The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  I didn’t understand how this could be, but George Smoke no longer resembled a man approaching his seventieth year. The man who now stood before us could not yet have seen his fortieth year. And yet there remained no doubt in my mind, this was George Smoke!

  Roz stared in disbelief. “Is that –?”

  “Salvation,” I whispered.

  It was a stupefying mix of emotions. I wanted to query George’s rejuvenation, but even more than this I was overcome with a joyous relief…which perhaps seemed both selfish and obscene given the carnage littered about us. Still though, I remained certain of one thing. Although I had no idea how, George Smoke would save us.

  Before I could readily express my relief at George’s return, Anat exploded with a fury that defied the coolness of her previous manner. “No! This cannot be done! You have disobeyed His lore!”

  All through the cathedral archons pulsed frenetically and hoggish grunted and squealed, their tones rising in agitated support of Anat’s threatening wrath.

  None of us had any idea as to why the archons were so distressed, but the demon-bitch continued to roar. She took a step forward, close enough to place two hands on George’s chest; for a moment her actions resembled a lover pleading for compliance.

  “You cannot do this. You know what it threatens! You have no sway to commit such an act.”

  George, without relaxing his guard from the ravings of the fiend caressing him, stroked the backs of his fingers down her rancid cheek. In that moment of initial contact I was sure I saw her flinch, and I knew then I was right: She fears him.

  With surprising ease, George took a hold of her wrists and separated himself from the creature. Stepping away and taking up a position at the center of our group, this younger version of George turned to address me. “I have arrived, though unfortunately it seems I am disturbingly late to the party.” He returned his attention to Anat: “Though not so late that I am unable to return these tormented individuals to their families.”

  “Your wishes are not recognized here. You are a cast off. A flake of failure, fallen away from the ass end of an insane god; yours is a deity oblivious, confined beyond the Golden Expanse. As for these worms and the world they inhabit; you seek to protect them from His will, as though they have value. But none would even be here but for the failings of your kin. It was my Lord who designed their purpose, and you and your ilk have no right interfering in His affairs. No, you who would willingly choose to endure this phantasmagoria, enjoying a role as George Smoke, while watching on helplessly, forced to observe the withering, painful demise of that frail husk with which you claim syzygy; you would do well to mind your business. You hold no sway over anything here; you never did. These are chattels of the One True God, the Ancient of Days. These are Yaldabaoth’s workings, and as such they are ours to rend, to tear, to sacrifice, and even to grant mercy, should we ever so choose.”

  “You insult my reasons for being here, and, of course, you feel you have reason for doing so. But the fall was the most glorious thing I ever experienced. For it was only after arriving in this place did I truly understand the meaning of syzygy. So what then of you, Anat, once celebrated and feared in equal measure by those you have always viewed with contempt. It is not your fault you lack pleroma, but even devoid as you are of the light, can you not see that the Demiurge is a flawed creator? In aiming to corrupt all that has purpose and value, you will receive no Grace from the true Lord of Always.”

  Anat leered with utter disdain: “And yet you remove yourself from His reach? You choose to place yourself on this storyboard, beneath the Son of Chaos’s will.”

  “You are right; at least insofar as my having no right to interfere with these cruelties you perpetuate. I am here, and so should accept the will of His lore. Normally I am content to hold my own council; however, on this day, I am choosing to take these souls from here. I will take it upon myself to see them home.

  “Your words carry no weight here. You can choose as you will…but they belong to Him!”

  “Do not lie. They are not His. They are yours! I hoped for compromise, and yet I knew you would offer none… which is why I didn’t come alone.”

  “What?” George’s revelation painted an unreadable expression across the features of the pale fiend confronting us. Her face contorted into a grimace, her jaw slackened, elongating down to her chest, revealing a cavernous mouth infested with hordes of unpleasant crawling things. Anat had finally revealed herself, letting slip the last vestiges of anything remotely human.

  Roz’s fingers tightened in mine and, although I couldn’t remove my eyes from the fiend before me, I was aware of Peter’s hysterical cries.

  Anat took a step back, as though needing to be away from us. The drone of the archons altered, growing erratic, rising and falling with inconsistent thrums of deafening energy. Behind Anat the hoggish moved impatiently, a squealing snorting border guard, patrolling the boundary of any possible escape attempt.

  The crescendo of noise in the temple continued to rise. I was forced to shout my words. “What the hell is going on? And what happened to you?”

  George smiled sardonically, and gestured toward Anat. “This flea doesn’t much appreciate my being here. Moreover, she doesn’t like the fact I haven’t come alone.”

  Roz was pointing hysterically. “That flea has a face like a melted candle.

  The sound within the hall continued to resonate, reflecting off the stonework of the building, harmonizing into a droning, erratic crescendo. I realized it was George’s words which had stirred the archons into such palpable anxiety.

  “Who did you bring with you, then?” I asked.

  He smiled, mischievously, and winked at me with a gleam of satisfaction which seemed entirely misplaced considering the direness of the situation in which we found ourselves. “You’ve found all of this a bit hard to digest so far, Frank. So you’re going to struggle with what comes next.”

  “Frank, what’s happening? Who is this man? I recognize him, but…impossible.”

  The confusion creasing Roz’s features matched my own. On one level she believed this was George Smoke standing before us, but we only ever knew him as an old man, and so this younger man – this doppelganger – remained unnamed, and beyond reasonable explanation.

  I increased my squeeze on her hand. “He’s our best hope of getting out of here.”

  George, without once taking his eyes from Anat, addressed our small gathering. “We’re leaving here, right now. I need everyone to link hands. And regardless of anything that happens or anything you see – and I do mean anything – no one is to break the link. Do you all understand?”

  We agreed, with even the bird-woman seeming to get the gist of what was being asked – though only after George emitted an impossible series of vroop vrooopit noises reminiscent of those she herself was so fond of making.

  George took a hold of the avian’s talon. Karl – always a pasty looking youth – looked as though he could use a course of three-square-daily, his color draining completely as he took hold the feathered-lady’s other limb. Roz linked hands with Peter and I, and Joseph placed himself between his daughter and grandson. George held my hand as the final members of the group linked hands, and then turned to our oppressor.

  “They are going nowhere, Old One. You are free to be on your way, but these few will remain.”

  George Smoke wore the same unrevealing smile. His current manner seeming not to fit with anything I previously knew of the man.

  “They are leaving here with me, hellion!” The cry came from the far end of the hall, from somewhere amid the darkest recesses and alcoves. Once again, this seemed to be a voice I recognized, although this observation presented further implausible questions.

  As my eyes scanned for the source of the call, I watched as George Smoke appeared from beneath an archway leading off to the side chapel. I blinked several times, straining to confirm what my eyes were showing me. I turned my head to check I was still holding hands wit
h George Smoke – the younger version – but the George from the village, the old man who so resembled my neighbor back in Northampton, he was now in the chapel and moving down the aisle toward us.

  This is insane.

  “Nnnoooooooo!” The distraught nature of Anat’s roar revealed a noise level I could never have believed possible, our circle breaking as each of us cupped hands to our ears. Her displeasure seemed to threaten the very fabric of reality, as parts of the arena began shimmering with a faint glow. It was like watching heat rising from the summer ground, except that here, each point of disturbance concentrated into a doorway-sized vertical pool. The effervescence of the air at each of these hubs of activity quickly fermented, turning to raging tides that stirred and pummeled into currents of tumultuous violence. I felt the ground moving beneath my feet, and as one our group stumbled.

  Young George barked at us, “Quickly; form the circle!”

  “No! You will not do this! We will destroy you!”

  “Not this time, demon.” Young George smiled, his eyes settling on something toward the back of the hall, and in that moment, I realized it was not just my attention that was drawn…

  “Let them go!”

  “Release them now!”

  “Stand aside, maggots!”

  “Take this as a final warning!”

  “Release them or face our wrath!”

  Commanding and violent cries filled the air, carried throughout the room by a growing abundance of George Smokes, each stepping purposely through a tempestuous portal.

  Chapter 37

  It felt as though I had lost my mind. What I was seeing could only be the product of some insane imagination. It was ridiculous. Mere moments ago we had faced off against a horde of angelic demons. Now, the cavernous temple was filled with a multitude of George Smokes. Each of the new arrivals appeared the same, and yet different; ranging from medieval farmers to immaculately dressed businessmen; a handful were youths, some men in their middle years, several more appearing older even than the two identical George Smokes whom I knew; there was a man who looked almost identical to my Old George, except he obviously carried Oriental lineage; and yet another George with black skin.

  It was crazy.

  It was surreal.

  Each of these men was George Smoke.

  Insanity had surely claimed me.

  George – Old George, the George from Boscastle, with whom I’d earlier planned this so-far-less-than-successful rescue of my wife – smiled as he approached. A look of relief betrayed his concerns as he threw an arm around my shoulder and embraced me in a warm man-hug. “I’m glad you made it, son.”

  “Me too,” I said, breaking the circle of hands as I returned his greeting.

  “George? Is that really you?” confusion marked Roz’s question. “What the hell is happening here?”

  “Hello, Rosalind.” He released me, turning to my wife and garnering a further embrace.

  Roz reciprocated this salutation, although I could sense her overriding need for answers. “This is insanity,” she repeated. “What is going on here?”

  “It really is a long story, Rosalind. And now is probably not the best time.” He wriggled himself loose. “I’m sorry, but you really need to link hands again. It’s important.”

  It hadn’t escaped my attention that Young George leaned away as the older George approached me; unmistakably he was opting to keep some distance between them. Now, as the older man stepped away, moving as he did so to confront Anat, Young George once again moved to seal our circle.

  “They are leaving now,” Old George barked.

  “No. They are not. We claim them.”

  The agitation afflicting Anat was obvious. Things clearly weren’t going as planned; nevertheless, she maintained a tone of uncompromising stubbornness.

  “They leave now. They leave this place unharmed. Or we will end this…we will end you.”

  “And how would you propose to do that? You may have taken it upon yourself to overstep your mark, but you are not capable of protecting these weak…things. You know this.”

  “Listen, carefully, because I’m going to say this just once. I have cast a binding on this place. You will remain trapped here, until such time as I grant the boon of release…you know what this means. There has already been too much carnage. This place is foul with a despair which is solely your Lord’s design. End all of this, now. If you take even one more life, I shall end you!” George pointed to the floor, gesturing toward one of the discarded bottles. “Understand this,” he growled, “you say I hold no sway here, but you know this is a lie. If you force my hand, it won’t be like this little trick I rustled up earlier. You won’t be bounced to the far boundaries of these realms. Not this time. I am telling you, if you take this any further, I will end it for you, permanently. Are we clear, demon?”

  Anat responded with a sweep of bone white arms, closed fists punching the sky as she let out a shrill cry of rage; a sound like fingernails down a blackboard. Once again, her displeasure roared to a crescendo, and yet, this time, it suggested to me that events might be turning in our favor.

  All about the hall, archons blinked from view. Though, just as quickly as they vanished, they returned dancing a jig of pained frenzy; orbs of flashing energy, thrashing and crashing, colliding against walls and scuttling spasmodically between lines of overturned pews, like gin sodden bowling balls seeking one final strike. If such a thing was even possible, these semi-transparent orbs were hurting and in terror; a room full of squealing cats, racing to shake loose the fireworks rammed up their asses.

  The hoggish, too, were affected, dropping to all fours, they became consumed by the urge to race between the aisles, charging headlong as they shattered pews and sent candlesticks spearing into the air. Several of the creatures ran full pelt into solid walls, quite literally knocking themselves senseless; crumpling into snorting masses of bloodied fur and fractured bone.

  Old George’s attention didn’t falter from Anat. There was no doubting the look in his eyes. “See. You are not going anywhere. None of you are!”

  The she-fiend’s features twisted, more closely resembling a hippopotamus chewing a porcupine, rather than a to-be-feared celestial being. It was as though rage had physically affected her; the jaw sagging then tightening, spasmodically contracting and loosening, lengthening impossibly with each exhaled breath. And with each outward breath she spewed an abundance of radiant bugs, critters which slithered, crawled and flew up from her throat, climbing over lips and gums and falling in torrents from this angel of death’s mouth. A wave of cicadas took flight, while those things discarded to the ground moved with even greater haste, scurrying and sliding to lose themselves in the darkest recesses and crevices of the building. It was a sight which turned my blood to ice. Roz, who had never expressed any fondness for critters-that-crawled, squeezed shut her eyes and pressed her face into my chest.

  Among our circle there were exclamations of horror and disgust regarding the events overtaking Anat. Although, personally, even with all that was occurring, I couldn’t help but smile once I heard Petey’s assessment of the archon’s facial contortions.

  “Wow! That is so ugly…and so cool!”

  Anat’s displeasure showed no sign of diminishing, her eyes flitting wildly about the hall, frantically scanning the building which had been the archons’ sanctum sanctorum, and which was now their cage. Machinations of desperation turned in her skull as she scrambled for answers as how best to overcome George’s trap.

  Then, with as swift a change in persona as I have ever known, she smiled. Her features retracted to a more settled, far more appealing visage.

  “Very well, we have already sated our need. And can certainly claim satisfaction from the sport. You may take the remainder of these wretches. Unbind us and you may leave this place...all of you. This is my oath.”

  “And you swear this as your word?” It was the younger George who spoke. “The thing is your word doesn’t count for much, de
ceiver. It never has and it never will.”

  “Nevertheless: the offer stands.”

  “And it’s accepted,” Old George answered. “However, I think it best we do things our way.”

  “Your way? Aren’t we already doing things your way, fallen one?”

  “Yes, I suppose we are. So, my young friend here,” George said, pointing to his doppelganger, “is going to escort these people out of here. Once they are safely away, and I am sure you won’t pursue them, only then will I release you from the binding.”

  “And you will return them to their rightful places?”

  “Of course.”

  “It seems we have a deal.” The fiend spat compliance. “Best you get them out of here, now, lest my Lord makes a visitation; because if the Ancient of Days should so choose, your plan will turn to dust.”

  Old George turned to his doppelganger. “You all set?”

  The younger George gave a solitary nod. “All set.”

  I looked at the old man. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Take a look, Frank. I have all the assistance I need.”

  I had almost forgotten the array of George Smokes positioned strategically about the huge hall. It encouraged me greatly to understand that this man, who I had known for almost three years – though obviously I had never truly known him, – was not being abandoned to face these monsters alone. George hurriedly wished each of us well, and planted kisses on the foreheads of Roz, Cathy and the feathered woman. Bizarrely, the bird-woman, who we earlier realized could only communicate via a series of vroop vrooopit vrooopi noises, proceeded to have a long and in-depth conversation with George, far in excess of the brief communication she exchanged with his younger counterpart. Even with everything else that had occurred it was surreal hearing George so easily vocalize such odd sounds.