by Roy Bright
Isaac laughs and nudges Sarah in the back. “You’re such a goof at times.”
“What?” she replies, laughing. “I’m the fun one.”
He smiles at her. “Yes you are, like mother. And now I’m the stern one, like father. Funny how things have a way of turning around.”
She smiles back at him, bumping into him a little with her shoulder.
He stares at her for a while, then asks, “Do you believe?”
She turns to face him. “That you’re a grump, like father? Absolutely.” She giggles and sticks her tongue out at him.
Isaac rolls his eyes. “No, silly, do you believe that she is the Daughter of God?”
She stops and takes a moment to ponder his question. Isaac had always been the inquisitive one in the family, never satisfied to take people’s say-so as gospel, always feeling the need to find out the facts for himself. When they were much younger, he would question everything that father said, much to his annoyance, but in the end Isaac’s quest for knowledge would always prove to be based on sound reasoning that enabled him to make the right choices for the betterment of his character.
Her thoughts take her back to the past, growing up as the children of an Amish bishop. This presented an interesting childhood for herself, Isaac, and Abigail as their existence had sat deeper than most within the traditions of the Amish way of life. Their parents held no interest in the usual tourism attractions offered by the Lancaster County Amish, instead choosing to remain detached from such practices. Not that they condemned any of their brethren for doing so – quite the opposite in fact, as her father, Isiah Fisher, would be one of the first to encourage members of his flock to promote their ways. He believed in doing so, the English (a term used to describe any non-Amish speaking person) would have a better understanding of their lifestyle. As he was never a man to push his religion or beliefs onto another, he held strong sway with the notion that breaking down those barriers of misunderstanding through teaching would allow man to better appreciate his fellow man. It was such teachings that would often see them sit beside the fireplace at their mother’s feet, listening to him talk despite on many occasions having heard the very same sermon the day before.
Isaac always paid a great deal of attention to his father’s words, attempting to corral and manipulate them into as many different meanings as possible so that he could prepare differing scenarios of how they would affect him when his turn came to debate and discuss his intention to become a bishop, which was a notion he had confided in Sarah one day. To this end, their father’s philosophies had cascaded down with great passion to them, as did his notion of living life in the purest of ways, to not only please God but also to achieve total spiritual fulfillment. It was those philosophies that had driven his day-to-day practices of living their lives as simply as possible. The entire family had known no other way of life, had known no sin, and as such were immune to the influence of Lucifer on the day of the event. However, others around them were not so devout in their beliefs and sufficient doubt had existed to allow the beast into their hearts, forcing them to do the evil bidding that had followed. Changing into those terrifying creatures and tearing their brethren apart. The notion that many who had exhibited all the outward trappings of honest, decent folk could carry such darkness within them and succumb so easily to the Devil’s words had bothered Sarah on that day; bothered them all in fact, and the look upon their dying mother’s face as she failed to understand what was happening but willing them to get far away, would be burned forever in the Fisher children’s psyche. That was the day they learned that they were purer than most, that the demons could not see them.
“Sarah, are you with us, is everything all right?”
As the memory of her parent’s demise resurfaces, she turns her attention back to Isaac, grateful to him for bringing her out of the reverie she had been caught in. “Hmm? Sorry, I drifted for a second there.”
“Okay, well, do you believe?”
She smiles, takes a deep breath, and then nods. “Yes, yes I do believe that she is the daughter of God and I also believe that she will bring our world to peace and we may all have what is left of our lives back. So yes, dear brother, I do believe.”
He nods a couple of times then pushes back a few strands of her golden hair that have worked their way loose from behind her ear again. He smiles and cups her face. “My darling little sister, you are the strongest of us – always have and always will be.”
She smiles back, placing her hands over his.
He looks down at Abigail who is staring up at them both, her angelic face seeming to beam with wonder and uncertainty at the same time.
Sarah places a hand on his shoulder. “Do you think we should tell her about the relic?”
Twenty-Eight
The swords disappear and Judas leans over, looking into his empty hands. He then puts them on his knees and breathes out, hard.
From behind him a smiling Azazel appears.
“That was some battle, cursed one. Tell me Judas, how do you live with yourself having slaughtered so many innocents? Men, women, children…” he laughs, “Let’s not forget the children.”
He says nothing, instead stares into the ground, still bent over, hands on his knees. He is out of breath, but why? He hasn’t been breathless for centuries but here is, drawing up the air around him as if it was the last he would ever receive. He manages to gather himself and look up a little. “The Turks weren’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination. They conducted an evil war against religion. My religion. And those children were treated as men, drafter into their armies.”
Azazel raises an eyebrow and then a hand. “They were not evil, they were just scared – terrified of you. To them, Iscariot, you were the monster. Unable to die, unable to be hurt or remain cut. So tell me, how do you live with yourself?”
He stands erect, sweat dripping from his brow. He looks around, unable to focus, his eyes hazy. He knows it must have only been a few hours since he stepped into this place, but it feels much longer – much longer indeed. Disorientated, tired, and heartbroken, he sways on his feet. “I don’t.” He wipes the side of his mouth with the back of his right hand and takes a step back. “You don’t think I haven’t relived every single one of these moments a thousand times over, demon? You think the bullshit you are peddling here is unique?”
Azazel smiles as he stares at him. “Then why do your hands tremble so?” He pokes a crooked, talon-like finger at him.
Judas eyes him for a moment and then brings his hands up in front of his face. They shake, and he clenches them into fists, attempting to prevent them from doing so further. “This proves nothing,” he says, turning around and walking away.
“It proves that I am well inside your head, boy,” Azazel replies, flicking his fingers, and making a cigarette appear like a magician. He then clicks his left thumb and middle finger together and a flame sparks into life. He lights his cigarette.
Judas scoffs. “So corny.”
“Credit where credit is due though, Judas, I have never seen anyone last as long as this.” He takes another drag on his cigarette. “How long do you imagine we have been in here?”
He stares at him for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says, sighing, shaking his head and screwing up his face.
Azazel smiles and raises his cigarette to his mouth once again. He draws in deep and the end of the cigarette glows a fierce orange. He exhales slowly, blowing little smoke rings as he does. “Your time spent in here equates to a little over 300 years and counting.”
Judas frowns and winces as though the words were pain itself. It couldn’t be possible, could it? Could it be true that he spent so long in here, with painful memory upon memory, thrown at him over and over again? He shakes his head, looking down at the ground once more. “And out there – how long out there?”
“Two days, give or take.”
“Give or take? Either it is or it isn’t,” he says, looking up, his face contorting with anger.
“Two days. Almost.” Azazel smiles, revealing his many broken and jagged teeth. “You are resilient aren’t you, Iscariot?” His words carry a certain amount of pride within them as he moves toward him. “I have never seen so much in one person. Apart from your little sobbing fit at the start of all this, crying at the death of priests and children, you have proven to be a creature of immense strength.” He looks him up and down. “You think you’re ready for a shot at the title?”
Judas feels tired, as a mortal does, a sensation he has not felt for a very long time and it bothers him a great deal. And although he is fighting hard to maintain an air of strength around Azazel, his time within The Nether is taking its toll on him and he needs to be done with it as soon as possible.
He raises his hands to his face once more, clenching and unclenching them and closes his eyes, then breathes deep and slow. “We doing this unarmed or do I get a sword?”
Azazel smiles and exhales more smoke.
“Well?” Judas says, his agitation growing.
Azazel flicks his cigarette butt at him, and as it spins in the air it transforms into a sword of immense size.
The huge weapon almost catches him off-guard, forcing him to react quickly to avoid it striking him. He catches it in his right hand and holds it aloft, admiring it.
“Do you think you can use that?” Azazel says.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Oh, I know you think you are a swordsman of exceptional skill, but that item takes more than just skill to wield it. A sword like that will work hard to not be controlled, and its owner must work even harder to be allowed to even hold it.”
Judas ponders him for a moment then, smiling, turns the blade in his hand. It feels heavy, very heavy. A powerful man he may be but this weapon feels like nothing he has ever wielded before. He glances at Azazel. “This is you then, yeah?”
Azazel bursts into laughter. “Oh hell no, just a mere cheap imitation, a knock-off if you will, but a knock-off that still requires effort to use.” He takes off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. “No my dear friend, that is not me. This is.”
Azazel launches himself at Judas, roaring as he thunders toward him, transforming into the gigantic demon Abaddon, who Judas had battled in New York City.
Judas reacts, sidestepping the demon and bringing the massive sword up and around, his face contorted, focused on slamming the weapon into its head.
In what seems like an impossible maneuver, Abaddon blinks in and out of reality, twisting around and catching the blade in a huge clawed hand, then lifts the sword into the air with Judas still gripping onto it, his eyes narrow, burning with rage and the demon draws Judas to him, breathing into his face, his hot breath scalding and noxious.
Judas turns his head from side to side, trying to avoid the foul stench as it threatens to burn his eyes.
“What are you to do now, pathetic little monkey-man? You have no Jew bitch to help you this time.”
Holding his breath, Judas turns his head away from the disgusting odor and then draws in a welcome breath of fresh air. “You’re dead, demon. I killed you. You are not Abaddon.”
The demon laughs. “No, no I’m not. I am something much worse.”
He’s had enough. Judas raises his knees and plants his feet onto the demon’s chest then pushes off, powering himself and the sword out of its grip.
The sword slices clean through its claws and they fall to the ground. It laughs. Rising in intensity until it is piercing, shrill. There is no screaming from it, no torrents of abuse directed at him, warning of how it will tear him to pieces; just laughter.
The sound sickens Judas, swarming over and eating away at him, and he scrambles on all fours to get away from the beast, to get back on his feet. He does his best to ignore the laughter, to push it from his mind, and adopts a defensive posture, holding the sword out, pointed at Azazel.
The demon brings the clawless right hand up to his mouth and licks it. Black liquid jets out, rolling down his chin, and all the while he smiles at him, grinning from ear-to-ear. He ceases the disgusting act and then flicks his arm at Judas. “Ta-daa,” he says, as a new hand appears complete with a fresh set of razor-sharp appendages.
“Parlor tricks,” Judas blurts, unimpressed as he sidesteps to his right, working his way around Azazel in a tight circle and keeping the demon in his sights. Then, without warning, a blinding white light flashes in front of him and he feels pain, immense pain. Through the taste of blood and the smell of copper, the realization that he must have been punched comes to him – but how? The demon was much too far away for him not to have time to react to its swing. Is the damn thing that fast? He crashes into something solid, stumbling backward from the blow and the sound of smashing pottery fills his ears. He opens his eyes and scrambles around, pushing the jagged pieces away from him. He looks around and he knows where he is. His gaze swings to the far side of the room and he sees a man bound and gagged lying on the floor, staring at him. He now starts to see the other forms in the room but something is wrong. They don’t appear to be alive; they are static, trapped in the midst of eating, drinking, and laughing like a twisted and macabre waxwork. His eyes snap back to the man on the ground, to the motionless Jesus. He stands, using the sword as support and looks around the room. He looks down at the broken pottery at his feet and kicks a few shards, moving them out of his intended path. His gaze is held by two figures and he sneers. One is his uncle, who had deceived Judas into believing he was helping him with his plan to have Jesus rescued from the Romans and the other, the former Sanhedrin priest, Annas who had taken credit for the holy man’s capture.
They stand near the entrance to the room and seem to be talking to someone, although that person cannot be seen. He looks at his uncle’s hands, noticing a dagger that has all the hallmarks of being pressed into something, or someone, and then it dawns on him, the knife in his uncle’s hands is being dug into the back of the missing piece in the display – him. He is looking upon a memory; the moment his uncle and Annas forced him to pretend that he had betrayed Jesus while the man himself lay upon the floor, bound and gagged.
“You bastards,” Judas says, his face ablaze with anger, making his way over to his uncle. He moves his face closer to that of the man whom he has despised through the ages. The face that has haunted his dreams since that night. He sneers at him. “God, I hate you. I hate you with every fiber in my body, you traitorous motherfucker. I don’t care if the Council were the ones who inserted the idea into my head to betray that man over there; you betrayed your own kin and threatened to kill those dearest to me.” He leans even closer into his uncle’s frozen face. “I really hope you are down below, and burning for a fucking eterni—”
The right eye of his uncle flickers and stares at him.
Judas jerks backward, almost stumbling into the broken pottery that he had just hauled himself up out of moments before.
His uncle cackles and his head moves around, slow and steady. His body spasms into life, the movement jarring and broken, and he shudders a few times, moving the knife from its position in the back of the Judas that is not there, into the eyeline of the one standing in front of him. “Hiiiiiii,” he hisses, a devilish grin spread across his face. “It’s been so, so long. I hope you haven’t forgotten me? I haven’t forgotten you.” He reaches out to Judas who recoils, not wanting to be touched by him.
“You may not be real,” Judas says, raising his sword, “but killing you will feel great all the same. In fact, perfect.” He swings at him.
His demon uncle blocks the powerful swipe. “Would you look at that,” he says, mocking him, “it seems even my simple dagger can block your attacks.” He pushes forward, sending Judas stumbling back further. “Tell me, have the years been kind to you nephew?”
“I don’t want to engage in conversation with you, especially since you are nothing more than a projection, a false entity designed to catch me off-guard. You won’t succee—”
Before
he can finish his sentence his uncle is upon him, a cascading, relentless attack, forcing him to dodge and block at high speed. He attempts to regain his foothold in the fight by tumbling away from the demon but as he rises out of the roll he finds the man standing in front of him, covering the distance swifter than is able to, and the attack resumes. The velocity at which his uncle tears into him is so fierce that the inevitable happens and he sustains severe and deep slashes to his arms, chest, and leg that forces him to ground on bended knee. He breathes heavy and grits his teeth. He is annoyed that his exertion comes from pure defensive actions and not that of offensive. He looks up at his uncle who sneers down at him.
“I thought you were supposed to be one of Heaven’s finest, Judas? I thought they had chosen you as their savior, as the savior of mankind? Pathetic. You useless failure. I think I will kill you now and spare you any further embarrassment,” he sniggers.
Judas attempts to raise the sword, to defy him, but only succeeds in telling himself that the sword is too heavy and he struggles to maintain his grip. It’s then a thought occurs to him, and he struggles to grasp it and hold it in his mind. He snaps his attention to his uncle and he attempts a smile. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s as light as a feather, it’s as light as a feather. He whispers the words within his mind, convincing himself that what he says is the absolute truth, that the sword had always been that way, repeating the words over and over, willing them into reality.
His eyes snap open just as his uncle bears down on him, the dagger gripped tight in both hands, plunging toward him. He lifts the sword that is now as light as a feather, into the air with a simple flick of his wrist and buries it deep in his uncle’s chest.
The man does not scream or cry out, he just grins, wider than ever, and begins to chuckle.
Judas wastes no time getting to his feet. Removing the sword from his uncle’s chest, he spins to his right, and takes his head clean off; as he completes the move he sees that he is once again back in the cave.
