortably sat within, as if the invisible hand of God held him safely in place without fear of him ever falling off.
In a matter of moments, the Chariot came serenely to a stop, having brought him in front of a remarkable work of marble. It was delicate and exquisite, holy in its magnificence, adorned with the grace of God who surely must have wrought it himself. He knelt, bowing low so as to have his head touch the marble steps laid out before him, never speaking but simply offering his silent prayers.
The doors to the heart of the Forge were open. He could see a long corridor leading to a well-lit room, surely the Sacred Chamber. He could see little of the signs and markings that he had been told to expect, but he was safe in the knowledge that his God was leading his way, his angels all around him, his Chariot bringing him to the place God had ordained.
He passed under the arched doorway and made the sign of God. What he saw though unnerved him: the walls were made of wood and were embellished with monstrous carvings. Hideous forms seemed to leap at him, visions of demons jutting from every side. This was blasphemy! This was the work of the archenemy! It was clear as ice to him.
The thought came unbidden to his mind, springing up from the well of his soul.
‘This is the work of evil, and it shall burn.’
He could now hear a coarse voice, rising and falling like the tide. It was strident and harsh. It was the voice of a beast rather than the voice of a man. He rushed through the corridor, a prayer on his mouth and the shattered blade on his hand, ready to taste the blood of demons. Other sounds could be heard as well. He could hear other voices as he turned his brisk walk into a jog, a kind of struggling sound and a dull thud, not much unlike the sound of rock upon rock.
As the light grew more intense, his sight adjusted and he could see more clearly inside the room in front of him. He could see a demon of metal thrust against a wall and two men grappling, embraced in a vicious fight. What he saw filled him with fury, wrath, and the grace of God filled him with strength he had never felt before.
He saw the archenemy, trying to take the life of his brother whom he had buried himself in the sands. Though he seemed to be dressed in different clothes, he was alive and breathing! As if God had performed a miracle, his brother was fighting the archenemy. It was their destiny it seemed to bring him down forever. They had been chosen, and his brother was given life anew. He knew what he had to do now, his purpose clear as daylight. He ran as if a river of fire was fast behind his heels, and he could have sworn he could hear the voice of God urging him to avenge all the lives the beast before him had claimed.
He lunged with terrible might and purpose at the human form of the beast which could not fool a man of God. It seemed to have paid him no notice but his brother had somehow known, and had made a small step just in time for the Pilgrim’s blade to run the beast through and through its heart.
The beast was stunned in silence; its face became a mask of pain and horror, utter disbelief in the deep
blue of its eyes. It wore a man’s visage, a face that might have looked beautiful, even honorable if it had belonged to a brother. It was the face of a deceiver though and its life was now seeping away, its grasp on the Pilgrim’s brother fading quickly.
The archenemy collapsed on his feet, his eyes rolling backwards with only the white of his eyes visible. The Pilgrim had never thought he would be chosen to kill the archenemy, if that was what had happened. He had never even heard the wise elders mention such a thing. He just was; the archenemy simply existed to oppose God. Had he made an error? Was this not God’s will? He listened to his thoughts and was confounded. He followed the elders’ advice and remained true to his heart. He saw the archenemy before him, and killed him with one swift blow. He had not thought it possible, but God had allowed it. Indeed, perhaps God had led him here to confront his nemesis. It was why he had resurrected his brother, that’s all the Pilgrim could think of. It might have been a hubris, but perhaps he was after all God’s chosen champion. Perhaps the appointed hour had come. It had all happened so soon, merely moments had passed and it had all ended. He looked about him with a frightened expression of horror, shock and surprise on his brother’s face.
Then he saw the demon of metal, which seemed to exist still despite its master’s demise. His body tensed and tried to lunge at him, but his brother threw his hands at him and constrained him, shouting in his strange mother tongue, like when they had first met on the Path. As he was about to push him away, their eyes met, and he could see something flashing inside them. His hands went slack and he dropped his blade. He remembered the teachings: ‘At the appointed hour blood will be spilled, and tears will be shed. Weep no more, for the end will be nigh.’
The Pilgrim looked slackly at his brother. He made a motion with his hands to the Pilgrim to calm him down and make him sit. He pointed at the demon which seemed to be somehow in league with his brother, an unlikely ally or a renegade perhaps, he could not be sure. It looked as if it did not intend them any harm. That too, must have been God’s work he thought, and left it at that.
Suddenly while his brother kept repeating questions the Pilgrim could not understand, everything around them started trembling. Things fell from the wooden walls and crystal glass shattered. He could feel the rumble of the earth deep inside him, he could hear its death throes. The world was going to end, he knew. It had been the last Pilgrimage. Tears ran down his throat and cheeks, and a loud prayer formed on his lips.
The metal demon and his brother were frantically exchanging words. Fear had taken over them, the fear of death. They were trying to make him move, take him with them wherever they planned to escape. He shook his head rigorously, refusing such petty dishonor. They did not seem to understand there was no escape. He would finally meet God, having offered him as much of his life in service as he could. He would meet his father, and tell him of the last Pilgrimage. He would meet every soul of his people in the heavens, and tell them of his tale: tell them about the Forge of Stones.
As the earth shook with even more violence, pieces of the room around him started to fall off their place as if an invisible being of terrible might was picking them apart. In the distance he could see the demon and his brother running aimlessly out the corridor, trying vainly to save their lives, perhaps their souls too, if the demon had any. He shouted words of parting to his brother for whom God seemed to have many other wondrous plans: “Go in peace, brother. God and your brother, Algol al Azad, love you.”
As everything went dark right before it all finally crumbled on top of him, he saw the young man turn his head in his direction and shout something. It sounded like something his brother had told him in the desert. With the last of his breathes, and nothing but a numbing feel running down his spine to remind him he was barely alive, he tried to say the words himself:
“Thank.. you..”
Epilogue
Forge of Stones Page 44
