by Craig Davis
Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies
By Craig Davis
23 Castlerock Cv. Jackson TN 38305
Copyright © 2005 Harry Craig Davis
ISBN: 978-0-9829567-1-7
Davis, Craig, Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies
[email protected]
www.StCelibart.com
“I have read all three of Davis’ works … I must say, though, that Feallengod seems a step above the others to me. In my opinion it is his best work and may be one of the major reasons Craig Davis was put on this earth. … I would highly recommend this book to anyone. Read it, and reread it.”
– Stephen Kennedy, Indigenous Outreach International
“Feallengod struck me differently because, in a way, it is hard to forget about our reality when this book is about the greater reality that is occurring in the Heavenly realm. That is something I love about allegory and what really makes this book worth reading. … Two enthusiastic thumbs WAY up! … because of the nature of the book, the quality of the writing, the character development and the nature of the plot.”
– Nick Brown
“If you're a fan of Screwtape, Dante, or Milton, you'll love this one. Few writers are able to weave so profound a tapestry like the one Mr. Davis has done here. It is profound in the sense that whatever you wish to get out of it you are sure to get. On the surface level the characters and plot flows along nicely to make for a wonderful fantasy tale, but if one has ears to hear, the deeper (and slower) you go you'll be sure to increase your understanding of the Scriptures and become a better Christian inevitably.”
– Jonathan Jones
BONUS STORY!
At the end of this book, after the appendix and map, you will find “You Can’t Count What Isn’t There,” the first story from the Southern Gothic collection A Time for Poncey – And other Stories out of Skullbone, available only at the Kindle Store.
Craig Davis Amazon author page
Feallengod
The Conflict in the Heavenlies
By Craig Davis
Prologue
The moon stares at me through the rough window; its bluish light shines across my table. A clear night, with stars scattered across the pitch-black sky, appears to me like great handfuls of seed strewn across rich soil. I can only wonder what he sees now.
I take the name Aberan Eft; it is to cover my guilt.
Not the name of my birth, when I broke out upon the island, yet it will remain always the only name I care to claim. The label attached to me by my parents — the man and woman whose passions burned hot for a moment but chilled their bones as I came of age — those years and years ago swallowed up by mists and trickery, never could it truly name me. No, like words thrown together to paint the plumage of some arbitrary bird, some rufous-sided yellow-crested warbler, a name should honestly hint at a man’s heart. Only the king knew my name, and only he knew when it would become a likely tag, able to truly know me.
Confession must make my beginning, for surely the things I have seen I have not always understood. Many before me have undertaken to write of what came to pass, but did they see? Have they comprehended? My pen leaves its dotted prints across the parchment now, vain attempt to record the truth passed before me, and what I have learned also from those witnesses from the beginning. But from the beginning, I confess I did not understand. Not until these final moments have my dark eyes finally lit, washed at last by honest tears of grief and joy. And yet still not completely so; but he grants me peace.
These events I have known — Lord, they haunt me, some of them haunt me still. Yet the blessedness of their burning would I offer no other man, out of avarice I admit and yet still pity. Who am I, the scribe of such crucial workings? To see through the shadows thrown by the past; to know that the minds and muscles of men only pour into the mold of the future; to realize the present is held in hand, though it tease grasping fingertips: These sweet Sirens could drive the most determinedly anguished man into utter peace. To know the suffering of the day is not without reason ...
“Begone! I cast you to the battleground!”
What else am I to do? His messenger has so commanded me. Deep in my chambers he visited: “The king requires it of thee.” He reveals the forbidden scrolls, even those from the inner sanctuary, and allows my eyes to see. “But only one is worthy to read,” I say. “The king requires it, and so all generations will know it of thee, that thy work bears the seal of the king.” The scrolls lay like shackles upon my wrists, and the candles and incense and words burn hot; they sting my eyes and nose. Like a general in disgrace, I acquiesce to fate, I fall upon my pen.
So I take up the quill. The black of the ink lends the scribe his only boldness; my enclave, stones so heavy from the ancient quarry, makes my comfort and safety. And what fear is left to still lurk, at least until the time? So I must transcribe, a troubadour — though what trust should lie to me to write of such things? My king, have mercy upon me; help me speak rightly of you. Much have I seen, and much have I learned through the wretchedness born of this little kingdom, and the caress of grace. And for what reason walk we here, but to reveal your wonder? To what purpose was torment ours, but to demonstrate your kindness? Magister, though we are fallen into wonder and doubt, still your praises rise among the mountains. But how can I bless you, so arrogant to presume upon the king’s abundance? What I can offer would be only insult to you. My king, if only I could bless you! The scratching of the quill speaks comfort in the warm loneness; my pen bleeds truth.
My poor, tired eyes, they peer blankly like the great stones of this cleric’s cell — ancient and hard, a random glistening of moisture, a hint of green. I am a man, and that is all. A noble creation, perhaps, but cursed by the frailties of my kind. Frail, but with a whisper of power, to endure the conflict of our appointment, too often abused, too often neglected. Powerful, but proud as well, proud of that power in such a way as to destine failure. The humility of our mundane lives, sacrificed to brutish pursuits and tragic ends, we suffer no greater affliction, and therein opens the door also to our greatest victory won. And surely I stand foremost of all who have abandoned themselves to those first things, if not the second. But perhaps I fulfilled his designs all along, for “where offense is greatest, there mercy proves finest.” Regrets make for poor company, anyway.
Never did a figure come less important into a tale, never a chronicler more the villain. The boy I was passed through the community like every other. Ages ago all seemed pure; how shades of the past fail us, to remember well, to remember rightly. Was not all deceit, even then? Lies spin upon themselves in demon rage. During the days of the stone law, in the shadow of the high mountains, I existed blissfully ignorant of both, but surely I lived always under the baleful eye of Domen. The day I learned my debt to the stone, so also I knew to fear the mountain. The strength of my limbs as I had run through the meadows and raced past the orchards, the beating of heart and bursting lungs my only concern — ah, all cast that day into the prison of memory, and my spirit limped feebly within. One heart stops, and many die. On that day I wept more for myself than for my homeland; how the times would change such impudence.
As a man I thoughtlessly bent many labors at the behest of my countrymen and received benevolence from many others. The quarries required their share of my sweat, and the docks allowed me to taste the sea spray. Maidens well hidden in the still night and bedcovers drew me into their own adventure, feeding my flesh and yet leaving it always hungering. Never did a man feast more on pastries yet desire dense, rough bread. And then too my companion, that old man, following me like a dog to a meat cart. Everywhere I saw
him, in my most secret moments I could see him peering, smirking. How I hated him, yet always I clung, embraced him to my breast. Laugh he would as I cursed the feet that brought him near, and I wept and grieved, and threw my arm around his shoulder. And his eyes did peer at me, his face smirked.
Blinding lies, and yet the truth more so. And always the stone. Always that rock hung over me like a great granite foundation stone suspended, waiting, longing for some great structure to take up and support. Slowly it frayed its ropes, never bending at my failure, always menacing me with the mountain, beckoning that damned mountain spirit, the cold spectre of doom. Oh, how I longed for that shadow to retreat from my head, to allow the brightness of the sun — and then it did. But mine is not the story I must tell, though it is, and is not.
No, I must sing of my homeland, the tale of a bloody battleground. Having seen as a child the blessing of the island, I reaped unto myself only more grievous mourning at its curse. But have you not established us for this very calling? The long feather quill tickles at my chin, it entangles my beard, long and gray in these latter days. The events that now flow in ink first flowed in your mind, my lord. Did you not place your people upon this solitary, secluded land for your purpose, long before you placed this pen in my hand? May the telling of your story, Magister, bring fruit from these desiccated, sinewed branches, these limbs dried by age and cares. Oh my king, take this little pearl, take this charred wasteland, and redeem it for the destiny you have decreed.
I call my name Aberan Eft. I dwell upon Feallengod.
