The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  “So, what can I get you? I see you’re already laden, but what else was it you were looking for over there?”

  George shook his head. “Nothing, my friend, we were just browsing,” then he paused. “Actually, when I came in last week, the lady – Polly, was it? – agreed to order me in a crate of Barolos. I wonder if you have a delivery date on that yet.”

  I must have been wearing my what the fuck face, because George’s wide-eyed glare said shut up and say nothing. I feigned a smile as the store man thumbed the order book.

  “Nope. Nothing in here,” he said, finally.

  “Oh?” George feigned disappointment with a degree of talent that wouldn’t have been out of place on a West End stage.

  The man waved a hand towards the swing doors at the rear of the building. “Polly’s out back doing a mini-inventory. I’ll have a word. Find out why she didn’t put you in the order book.”

  George thanked the man warmly and, as soon as he was out of sight, slapped me hard on the shoulder and ordered me into the street.

  “What the hell is happening?” I insisted, as we all but ran with the laden barrow. “Are we not paying for this stuff?”

  “This is bad,” was his only reply.

  “How bad?” I asked, only vaguely aware of the crackling of static now permeating the very air we breathed. George gestured upwards, and I stopped in my tracks as I saw what he was pointing toward. “Crap. This is bad…”

  Chapter 23

  The sky overhead flashed, pulsing balls of volatile energy, the streets of Boscastle hanging heavy under the type of pressure which often precedes a violent storm. A waspish buzz echoed all around us. Though it offered no discernable point of origin, it delivered an all-encompassing noise which enveloped the village.

  Above us, multitudes of colored lights blinked in and out of existence. Strangely, although there were perhaps a hundred or more tourists and locals on the street, virtually all seemed oblivious to the irritating crescendo of noise. As we hurried from the village center, I pointed to a blonde woman standing on the opposite corner, hands pressed to her ears in an attempt to suppress the disorienting hum. Her face a grimace, jaw clenched in pained silence, she cut a solitary figure among the oblivious as her eyes scanned the overhead.

  George identified the woman as Linda Green. She wasn’t someone he claimed to know well. During the year Linda had lived in Boscastle, they had enjoyed rarely more than a genial exchange in passing. Still though, he described her as out of place.

  When I queried this comment, he turned to face me. “She’s like you, son,” he said. “She shouldn’t be here.”

  I still didn’t understand, but one thing struck me as obvious. “You’re saying she’s in danger from those things, right?”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Then we have to warn her!”

  “We can’t. They are already aware of her. Now is not the time for getting involved. This is bad. Things are a lot worse than I expected. Damn these miscreants.”

  I fully intended querying everything, not least of which being to ask who still uses the word miscreants? It was the twentieth century, for Christ’s sake.

  However, at least for now, there would be no time. I released my hold on the trolley, leaving George wrestling with controlling the freewheeling flatbed which clattered noisily along the pavement and into a bed of trestles, upsetting the wares on display out front of a gift shop. I could hear the clatter of breakages, my careless haste resulting in the destruction of plates, plaques and other fineries, most of which depicted various local attractions, or picturesque Cornish landmarks.

  Racing across the street, calling out to the woman as I did so, I was vaguely aware of two other voices shouting. One of these belonged to George, urging me to remain at his side.

  As I ran, dozens of people turned to identify the source of my urgent cry, their attention focusing on the woman upon whom I bore down. My shouts hadn’t gone unnoticed by Linda, her hands falling from her ears as she recognized the panic in my voice. She had already noticed that the majority of village folk remained oblivious to the oddities surrounding us, her face confirming the understanding something was badly wrong. I doubted she could have any inkling as to what that something was. She looked from the sky to me, and then back again, realization and fear sweeping her face.

  I screamed another warning. “Run! Get off the street!”

  My shout came too late.

  As I mounted the pavement there was a crackle in the air resembling electrical current, and then a flash as one of the orbs engulfed her. Where it came from I wasn’t quite sure. It seemed to appear in a blinding instant, like a bird of prey descending on a fear stricken mouse. Palms pressed against the translucent lining of the globe which encased her, her face presented a lasting image: Sardonicus in terror absolute.

  Linda Green never stood a chance.

  The woman exploded in a messy pulp of blood and debris. For an instant, her skull and torso – these body parts seeming to have been subjected to an intense force at their core – stained the concave lining of the pulsing being. The shifting rainbow colors highlighted the blended results of the woman’s demise. Then the ethereal fiend vanished, with little more notice than a rising hum and a pop reminiscent of a pin pierced balloon. The air was thick with an acrid smell of incinerated flesh. A mess of sinew and body fluids, which moments earlier had been Linda Green, squelched to the ground with a solid plop!

  Panic ensued.

  The people on the street remained oblivious to the beings phasing over their village. What they had seen though – a woman detonated to a pulp before their eyes – was a sight not readily digested. Many ran to nearby buildings, a desperate search for assistance or refuge from a horror witnessed. Others stood their ground, rooted in fear and screaming. A small number – the most ghoulish of the witnesses – moved closer to this spatter that had recently been a woman, keen to embrace every gory detail in readiness for later second-hand recounting.

  I fought my way through the growing hysteria, eager to rejoin George and take our leave. As I sought my return, the source of the second voice I heard became apparent. George was being wrestled by the ogre from the store, the giant calling out for the crowd to help with subduing this wriggling thief. It wasn’t really looking as though the mountain required much by way of assistance. George’s lanky frame was already pinned, face-down on the barrow, both arms jammed behind his back. I had no wish to engage with the huge brute, but, hell, what other choice was left to me?

  I charged, dropping to a low crouch as I reached the struggling duo. Arms open, I cupped the giant behind his knees, pulling him toward me at the same time as my shoulder crashed into his hip. I succeeded in upending him, hard. His body making a whooshing sound as the oxygen fled his lungs, the crack of his head on the ground leaving him dazed and moaning on the pavement.

  “Come on,” I urged, helping George to his feet. “We have to go.”

  He glared at the figure sprawled on the ground. “So it’s true what they say then; the bigger they –”

  “Yeah. Right. If he gets up he’ll kick your ass. Actually, he’ll be looking to tear us both a new one.”

  “Perhaps we should go, then. Right?”

  “I think I said that already.”

  We restacked the trolley with spilled loot, our haste increasing as we noticed the ogre-like store man struggling to reclaim his feet. I delivered a hefty kick to his ribs, ensuring he stayed down a while longer. Not very Marquis of Queensbury – but needs must.

  I was momentarily blinded by a flash of colored light. The stifled death cry of the shopkeeper accompanied the flash. It was a noise which sickened me to the core, and a growing loathing overtook the abhorrent dread in which I already held these monsters.

  It seemed a long and panicked moment before my vision returned. Once my eyes stopped hurting long enough to wipe at stinging tears, misty vision revealed a pavement stained with ruined humanity. Moments ago I kicked a man to the gr
ound on this very spot. And now he is dead.

  I felt sure I would puke, but before I could succumb to the horror that had just occurred, another of the ethereal fiends blinked into existence barely ten-feet in front of us. Panic seized me, and if it hadn’t been for George’s firm grip on my arm I should likely have taken flight.

  “Hold your ground, lad,” he ordered.

  As the thing fizzed and quivered before us, I was aware of an abundance of the orbs, several maneuvering to surround us, others circling higher overhead. Hairs on the back of my neck stiffened; perhaps it was the cool breath of death.

  Then it happened.

  A shape stepped from within the orb which came to rest in front of us. The being appeared androgynous, though without doubt the closest thing to perfect feminine beauty I had ever seen.

  With a crown of white hair resting freely about its shoulders, and standing tall as any human ever did, its figure was shapely, and more slender than any woman I knew – both then and in all my years since. The shimmering illumination of the orb at its back presented an appearance of the creature having magnificent wings of light, glimmering protrusions sprouting from its shoulders.

  Pale skin glistened, resonating to reveal fluctuating glimpses of pert breasts and lithe contours; its lower genitalia – consisting of a pronounced bulge centered by a deep, peach-like cleft – despite its ambiguity, suggestive of something feminine. The female, if such this creature was, possessed features men would have fought wars over, just for the tease of a kiss – I suspect many a woman being just as willingly enticed. She was a thing of beauty almost beyond description…

  Until, that is, she smiled.

  Marble cheeks dimpled as slender lips curled up at the edges. It was a smile revealing perfect teeth, and served to enhance her appeal, though only for a fleeting moment.

  A reeking stench of demise emanated from the being’s open mouth, forcing me to step away lest the halitosis of death made me puke.

  “What is it?” I asked, raising a hand to my face, struggling to choke back the bile rising in my throat. It was only my own anger, along with concern for Roz’s wellbeing, which stifled any expulsion.

  “It is a creature as sour as the Demiurge who sired it.” George’s voice quivered with a rage I hadn’t previously known.

  The creature fixed George with a curious stare. I assumed it was about to speak, but no words left its throat. Instead, a singular melody, like a chorus of angels screaming appeals for clemency as Satan barbecued their asses on hot coals. This choir of angelic pain was something drawn from the deepest pits and fieriest fires of Hell.

  George responded in kind, his chest barreling forth a chord which seemed impossible for any human larynx to produce. I observed all of this, open mouthed and stunned into silence by the unbroken pitch and volume of their volatile exchange. The rising crescendo seemingly a battle of wills carried on impossible chords.

  “What the hell is happening?” I pleaded, clasping my hands to ears which I suspected would bleed.

  George cast me a sideways glance, confusion momentarily straining his features. It was a look which quickly evaporated as he realized the content of their interaction pained me.

  “Sorry,” he said, reaching a hand to my shoulder, and then quickly smoothing the flat of his palm down my right arm.

  For one short moment I wondered what he was doing, and then just as quickly realized. With that single touch I had been enlightened.

  “Is this any way for you to conduct yourself?”

  The words now made sense to my ears, even if their true meaning eludes me. Their throats were producing melodic tones, rising and falling chimes which resonated beyond anything human, though the pain they previously delivered was now thankfully absent – and so, I dared hope for clarity.

  “Anat, you are not fit to pass judgment,” George growled. “Take these vermin and leave this place. You are not welcome here.”

  “We all have our jobs to do, sweetie…well, except for you.” The creature wore an expression of derision. “I see that old vessel is still holding up.” She pointed an accusing finger. “You stand before me and pontificate with self-righteous abandon. You call me a worm. And yet isn’t it you who is the one in denial? Hiding in this aged shell, content to scratch around down here in the dirt, and claiming syzygy with something to which you have no relation. Pathetic! Still, you may rest assured, Old One. We are almost done here, though I will need to relieve you of our young friend. Come to me now, boy.”

  The harmony carrying those instructions began drawing me, like filings to a magnet. Without will or reason I stepped forward, only being stayed by George’s strong hand and a sharp “No!”

  “He is mine. He has no place here…and neither do you.”

  “Your opinion is irrelevant to me, Anat. Besides, I intend on returning the lad home.”

  “Then why haven’t you? Ah, yes, his girl. She is already ours.”

  George tapped the watch on his wrist. “No. Not yet, she isn’t.”

  “You have taken it upon yourself to reset the moment, and yet you still have the affront to criticize my actions? Pathetic.”

  “You think to lecture on rules? I understand the nature of what is occurring, but keeping the seams intact, it has never required barbarism.”

  The being George had referred to as Anat stopped smiling. “You are a hypocrite and a fool, just as the Mother was a hypocrite and a fool. She begat the Ancient of Days, and then sought to hide Him away because of her own shame.”

  “She realized a mistake had been made.”

  “A mistake you say? And so she hid Him away and His children too, proclaiming herself a loyal servitor to the Monad, while continuing a deception which included lying to her brothers and sisters.”

  “Sophia suffered for her failings.”

  “The fall? You proclaim this a suffering. And yet aren’t you guilty of similar failings…a tumble as mighty as hers? Perhaps even more bizarre, you choose to remain in this place of woe. Tell me, George Smoke, what does this say about your true nature? So, no, do not attempt to interfere with that which does not concern you. You are an interloper. We grant you the boon of enduring syzygy…but this is a situation which can be easily taken away.”

  “Big words, Anat…but you know they are a falsehood. And yes, I am well aware of my own failings, but there is little you can do to influence that situation. So choose your next words carefully, archon.”

  “Do not seek to lecture me, Old One. I am a child of Yaldabaoth, the Son of Chaos, and Ancient of Days. I am a Hand of God, and you are not beyond the reach of His will. You are not so special as to be exempt from His consequences.”

  George smiled coolly. “Despite your proclamation, you are well aware that your master is not, nor will ever be the true Lord of Always. You can paint it as you will, but the truth of it: He is the Demiurge, and nothing more. It may be beyond me to prevent this world’s misery, but any furthering of his plans on this day will meet with resistance. I promise you, it will end in His failing. So, Anat, I would ask you once again – for I am certain this is your game, rather than one your father instigated – will you raise a hand against me?”

  “You cling vainly on, and for what, the love of a good woman? You are pathetic, choosing an existence among bacterium. Look at you now; such a fragile shell. I have little time for what you are; less still for this pretense you suffer. The fact is, you are nothing; a potential, denied and thrown away. And you most certainly lack the means to deny Him.”

  “Leave now, while you still can.” There was genuine menace in George’s voice. I had no idea what sway – if any – George might hold over such a creature as this, but it appeared that despite the venom in Anat’s tone, the hellion seemed reluctant to raise her fists against him.

  “You must return him.”

  George again tapped his wrist. “And I will…soon enough.”

  “Very well. I will grant you this boon, Old One. But soon will not last for long.”
>
  “Thank you for your patience,” George replied with surprising sincerity.

  “Thank you–?” My query stifled amid a burst of luminance, a light so bright it robbed me of my vision for what seemed minutes. Long before my eyesight returned George was patting me on the shoulder, his words of comfort and reassurance continuing until I wiped the last drops of tears from my eyes. “What the hell just happened?”

  “That, you might say, was the root of our current problem. And she isn’t happy with either of us…bloody archons”

  Again, that word: archons. I considered demanding a fuller explanation of what just occurred, but instead fell silent with the realization of happenings around us. The streets of Boscastle had returned to a noisy throng of tourists and locals going about their business in jovial and relaxed manners, amid unhindered surroundings. Tourists browsed the shops and stalls, vendors calling gentle persuasions, seeking to entice interest in their wares. The sun was lowering in the western sky, a white blister staining a magnificent blue canvas. There was no sign of the creature called Anat, or any other archons. Neither did anything remain of the carnage they had, only minutes earlier inflicted.

  Shaking with disbelief, I made what must have sounded an infantile declaration, “I don’t understand.”

  George placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Come on, son. Help me load the trolley. We have serious work to do if we’re going to find Roz.”

  The mention of my wife’s name was like a knife to the gut. I set about recovering the spilled loot. “I want answers, George. I need answers. Please, just tell me what the hell is happening?”

  “You deserve to know the truth, lad. I think after all the horrors you’ve witnessed, it’s time I explained things. Know this though; I was hoping diplomacy might win through in seeing Rosalind safely returned. I should have known better. I fear we will have a battle on our hands. Though there is one thing of which I am certain; you do have the stomach for a fight.”

  At this point I was beyond trying to understand what George meant. All I did know, I would go to war with Satan himself for the sake of the woman I loved.