Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Another Book From This Author
Copyright Information
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Garden of Salt and Stone.
Copyright © 2017 by A. L. Burgess Jr.
The right of A. L. Burgess Jr. to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher. For information or extended permissions, please contact the publisher at:
www.GardenOfSaltAndStone.com.
ISBN: 978-0-9915621-6-9 (trade p,bk)
ISBN: 978-0-9915621-7-6 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017912510
First Edition, 2017
For Lillian—
Cherish every piece of clay you add to your sculpture of life.
Prologue
Weathered hands finished smoothing over the mud-like lime mortar that coated the home’s demure walls. Nicholas, a man of small stature and aged beyond his true years, knelt near the freshly repaired area and placed an open palm on the hardening mixture. He mumbled incoherently while his brown eyes feverishly scanned the new surface looking for the slightest of imperfections. After a long moment, Nicholas nodded his head of unkempt black hair and rose to inspect the totality of his work. Satisfied that his effort would go unnoticed, he carefully maneuvered a well-worn table back into its former position to obscure the reconstruction.
Nicholas’s vocal pronouncements grew louder and more frenetic. Without warning, a sudden and intense bolt of anger coursed through his body causing him to spin around and face the home’s sparsely furnished interior. He thrust a trembling finger toward an imaginary antagonist. “Never speak of it!” he screamed into the unoccupied, medieval dwelling. “Demons covet that which I would give freely, and they watch it still!”
The sharp sound of Nicholas’s own voice startled the monk back to awareness. He stood, staring into the small confines of the darkened room trying to comprehend the nature of the specters that had long haunted him.
A grinding metallic noise alerted Nicholas to the presence of someone at the front door. He surveyed the room for any telltale signs of his recent activity and wiped his hands clean on his tattered robes.
A young woman wearing a heavy, drab-colored dress entered the home. Startled by the monk, the woman shrieked and dropped her basket, spilling its meager goods across the wooden floor. “Get out! My husband told you to never come back!”
Nicholas gazed absently at the young lady. “Forgive me. They beseeched me to come.”
The woman sneered at the bewildering statement and pointed to the open door. “Leave!”
Nicholas nodded and made for the door. “May God protect you,” he said, moving meekly past the woman and onto the porch.
The door slammed shut behind Nicholas, and he heard a wooden lock sliding into place to bar his return. He lingered on the porch, quelling the voices in his head and listening to the owner’s footfalls as she retreated into the home. He took a heavy breath and bent down to retrieve a small earthenware jar from behind a stack of firewood near the front door. A clear viscous liquid spilled over the jug’s open brim as he hoisted it to his hip. With his free hand, Nicholas pulled an old rosary from his pocket and wrapped it around the small pot. He held the two carefully together and set off down a dirt road to the nearby village of San Cielo.
It was nearly midmorning and the small town was abuzz with the day’s activities. Early spring brought an influx of travelers from all classes of society. Pilgrims from Western Europe headed to the Middle East and points beyond, stopping at the strategically-situated hamlet to rest and replenish their supplies. As was the custom during the first few days of spring, a large bonfire burned at the center of the village to welcome the visitors and to ward off evil spirits that otherwise would lay waste to a healthy new growing season.
Carefully carrying his burden, Nicholas navigated the crowded streets. His haggard appearance allowed him to keep a low profile and to blend in with the weary travelers. He set his eyes on the column of smoke rising from the spring bonfire and pushed forward.
The first townsfolk to see Nicholas wading through the sea of pilgrims were the blacksmith and the men of the livery. The monk ambled past the smithy, catching the attention of the tradesmen during their afternoon libations. They stopped drinking in order to get a good look at the aloof clergyman.
“Get out of here!” the blacksmith spat. “You’re not welcome!”
Laughing drunkenly at the sight of the slovenly monk, one of the livery men spewed, “You bring the devil with you!”
Nicholas cast a wary glance at the jeering men. “I forgive you—God forgives you all.”
The blacksmith took exception. “God? What do you know of the Almighty?”
Stung by the words, Nicholas ignored the carousers and pressed on.
“You’ve been defrocked, you crazy old monk!” the blacksmith bellowed after him. When the reclusive hermit failed to stop, the blacksmith furrowed his brow and hefted his forging hammer. “I won’t allow him to do this again.”
The intoxicated men of the livery paused to gauge the seriousness of their friend’s outburst, and then laughed him off.
“He invites Lucifer,” the blacksmith said. “Who would stop him?”
The liverymen held their friend’s stern gaze for a brief moment and looked away.
“I thought so,” the blacksmith grumbled and strode off after the monk.
The deeper Nicholas pushed into San Cielo, the more its residents took notice. The villagers were terrified the fallen monk would cast a wicked spell on their omen of good fortune and doom them to wallow in the clutches of starvation for the entire year.
The people of the town formed a loose mob around the old clergyman, following Nicholas closely and forcing unwary pilgrims to the side. A group of children threw rocks at the wayward monk while the adults hurled a barrage of taunts and insults. The few brave enough to have physical contact with Nicholas tried to halt his advance, but the monk broke free of the forceful attempts and continued.
Nicholas approached the town’s bonfire and raised an arm skyward.
Frightened, a man from the village threw a large stone, striking the monk squarely in the chest. “You will curse us all!”
One of the women stepped out of the crowd and hurled another stone that found its mark. “Satan is your master now!”
The blacksmith stood in the rear of the group and dropped his hammer. He picked up a large rock and held it aloft. “Stone him!” he yelled, eliciting cheers from the crowd.
“Hold!” a mounted nobleman commanded, pointing his b
roadsword at the blacksmith and then back to the gathered crowd. “Why do you treat this monk so?”
The crowd erupted into a litany of off-handed remarks, but the blacksmith’s voice rose above them. “He is possessed by demons—he will bring the plague upon us once again!”
The nobleman nodded and maneuvered his horse to face Nicholas. “Does this man speak the truth, monk?”
Nicholas heard the nobleman’s words but showed no sign of understanding their meaning. He shook his head forcefully. “They cannot have it; I will not let them!”
The nobleman eased his horse closer. “What do they want?”
A shudder ran the length of Nicholas’s body as he locked eyes with the nobleman. “All of creation will be doomed,” he responded, raising the earthenware jar aloft as if to strike the rider.
Fearing for his safety and those around him, the nobleman pointed his sword at the monk. “Withdraw!”
“Do you not see?” Nicholas asked. “This is the only way.” The monk upended the clay jug and poured the viscous liquid over his frayed robes. When the vessel dripped out the last of its contents, he threw it to the ground.
“Lamp oil,” the nobleman muttered. “Certainly, there must be another way?”
“No,” Nicholas replied. “God requires it.”
The blacksmith pushed his way through the crowd and approached the monk. He drew a burning branch from the bonfire and pointed it at the clergyman.
Nicholas moved forward and placed a hand on the smoldering bough to stop the blacksmith. “That would be a sin, my son.”
Seeing only sincerity on the monk’s face, the blacksmith lost his nerve and let go of the branch.
Nicholas held the tinder and stared solemnly at those assembled around him. “I forgive you all,” he said and set fire to his body. The monk fell to his knees and writhed in pain, but made no sound as he burned to death.
Chapter 1
Lucifer stood on the rim of a steep incline overlooking a sprawling valley of exceptional beauty. His piercing white eyes scanned the lush trees and fruit-bearing plants below. As was the case with all angels, his sight was keen and the vast distances were of no concern. The angel concentrated his attention near the center of the valley and furrowed his brow in contempt at the sight of two humans cavorting in the warm sunshine.
At nearly ten-feet tall, Lucifer stood head and shoulders above most of the other angels. His broad shoulders and slim physique gave Lucifer an air of confidence, while his platinum-blond hair and olive skin spoke to his refined elegance and grace. His brilliant white robes were indistinguishable in color from his folded wings stored neatly behind him. Every aspect of Lucifer’s being exuded his status as a respected leader among his divine brethren.
The sound of beating wings announced two angels who flew in from the crystal-blue sky and landed on the precipice near Lucifer. Both wore similar off-white robes, but each brought a bearing as distinct as their personalities.
The smaller of the two was slim and frail, almost to the point of being feminine. He had a pale complexion and sported curly tufts of dark brown hair. His eyes bordered on emerald green and stood out amongst his rather plain facial features. The other angel was brutish in form. His muscular build and stern gaze gave the angel an unwelcoming appearance. His striking red eyes peered out from under his rust-colored hair and punctuated his ill-tempered demeanor.
“Sitri, Asmodeus,” Lucifer said, acknowledging the two angels. “I trust you bring good news?”
Asmodeus cast his crimson gaze to the ground. “Scarcely a third will join in your efforts.”
“Many trust the Creator’s judgment,” added Sitri.
Lucifer frowned. “In other words, they believe I’m exceeding my authority and being rebellious.”
Asmodeus raised his broad hand in a tempering gesture. “None have said as much.”
“Do they not see what is happening?” Lucifer asked absently, shaking his head in disgust and pointing at the humans in the valley. “They will supplant us and we will be deemed unworthy—all for the trust in him?”
“My lord—”
“Do not call me that!” Lucifer spat. “I need no homage from my brothers and sisters.”
“Forgive me,” Asmodeus said, bowing his head.
“I have no power to forgive either,” Lucifer said dryly, casting a mournful glance at both angels. “For that, you must beg our Creator.”
Asmodeus and Sitri stepped back and respectfully waited for the moment to pass.
“A third,” Lucifer mulled, pacing back and forth. “Hard to fathom that only a minority feel as maligned as we do.”
“Perhaps we could postpone the endeavor until more favor our position?” Sitri asked.
“No,” Lucifer replied. “We will not receive more support than has already been gained. I had hoped for a diplomatic solution, but the longer we wait, the more our brothers and sisters will turn against us. We cannot linger and must proceed forward if we are to stem the coming tide.”
“Will not the Almighty be more powerful?” Sitri asked. “Surely, the others will come to his defense.”
Asmodeus shook his head. “Lucifer, we are not ready. We cannot hold off twice our number as well as the Creator’s wrath. I fear failure will be upon us.”
“I do not know which is more troubling: your cowardice or your lack of faith,” Lucifer scolded both angels. “Did both of you not choose to follow me willingly?”
A solemn chorus of agreement echoed hollowly from the two angels.
“Then both of you must choose to have faith.”
Asmodeus and Sitri acknowledged their acceptance with a curt bow.
“This will be his undoing,” Lucifer said, stretching out his arm to sweep across the expansive view of the valley below.
“The Garden of Eden?” Asmodeus asked.
“It is more than a simple garden,” Lucifer corrected. “The Almighty created it for the humans and filled it with wonders. There are secrets within that I believe will ultimately bring about his downfall and that of the humans as well.”
“In what way could you use the Garden against them?” Asmodeus asked. “I see no way forward.”
“Of course you do not,” Lucifer replied. “I have studied the humans and their habitat since both were brought into existence. In my anger—” he paused and composed himself. “In my research, I found that both the Garden and the humans were connected. Those trees at the center,” Lucifer said, pointing to a pair of young fig trees that grew near a natural spring whose copious runoff supplied all of the creeks and rivers of the Garden. “They are tied to Creation itself and must be integral in some way to the fate of the humans.”
Sitri rubbed his jaw as he studied the far-off trees while Asmodeus nodded knowingly as if following the logic, but in truth, neither was closer to understanding the import of the facts presented to them.
Lucifer sighed heavily at the ignorance of his two subordinates. “The Almighty dotes on them like spoiled children. He is blinded by his love for them. They were given free will, yet they use it poorly. If we can influence their behavior slightly, we can catch the Almighty off-guard and exploit the situation to our advantage.”
Lucifer’s plan intrigued the two angels, but their interest soon faded once they scrutinized the extenuating circumstances surrounding Adam and Eve.
“They cannot leave the Garden, and we cannot enter,” Sitri said. “How could we possibly influence them?”
“Two angels may enter,” Asmodeus corrected. “The Guardian will be of no use to us and Adam’s teacher—” Realization washed across his face. “You intend to ask Lilith for help?”
“She loved Adam,” Lucifer acknowledged with heartfelt sorrow, “and he turned his back on her to fawn over a contrived, frail woman conceived as a muse because of his own shortcomings.”
“Are you certain of this? Lilith is—”
“More powerful than you will ever be,” Lucifer snarled.
“Yes,” Asmodeus r
eplied, “but what if she loves him still? Why would she betray him for you?”
Pain and anger contorted Lucifer’s visage. He had loved Lilith since the day they were forged from the ether of Creation. They traveled the newly-formed cosmos in blissful companionship until that one fateful day when the human known as Adam rose into being. Lilith was so smitten with the abomination that she left Lucifer to be with him. Lucifer was devastated. He had given Lilith everything. He had been her devout companion through an eternity of exploration, and yet Lilith chose to be with Adam. Eventually, the human grew tired of Lilith and shunned her for yet another of his own kind: Eve. To hear now that Lilith may still love Adam was as unbearable for Lucifer as the day she left. He gathered his emotions and let his anger subside until a melancholic acceptance settled over him. “Lilith must help us—our plan is for naught without her.”
“And the Creator’s wrath?” Asmodeus asked. “What would you do to forestall his might against us?”
Lucifer let a smile escape his otherwise pained façade. “I have been laboring on a solution to that very problem, and I am very close to completing it.”
Chapter 2
The faded brown convertible sped along the narrow and twisting country roads of the Italian foothills. Peter Andrews was gleeful behind the wheel of the rented car and kept his hazel eyes glued to the road. His closely cropped auburn hair stirred with the breeze, and the sun glinted off his silver-rimmed eyeglasses as he pushed the car through several high-speed straight stretches and white-knuckle, tire-squealing curves.
Peter’s wife, Renée Alcott-Andrews, gripped the passenger door with her right hand and held her summer hat tightly to her head with the other. Uncontained strands of blonde hair fluttered in the vortices created by the open-air car. “Slow down, Peter!” she yelled over the rushing wind. “You’re going to kill us!”
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