by Anne Perry
The man stepped back, his face haggard but for two spots of burning color high on his lean cheeks.
Savixor turned to the people again. “Man is the most marvelous of all creatures; the fire of his mind, the boundlessness of his imagination, the excellence of his reason. Love of beauty, of order, and of wisdom are his birthright.” There was a murmur of assent as if the words had struck some chord of universal meaning. “Set man in his world and he will strive until he learns the workings of nature and the marvels of the land, the water, and the air, and the forms of life that have their being in each. He will discover the place and the purpose of all. He will chart the stars and learn the seasons, build cities and till the earth. But far more than that, he will create loveliness of his own. He will paint pictures, carve statues, sing songs, and write the dreams of his soul in words.” He flattened his hand across his chest in a deprecatory gesture. “He does not need gods!”
There was a momentary stillness in the chamber and then consternation in the air, a shivering like the silent breaking of icicles.
“He is sufficient to himself,” Savixor pronounced. “Leave him to pursue his own destiny. He will realize his full measure and come into his own.”
There was a stirring, a questioning in the faces of the throng. Some shone with approval, certainty bright in their eyes, but still no one spoke. The air hung thick, and silence beat on the ears. A slow smile spread over Savixor’s countenance.
Then another stepped forward, and for a moment Tathea’s heart lurched and the pulse in her throat almost suffocated her. It was Ishrafeli! She recognized the smooth sweep of black hair, the angle of his shoulder, the grace. He looked towards her as if he must surely see her at the door, listening uninvited to this great council. But his blazing eyes were blue, and in the shadows she might have been invisible to him. She was nothing, merely one figure among countless.
She forced herself to remain where she was, her fingers clenched on the door, unseen. He was so like Ishrafeli and yet unlike him. His bones were the same, as though in some unimaginable beginning they were cast from one mold, but time and passion had altered him. His winged brows were tighter, his vision not wide like Ishrafeli’s, but narrow, closed in by bounds of the spirit within. His mouth had no tenderness, no laughter, the hunger was all inward, not a longing to receive but a drive to devour. A nameless terror gripped Tathea.
“I am Asmodeus,” he said quietly, and the echoes of his voice trembled to the very furthest walls of the chamber and every figure stiffened, listening intently. “I am Asmodeus, and I have a plan that is better than Savixor’s. I will save every soul that is given me. Not one of all the millions shall be lost. Not one shall perish or fall into sin!”
The silence was so intense Tathea could hear her own breath like the rasping of a saw.
“I will create a world for man where he can live in peace and safety, not only of body but of spirit,” Asmodeus continued, his voice like dark honey. “I will not afflict him with harshness of climate, with fierce winters or summer droughts. Every season will come in its fullness and bring its fruit and its harvest.” There was a smile on his lips. “The sun shall not smite him nor the frost wither him. The rain shall not fail, nor shall flood consume his house or his goods.”
Now many people smiled and nodded in approval. There was a murmuring, a beginning as of movement, yet no one departed.
“The creatures shall be his servants and his friends, the beasts of the field shall obey him, and the fish of the sea shall fill his nets. The bees shall give him honey, and the cattle shall yield him milk, and the trees shall bear fruit, each in its turn. He will never taste the bitterness of failure; he will never be despised or rejected. He will never see darkness or know sin and the horror of its bondage—nor will he need repentance, because he has no knowledge of the law, so he cannot break it.
There was a sigh of breath through the hall like a summer breeze passing, faint and sweet, so light the cheek caught it rather than the ear.
Asmodeus knew it, and his smile widened.
“Man shall be born and grow to strength without pain or disease. His limbs shall be straight and strong, and his mind innocent. He will commit no ill.” He lifted his shoulders. “There will be none for him to commit! He will live from day to day into his maturity and then pass peacefully from mortality back into immortality again, as sinless as he came.” His head high, his face shining, Asmodeus turned to the sublime figure in the carved seat.
“I will bring back every soul as perfect as I receive it; therefore follow my plan and let me have dominion over them—and the glory!”
Silence hung in the air as though the world trembled. Tathea was cold to the bones of her body, and yet the sweat stood on her skin.
Then the light around Asmodeus dimmed and the last figure came forward. This was Ishrafeli. The recognition was instant, sweet, and sure, “without shadow, yet as she had never seen him before. His face was as calm as the dawn in a perfect sky. There was passion and faith and honor in it that made all else disappear from the heart. All memory of pain was washed away. All price became nothing.
“I am Ishrafeli,” his voice filled the silence and touched every soul, “and I speak not my own words, but those of our brother who has already redeemed the flesh of all worlds from the corruption of physical death.” He leaned forward, urgency in the lines of his body, his outstretched arms.
“But what of the death of the soul? Asmodeus would save man from the first death but only by denying him true life! Man without knowledge of good and evil is a child and in bondage to his ignorance. He will never choose wrongly because he will have no choice at all.” He spread his hands, beautiful, sensitive. “He will have neither sin nor virtue. There will be nothing for him to fear, so he will never be a coward. He will never flee from duty or pain, never betray rather than suffer, never lie to escape, never twist and deceive, never attack rather than wait to defend.”
There was pain in his face so raw it cut the heart. His voice was soft. “Neither will he ever master his own quaking flesh and sinking soul and face the night of his terror.”
The myriad faces watched him, white with anguish and the beginning of an understanding so beautiful it transfixed them.
Ishrafeli’s voice was unrelenting, filling every heart. “He will never mount the steps of sacrifice with trembling and sweat of fear and yet not flinch to pour out his own life that others may be preserved. He will not labor and toil and bleed to protect the vulnerable, secure justice, and see that truth is spoken aloud.
“He will not sin—he will have no need of repentance. Neither will he know how to humble himself before God his Father and plead to be forgiven.”
He turned further towards the great seat and the Man who sat motionlessly upon it. “He will not be happy to eat the bread of humility, to wipe out all his own dreams and imaginings, and allow God to create in him a new heart, wiser and gentler than before. And because he has not understood the utmost bitterness of sin, he will neither fear it nor flee from it. Nor will he understand how to forgive others. His heart will not ache with pity, nor his love flow outward over the distressed and those who mourn and come on bended knee in contrition.
“He will not know the humility of failure, nor the grace of gratitude, nor from whom his gifts have come. He will have no need to seek God or to learn who it is that loves him without condition and without end.
“His soul will become a crippled, shriveled thing, a promise unfulfilled.” His body expressed his pain, his devastating knowledge of loss. “He will know neither sorrow nor joy, neither darkness nor light; he will remain forever a child, imprisoned in eternal infancy.” Ishrafeli turned to the figure in the great chair, his voice a passionate plea.
“Give him choice! Let him see the pleasure and pain, good and evil. Teach him the law! If he understands it and turns his back to the light he will live in his own shadow. But if he learns to keep the law, however slow and faltering his steps, however often he needs to
repent—and repentance is sure, though his sins be scarlet and cry out to heaven—yet in bitterness and in pain his tears may wash them out, through God’s grace.”
He lifted his head, his eyes shining.
“Then at the last he will reach the fullness of his purpose and his creation and become whole, as he was born to be. The price has been paid! Let this be the plan: a world where every good and every evil is possible. Let man choose for himself, and the glory be thine.”
The great hall grew brighter and brighter till it shone with a perfect light. The Man of Holiness rose from His seat and stepped forward.
“Let man choose.” His words filled the air in an eternal benediction. “Prove him, that he may work his own salvation and inherit glory and dominion and everlasting joy, for this is indeed why he was born.”
Tathea was transfixed. This was the truth. This was what she had been searching for and paid such an agonizing price to know.
It was infinitely precious, beyond anything and everything else. All other good was encompassed within it.
Behind her the room seemed different. She was no longer sure which way she had come in. Huge torches burned in brackets high on the walls, shedding their light over tapestried hangings and carved tables. On one of them lay a book covered in beaten gold and set with chrysolite and pearls. She went to it, as if drawn by an unseen hand. Its beauty was marvelous, its workmanship unlike any she had seen. Its great hasp was set with a single star ruby. As her hands touched it, an ineffable sweetness ran through her. She hesitated only a moment, certain that the words in it, once known, could never be denied. Then she opened it and read:
“Child of God, if your hands have unloosed the hasp of this Book, then the intent of your heart is at last unmarred by cloud of vanity or deceit.
“Know this, that in the beginning, throughout the dark reaches of infinity, was the law by which every intelligence has its being and fulfills the measure of its creation.
“When God was yet a man like yourself, with all your frailties, your needs, and your ignorance, walking a perilous land as you do, even then was the law irrevocable.
“By obedience you may overcome all things, even the darkness within, which is the Great Enemy. The heart may be softened by pain and by yearning until love turns towards all creatures and nothing is cast away, nothing defiled by cruelty or indifference. The mind may be enlightened by understanding gained little by little through trial and labor and much hunger to perform great works. Courage will lift the fallen, make bearable the ache of many wounds, and guide your feet on the path when your eyes no longer see the light.
“When your spirit is harrowed by despair and all else fails you, compassion will magnify your soul until no glory is impossible.
“By such a path did God ascend unto holiness.
“But the law is unalterable and unto all. Though the tears of heaven wash away the fixed and the moving stars for you, though God has shed His blood to lave you clean, each act without love, each indifference, each betrayal robs you of that which you might have been. Eternity looks on while you climb the ladder towards the light, but neither God nor devil takes you a step up or down, only your own act.
“If it were not so, where would be your greatness at the last? Would God rob you of your soul’s joy? Of that day when you stand before Him in eternal life and say, not as a stranger but as a citizen, ‘I have walked the long path, I have conquered all things, thou hast opened the door for me and I have come home.’”
Tathea stared at the page until the words swam before her eyes. She had no need to read further. This was everything, all there was to seek or to find. She did not know how long or how steep the path would be, but to climb it was the only goal.
Gently, reluctantly, she closed the Book and lifted it. It was heavy but not beyond her ability to carry, and the metal was warm to the touch. She would take it back to the world, share with everyone this treasure, this key to all happiness.
She walked out of the chamber, the Book in her arms. Outside, beyond the door, the sky was pricked with the first stars as the purple of night overtook the heavens. Holding the Book tightly, she went out through the colonnades and down the shallow marble steps, pale in the limpid light. Below her the skiff rested against the lowest stair.
Ishrafeli was already there, standing silently, waiting for her.
The words she had planned died on her lips, all the questions, the explanations slipped from her. Even the bruising fact that she loved him found no voice.
“So you have the truth,” he said gently.
“Yes.”
“And you have taken the Book.”
Suddenly her breath hurt and a chill spread through her. “Yes ...”
He came to her, putting his hands over hers. “You have made your choice. Now you must abide by it.”
“It is the truth. I know that.” She did not elaborate. “I must take it back to the world. I must share it.”
The barest smile touched his lips. “I know. But it is heavier than you can dream, heavier than you can bear alone.”
“But you will come with me!”
His hands tightened over hers, warm and strong. “I cannot. You have chosen truth. You have taken the Word from Heaven to give it to men. I brought you here because above all else you wanted to come, enough to pay whatever price was asked. Now you must go back to the world with all its risks, its pain and its glory. But my time is not yet.”
She asked the question because it was beating in her mind, crying to be answered. “Who are you?” Her voice was no more than a whisper in the enormous cavern of the sky.
“I am an angel. Did you not know that?”
“Then can I not stay here with you?” It was a cry torn from the heart.
He smiled, a great tenderness in his face, and perhaps for an instant a reflection of the same searing loneliness that swept over her. “You know you cannot. You have taken the Light of Heaven.” Slowly he let go of her hands and stepped back.
Some faint and fearful glimpse of what she had done lit her soul. He saw it in her eyes. He held out his hand again. “Come,” he whispered.
Silently she followed him back up the steps, then walked beside him through a different hall, still clutching the Book to her breast. At the far end a door opened into a room whose radiance was pure beyond all power to imagine and the air held a sweetness which was the breath of all life.
In the center stood one Man alone, and in His face was the love that has created worlds, and before whose beauty the stars tremble.
Tathea bowed her head and sank to her knees, her spirit filled with light. She felt the touch of hands upon her head and the peace of God rested within her, and with it came the certainty that never again, through all time, need she be alone or afraid.
His words filled her ears and were written on her soul: “I bless you to go forth in the world and teach My Word to all the people of the earth, that they may know they are My children and may become even as I am, and inherit everlasting dominion and glory and joy. But they are agents unto themselves, and in all things they must choose.
“I have loved you from the beginning and shall love you without end. I shall walk beside you. My arms shall encircle you and my hands bear you up. I cannot protect you from pain, because only through hurt and labor will you grow, but your name is before My eyes, and I shall not forget you, nor shall I leave you alone.
“Rise now, my beloved, and continue your journey.”
The touch vanished from her head and she knew He had gone from the room. She waited a long time. Then at last she stood up, still holding the Book, and made her way through the door and down some steps to a grassy sward.
A man stood before her, and this time she knew instantly he was not Ishrafeli, for all that he resembled him. He was cloaked in the colors of the night, blues and violets shot with sudden sparks like the light of forgotten stars. It was Asmodeus, the Great Enemy. He looked at the Book in her arms, and his eyes glittered with a hatred old
er than time.
“So you know truth from falsehood,” he said slowly. “But you will not win. You have neither the strength nor the courage. You will not endure. I will rob you of that which is dearer than you know. I will wound you where you will not heal. You think love will protect you?” He laughed—a terrible sound, like the end of all light and life.
Ishrafeli came down the steps slowly and stood on the grass a little distance from Tathea.
“Love is enough,” he answered. “You do not believe because you do not understand it.”
Asmodeus swung round to face him. “So you would fight with me? Over this Book, this woman?” His lips curled. “She is nothing! As frail as grass, here a moment and gone again, withered by the first blast of reality. But so be it! We will fight with real weapons, the eternal weapons of light and darkness!” He flung his arms wide, fingers stretched skyward, and opened his throat in a wordless, terrible scream.
The light was wan across the sky, the air filled with a glow like wine, and into it came a winged creature scaled in shining gold, its head like a man’s, its body that of a lion, its tail barbed with quills, the tip the sting of a scorpion. It was huge, bigger than a score of men, and it glittered as if forged in the fires of the dying sun. Tathea felt the heat of it burn her skin.
It pranced upon the ground, its eyes bold, staring at them one by one. Then its gaze rested on Ishrafeli as if it knew its master’s prey. It shot its golden quills like arrows, spearing the ground, leaving the darts embedded where they struck.
Tathea was helpless. She knew what it was, the Golden Manticore, the spiritual creature of pride. The sin was as old as time and as real as the heart of man.
Ishrafeli stood staring at the monstrous thing. Tathea could do nothing. Such battles can only be fought alone; the time for help or comfort was over.
But Ishrafeli knew the long winter of the ice and had learned the depths of his own soul. He had overcome terror and despair and found beyond them wisdom and the love of God. He understood the combat and sought his own weapons. He concentrated his mind on gratitude for every good thing of his life, for every opportunity to learn, to perform some act of grace or love, every sin for which he had been forgiven—and the longing to walk with the Man of Holiness, and to know and be known by Him. And out of the twilight came another creature, white as milk, like a mighty horse with a single horn on its brow.
