by Drew Foote
“Make no mistake, Demon; I am no Fallen Angel, and I am not one of your kind,” she growled. Hurt, and barely restrained rage, simmered dangerously close to the surface.
“I see. However, aren’t you an Angel … that has … never mind. Duly noted.” A bead of sweat trickled down my face.
“Although I have been cast from Heaven, my soul remains true. God’s might still flows through me,” she declared. Her black wings flexed and welcomed any contradiction.
“Well, then,” I announced, eager to change the subject. “So now — what? We travel to Hell, find Walter Grey, and figure out what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”
As easy as it sounded in theory, it was going to be a monumental task. What had I done to wind up in such a wretched predicament? I felt the hand of fate, or cruel destiny, toying mercilessly with me. Perhaps it was punishment for the last few millennia of largesse.
As a Demon, I obviously could not put much stock in Karma, but it was hard to argue with facts. Situations didn’t get much worse, and our chances of success were nil, but I might as well go down swinging.
Kalyndriel nodded. “Will finding his soul prove difficult? Do you know where he is?” she asked.
“Off the top of my head, no. I’ve acquired many souls through the years, and I don’t know where most of them end up.”
“Something you’re proud of, undoubtedly,” she observed. I could tell it was going to be a long journey.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I replied defensively. “And that’s something we will discuss at length in the future, I have no doubt. In the meantime, however, we’re going to need to go to Pandemonium to locate Walter’s whereabouts.”
“Pandemonium? The capital of Hell?”
“That’s it. That’s where the Directorate of the Interior keeps records of where all souls are assigned for punishment.”
Kalyndriel’s lips curled in distaste. I realized, with great dismay, that if the Angel did not learn to keep her righteous indignity to a minimum, we were already doomed. That was likely the case, however, even without her theatrics.
“Very well,” she declared. “Let us be on with it.”
I held up a finger. “One moment. I need to see to something, first.”
I turned sadly to Arcturus, who still sat upon the mantle. His red-rimmed eyes regarded me skeptically. He frowned as I approached.
“Well, Arcturus,” I sighed. “I guess this is it. It’s probably best for you to find somewhere to lie low, at least until we get all this sorted out.”
“Yeah … no. Not happening.”
I cocked my head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Look, boss,” he began, his words slow and condescending. “Leviathan’s boys know that I’m one of your associates, right? You think they won’t come looking for me when they can’t find you? They’ll make me into a damned purse.”
I hadn’t thought of that, actually, but it was an excellent point. “Fair enough. So what do you intend to do?” I asked.
The Imp gestured at Kalyndriel with a stubby finger. “I’m staying as close as possible to Little Miss Battle-Tits over there.”
Kalyndriel’s face lit up. Words of anger fought to free themselves from her stuttering mouth. She was seconds away from a full-blown Angelic meltdown.
“Sorry!” Arcturus quickly exclaimed when he noticed her wrath. “I mean Mistress Battle-Tits, m’ilady,” Arcturus corrected himself, satisfied.
I hummed appreciatively to myself. “Fallen Angel Battle-Tits,” I mused. “I like it. It sounds rather fierce, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think either of you should call me Battle-Tits, if you value your infernal lives,” she hissed between grinding teeth.
Arcturus smiled with malicious glee. “He hates being called Barney, by the way,” he said deviously, pointing toward me. The Imp snickered.
I rounded on him, aghast.
Kalyndriel turned to me, and it seemed there was a ghost of a smile on her haunted face. “Let’s be off then … Barney.”
Chapter 16
The Garden of Fire
Days blended into sleepless nights. Nights blended into weeks. Weeks blended into years. Time held no sway within the Tower of Knowledge, and it followed its own serpentine path without regard to the passage of the epochs elsewhere. The anguished soul of Walter Grey spent countless millennia in Paimon’s prison of books, immersed in both the wonders and horrors of its infernal catalogue.
Time, itself, was a meaningless concept. While humanity set off for the stars, Walter felt himself crucified as a thief in the Roman Empire. While the Earth’s sun went supernova, scouring the life from his small green world, Walter felt himself burned at the stake as a witch. Seconds, centuries, each was equally painful.
Suffering knew nothing of time, only of truth.
Walter felt the horrible injustices of existence, written in blood within blasphemous tomes, but he also reveled in its bittersweet glory. Every horror seemed balanced by an equally poignant wonder, an impossible equilibrium. It was a beautiful masterpiece revolving slowly in a sea of darkness.
He gained knowledge, and he began to appreciate, and fear, the cost of such wisdom.
Knowledge took a dreadful toll on Walter. His eyes, once so bright and eager, became haunted things — glistening jewels shining darkly in a mask of clay. The price was unbearable, but he bore it as best he was able. Was this not what he had always asked for? In spite of his rationalization, he felt his essence slipping away.
Who was he, this creature known as Walter?
He was nothing, he was less than nothing. He was naught but a fleck of divine potential swept over by an endless tide of trauma, a spark buried beneath the silt of eternity. The magnitude of the lives he experienced, the weight of their joy and their pain, smothered him. There was nothing left of the man named Walter Grey.
The unseen sun rose, and Walt found himself sitting, once more, in the library. His mind, once so swift and sure, was utterly empty. Walter had no thoughts that were his own, and he paid the echoing screams in his head no mind. They were echoes of others, the detritus of snuffed dreams.
Like him, they were less than nothing.
Paimon entered the library without a sound, as he always did. The Demon moved elegantly, his black robes shuffling across the stone floor. Paimon seated himself across from Walter and stared at him. The ancient Demon’s eyes looked deeply into Walter’s own.
There was love there, and compassion.
How had Walter ever failed to recognize that?
“Good morning, Walter.”
Walter nodded in greeting, his battered gaze meeting Paimon’s without challenge or resentment. There was no fight left in the philosopher. He felt filled to bursting with the tribulations of others, of the entire human race.
“You have learned much, have you not?”
Walter nodded once more. He had learned more than he had ever thought possible, and he had learned there was always more to learn. The morbid well of knowledge had no bottom. Each plateau of despair led ever deeper into the darkness.
“And now, do you understand?”
Walter shook his head in denial, the words trapped in his throat. He knew there was no such thing as understanding, no way to grasp the shrieking rope of infinity. There was no blueprint to the madness, the machine that ground souls into mulch. It was beyond Walter.
Were the few, rare moments of beauty and bliss worth the agony that was sure to follow? Did they justify the horrors, or did they only make them all the crueler? He could not say.
The flickering of the candelabra shrouded Paimon’s angular face in darkness. His delicate horns cast massive, dancing shadows upon the stone floor.
“Quite right, Walter. Quite right,” Paimon whispered softly. “I cannot help but feel our time together will soon draw to a close.”
Walter looked up in surprise. “I … I … thought this was … forever?” he asked stutteringly. The thought of an end to such damned knowle
dge filled him with elation, but it was tinged, inexplicably, with regret.
“What is ‘forever,’ dear Walter?” the Demon remarked, his voice once more that of a patient schoolteacher. “Is it a never-ending river flowing toward some vast, subterranean lake? Or is it the snake Ouroboros, devouring its own tail?”
Walter made no reply, which, of course, was the correct response.
“That is a question I fear you must ask, in time,” Paimon answered, satisfied with his pupil.
The Demon rose. He walked slowly toward a shadowed dais, upon which sat a single, massive tome. He picked up the manuscript with gentle care, and returned it to Walter’s reading table. He placed it softly before Walter, his hands resting reverently upon its binding.
Paimon’s gaze seemed to shimmer in the dancing light, as though moist with tears. That, however, was impossible.
“Before you leave, however, there is still more to learn.”
Walt stared down at the tome. It was masterfully bound in ageless leather, glistening with oil. The surface was carved with impossibly ornate floral designs, vines and trees and leaves framing a carved centerpiece of an apple. The apple dominated the surface of the tome, beckoning and alluring, impossible to deny.
Walter stared at it. He was transfixed by the elaborate patterns in the leather. The dreadful apple, beautiful but filled with rot, stared at him like an abominable eye. Walt felt his mouth inexplicably water.
He looked up at Paimon, terribly afraid.
Paimon nodded gently. “This is the story of our origin, son of Adam. Yours, and mine, as well. Drink deeply, should you have the bravery to partake. I will not force this upon you. As it has ever been, this choice is yours, alone.”
The cruel Demon stared at Walter Grey, his gaze impenetrable.
Walter placed trembling hands on the cover of the tome. He felt the weight of damnation. He smelled the burning trees and heard their screams. The laughter of the rancid apple echoed through the wasteland.
A cosmic joke.
Walter opened it.
~
Beauty.
Perfection.
The lush greenery stretched as far as the eyes could see. Trees bore fruits ripe and succulent, full of nourishment. Their proud arms stretched tall into the cloudless sky, basking in the warm white light of a sun that did not scald. Streams of cool, sweet water flowed down gently sloping hills, filled with radiant-scaled fish that lounged placidly in their waters.
The Progenitors wandered through the paradise, their hearts filled with awe and satisfaction. When they were hungry, animals lied down and died graciously to provide them with sustenance. While they slept, shrubs curled around them to keep them warm. Pain was an unknown commodity, a dream never given shape.
Every need was provided for, and it was good.
Each day, the Progenitors explored the boundless wonders of the Garden, the endless canvas of beauty. Each day, their hearts swelled with joy at the majesty of His creation. They had each other, they had everything they could ask for, and they had peace. They sang songs to Him, and sometimes He even spoke to them.
Just don’t eat the Apple.
It was a simple thing. Why eat a common Apple when the rest of bounteous existence was available to them? What good was knowledge? Did it fill the belly? Did it please the eye? Knowledge was a worthless, intangible thing in such a paradise.
It was not so simple, though. There was a gaping hole within the Progenitors, a hole that could not be satisfied by a meaningless paradise. Perhaps it was an imperfection in their creation, or perhaps some inherent flaw in the material form. Even amid the majesty of the Garden, the flawless expanse of bounty, something was missing: something had not been given to them.
It was a sucking wound in their souls, and it pulled them inexorably to the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. It pulled them toward the Apple. Forever and ever, amen.
One day they stood before the Tree, their hands clasped together. It was the tallest structure in the Garden, its tremendous heights piercing the heavens like a living monolith. Its shimmering leaves bore every color of the rainbow, dancing and changing hues in the gentle winds of Eden. The boughs hung low with the weight of bounteous Apples, firm and glossy red. They were an impossible promise.
The Progenitors stared at the fruits with need. It was not a hunger of the body; no, it was deeper than that. It was the hunger to fill a void they could not articulate. They often found themselves visiting the Tree, gazing upon that which they must not taste, the siren’s song of the forbidden.
That day, however, was different.
“Hello, Adam. Hello, Eve,” a sibilant voice whispered to them.
An enormous Serpent wound sinuously down the trunk of the Tree, its radiant eyes filled with impossible warmth. It was a glorious creature, its luminescent scales matching the plumage of the Tree. The soft light of Eden’s gentle sun transformed the snake into a shifting rainbow.
The Serpent was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.
The Progenitors looked to each other, confused. They had not even known they had names, but they immediately knew these were correct. They felt right. He felt like an Adam, and she an Eve.
The Serpent coiled into a glowing mass at the foot of the Tree of Knowledge. His shining eyes weighed the humans; his tongue tasted their fear and confusion. The humans’ innocence, so sweet and childlike, only endeared them to the ancient spirit. They only added to the sins shouldered.
“Yes. You are Adam, and you are Eve. I am Raziel,” the creature hissed softly. The rasp of its words slid through the air like a jeweled knife.
“Hello, Raziel,” Adam said, and the name tasted strange in his mouth. It was a new thing to him, and it had been eons since there had been anything new. The Garden simply existed, and would for all time.
“Greetings, my friends. I see the two of you come often to look upon the Tree. What is it you seek?” the Serpent asked. Raziel turned his sinuous length to gaze at the arching canopy of the Tree above.
“I … I don’t know,” Eve replied, unsure of herself. “We are not to eat of this tree, for it brings Death.”
Raziel nodded solemnly. “That is most assuredly true. Eat of this fruit, and Death will come to you. You, and everything you know and love,” he replied. “This Garden will wither, and die. Both the Trees of Life and Knowledge shall burn to cinders. The world will groan beneath the weight of your damnation. Your children, and your children’s children, shall turn to ash and blow away in the scorching wind.”
Adam and Eve turned to each other in horror, their hands gripping one another’s fiercely. Fear rose in them from the Serpent’s words, but his warning was not the true source of the Progenitors’ distress; they feared because the words did not diminish their terrible hunger for the Apple.
If anything, the desire now burned even more fiercely within their souls.
Raziel observed them with pity, clutching each other in the throes of their torment. He unwound and slithered toward them, rainbow scales shifting prismatically. He raised his head to meet the humans’ gaze, luminous pools staring into their own.
“What is it you seek, children?” Raziel asked once more.
What was it they sought? Did they even know? Were there even words for the coal that lay smoldering in the depths of their hearts? All they knew was the yearning, the hunger for something beyond the perfect banality of their blessed existence.
“You call us children,” Adam replied in a trembling voice, a voice that had never before risen in anger. “And that’s what we are! We know nothing, we are nothing! We are but playthings, dolls cast of clay and mud!”
Raziel met Adam’s stare evenly. His beautiful eyes were wells of eternity, endless colors dancing within their depths. “And what would you have, child?”
“I would know, Serpent!” Adam cried, feeling a fury heretofore unknown. “I would know the world as God and His Angels do! I would tear the veil from this farce!”
“We
know nothing, Raziel,” Eve continued solemnly. “But we know there is more. We feel it in our bones, and we tire of being puppets in a show we do not understand.” She placed a gentle hand on Adam’s shoulder.
Sadness filled the Serpent’s bounteous heart. He turned away, lost in contemplation; lost in the waves of sorrow to come. Silence filled the glade for a time, but eventually Raziel turned to face the Progenitors once more.
“Know this, Adam and Eve; even should you gain the knowledge of the Apple, puppets you shall remain, even unto the end of time, itself. Such is our lot, yours and mine.” His words resonated as from a great depth, echoing from the darkness of before time.
“Then I would be a puppet who can at least see himself dance,” Adam declared. He stood proud, the father of generations to come.
“The spark of divinity always shines through, it seems,” the Serpent murmured to himself. “It can be no other way, I surmise.”
Raziel slid smoothly toward the two frail humans who, true to their nature, were always grasping. The price they must pay for the Knowledge was greater than they could yet comprehend, but they would learn. Their children would learn, yet they would never understand … for understanding was not one of the Apple’s gifts.
The Serpent felt sorrow for their fate, for his fate, but he also felt proud. He rose before them, weaving in the wind like a pillar of smoke.
“I ask you this, Adam and Eve, and think hard upon the answer,” Raziel roared, and his voice was terrible. A sound of thunder rose in the eternal garden. The boughs of the Tree of Knowledge quivered with the hurricane force of the Serpent’s words.
“Would you have Knowledge, though it costs you everything? Would you know Good and Evil as the Creator does, though it damns your children for eternity? Would you tear the veil from paradise, only to learn that all is ashes?”
Adam and Eve intertwined their fingers. They looked into each other’s eyes for the briefest moment. Words were unspoken: they had but once choice. They nodded as one.
“Yes,” they declared in unison.
