Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  The temple-palace has become dark around us, but for a tube of painful effulgence radiating from above. We are bleached to invisibility in this light; it is full of spinning motes, like dust in sunlight on a quiet summer afternoon. The enormous wings beat slowly and we ascend the tube of light. Is this really their soulscape?

  My thoughts are his thoughts, because I am a single feather in the joint of his wing. He can taste my feelings. ‘It is just another world,’ he says, ‘but the soulscape too. I will take you to a place where you can work for as long as you like. It will please you.’

  Where?’

  ‘An other place.’

  ‘What shall I do there?’

  ‘Gather up the veils that you will find; all of them. Destroy them!’

  It seems so simple. I know I can do what he tells me.

  Lying back in the summery softness of his warmth, I can smell mimosa, jasmine, sacred rose. We rise up, up, through clouds of different hues until we come to a green and blue place where a gate hangs in the sky. Here, he pauses.

  ‘Through the gate; you must pass through,’ he says.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes. I cannot pass.’

  Suddenly, I am standing before him on a grassy road. In one direction, there are fields. It is the direction we have come from. In the other, is a dark forest. He has condensed into the form of a tall winged man, sheathed in silver scales. Long, dark hair falls over his shoulders. A scabbard hangs from his hip, but there is no sword. I know he is smiling, even though I cannot truly perceive his features.

  ‘Go now,’ he says. ‘Into the forest.’

  ‘To look for veils?’

  ‘Yes. Veils. They are stretched across the trees. Tear them up. Only you can do this Rayojini.’

  As we talk, facing each other, I begin to understand the concept of reality again. I can feel the air against my skin. What am I doing here? Who is this creature?

  ‘Why do you want me to do this?’ I ask him.

  ‘It will release your world from a curse.’

  The eloim? Imaginary beings? It’s madness to believe this creature is really from Eleneon. It’s more likely I’m using imagery that my mind has accumulated in Sacramante. The realistic hallucinations have stimulated all my senses, but I must not forget my training. In succumbing to the visions - believing them - I am no longer worthy of the title soulscaper. This creature before me is a visualisation of my higher spiritual self. Therefore, I should listen to him.

  My explanation sounds so plausible: why do I feel uneasy about it?

  ‘But what will actually happen if I tear down these veils?’ I ask. ‘I can’t undertake a task without knowing the consequences.’

  He flickers, and the light within him momentarily dims. ‘You must do it,’ he says. ‘Neither you nor I have a choice in the matter.’

  ‘That’s no answer!’ I tell him. ‘There is always a choice.’

  ‘Remember the passage I read to you from the book in Sacramante, Rayojini. Now, it’s your task to rid the Earth of the parasites who feed upon humanity. It is the ultimate testing of your prowess.’

  Am I being deceived again?

  I hear him laughing. ‘You still do not believe, do you, soulscaper,’ he says. ‘You are an eternal sceptic.’

  ‘Maybe, but scepticism has kept me sane,’ I reply.

  ‘Sanity is no help to you here.’

  If I have created this radiant spirit, then why have I wounded him? Blood is trickling between the scales of his armour. I have not noticed it before. ‘You are bleeding,’ I say.

  ‘I have bled forever,’ he says, as if he was speaking about the colour of his skin or hair. It is simply a part of him.

  ‘Above the heart?’ I say. I know it is symbolic. Then, I remember the story of Mikha’il and his brother. Sammael was wounded above the heart. Can this be Sammael? No. The legendary Lord of Light and his followers are supposed to be the ones who are preventing me from entering the eloim soulscape.

  He nods slowly. ‘Yes, I am wounded, as I have inflicted wounds. Mine will never heal.’

  At these words, a fresh rill of blood spills over the silver scales. ‘The bleeding is getting worse!’ I say. ‘Look, the blood is running down onto the grass.’

  He puts his fingers against the wound, and then his head jerks back, as if he has heard a faint, far cry.

  ‘What was that?’ I ask. He does not answer me, but his wings lift a little. The thin stream of blood has reached my toes. I take a step back.

  ‘Go into the forest,’ he says. ‘Now!’ When he turns his head, I can see that his eyes have become silver flame. I shrink backwards, towards the trees. The force of his eyes pushes me back.

  ‘Hurry, Rayo!’ The voice is Keea’s.

  ‘No, you still haven’t told me the consequences of this action. Who are you? What are you?’ If he has been created by my imagination, then he must speak.

  He does not answer. His movements have become graceless; he stumbles on the road, slipping in blood. ‘Please hurry.’

  ‘Tell me why I must do this!’

  ‘Because my brother...’

  Even as he speaks, his voice is engulfed by a mighty, booming shout. The sound of it fills the air, and it cries: ‘MIKHA’IL!’

  The shout splits the sky. The whole of reality becomes the name, and it is not just a call, but also a question. Mikha’il: son of Eloat. In my soulscape? Is that possible? Suddenly, my mind opens out as if someone, or something, has turned a key and flung its locked doors wide. I accept what I perceive as reality. I am not insane, after all. I am living a dream, but it is not fantasy. ‘I know you,’ I say, pointing at him. ‘You are...’

  ‘MIKHA’IL!’

  The sound of his name has become beating wings. He seems to summon up the threads of his strength and leaps up from the road. For a moment, he has forgotten me, and I watch him as he grows, filling up the sky. I am ankle-deep in his blood, and the smell of it is terrible. It smells like grief. With a sweep of his hand, he hurls me towards the trees. ‘Tear the veils!’ he cries. ‘Go into the forest and rip them to shreds. Now!’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I will not do that. I can’t do that! My work is that of a healer. Convince me that ripping down the veils will accomplish some healing, and I will do it. Otherwise...’ I shake my head. I am not afraid of him. The worst thing he can do to me is take my life, and that is not so bad.

  He doubles up in pain and clutches himself above the heart. He cannot stem the flow of blood. ‘Please do as I tell you, Rayo,’ he says, ‘before it is too late.’

  ‘The veils represent the souls of eloim on Earth, don’t they,’ I say. ‘If I tear them down, I will be helping you destroy the artisans. Then, the creature called Eloat will have authority over my world. I remember the story you read to me - every word of it. It wasn’t a biased account, I know it wasn’t.’

  ‘We cannot prevent the inevitable!’ Mikha’il says. ‘Rayo, the time of Eloat has come to Earth. You cannot stop it.’

  ‘Maybe not, but neither will I make it easy for him! You can’t convince me that humanity will benefit from Eloat’s influence! The artisans prey, they drink blood, but for all their depredations, our world is far from stagnant. I don’t like the thought of a stagnant world, Mikha’il, and I am sure that is what we’d have under your father’s dominion. I will not help you.’

  He shrinks in stature and becomes a man, just Keea, standing there, looking at me, pale from blood loss, clutching an ancient wound.

  ‘You do not understand, Rayo,’ he says. ‘Eloat’s will must be done. I cannot fight it. You cannot fight it. My father is too powerful. You must help me! Until my brother and his followers are dead, I am condemned to suffer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a punishment for failing to destroy them before.’

  ‘Do you really want to kill them?’ I ask him gently. ‘Destruction is not the answer. It seems to me that Eloat is only interested in acquiring power over humanity. The artisans stand
in his way. And you, Mikha’il, are an unwilling assassin, for all your deceptions and trickery.’

  He smiles weakly. ‘Do not try to work your art on me, Rayo. There is no point. I have no autonomy to heal myself.’

  He is a pathetic creature. I feel only pity for him. ‘I cannot do what you ask,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ll willingly do anything I can to help solve the dilemma between the artisans and humanity. If I can heal the eloim of their mindsickness, I’ll do that too.’

  He shakes his head vehemently. ‘You should not care about the eloim. They drink the blood of humankind.’

  It all seems so clear to me now. ‘Maybe they had to, because they were trapped on Earth. They gave us so much in return. They gave us knowledge. They gave us art. For all I know, they gave us soulscaping. Now, you want me to destroy them? No. You are wrong.’

  Where do these words come from? Why am I so sure? I have Gimel’s image in my head as I speak. She has never tried to prey on me. Yet, she could have done, surely? And Beth, what had he brought me but forbidden pleasure in my dreams. If he had bitten me then, he had not drawn blood. Neither of them had behaved as mindless predators. They had invaded my life because they needed me. And Keea had intercepted me before I could hear the truth from them.

  This is an alien land, and I don’t know how to get back to my reality, but I am jubilant. Now, I begin to understand.

  Mikha’il is fading, even as I watch. Eloat overestimates his power. Mikha’il is a tortured being, and his suffering is weakness. To govern by subjection and torture is a mistake.

  ‘You have deceived me,’ I say. ‘You perverted the image of Gimel Metatronim in my mind. You manipulated me, you humiliated me, and you tried to break my sanity with your illusion-spinning in Khalt and the Strangeling! I know that now.’

  He cries out, and falls to his knees. I walk towards him through the foam of blood and lean down. Beneath my hand, he feels human. He is shaking. When he looks up at me, there are tears in his eyes. ‘The things you say are true,’ he says, weakly. ‘But I was created for only for one purpose. And it destroys me. What can I do? I can only obey the command of my creator.’

  ‘Why not let the cycle complete itself?’ I ask him. ‘You know that your brother was supposed to take the place of Eloat. Why not let that happen? We can do something to begin that process in this place. Will it kill you to help me do that?’

  Mikha’il screws up his eyes. He appears to be very near death. ‘I am not allowed to do that,’ he says. ‘My life or death means nothing.’

  ‘Not to Eloat, no, but to Sammael?’

  At the mention of his brother’s name, his eyes fill with fear. ‘You should not have said that name. He will have heard you. He is coming. I feel it.’

  My body aches in resonance with his eternal sorrow.

  ‘I am an idea, a purpose,’ he says. ‘Nothing beyond that. I am not a brother, not a lover, not even a son.’ He reaches out with red, sticky fingers to clutch at my coat. I take his hands in my own.

  ‘Sammael is coming,’ I say. ‘Wait for him.’

  He moves feebly in my arms. ‘Wait for him? Then I wait for death. He will not forgive me. From him, I can expect only vengeance.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You are only human. This is beyond your experience.’

  ‘Maybe so, but in my human ignorance I still recall the account you read to me in Sacramante, and how it told of Sammael’s grief. It did not speak of vengeance.’

  ‘Oh, Rayo, I hurt so much. I will bleed until Sammael is dead or he has killed me! Look at me. It is too late.’ He groans and convulses. ‘Hold me, Rayo, hold me tight. Make me feel something. I cannot feel...’ His head lolls against my chest and I hold his body very tightly. It is so light, less weight than a small child, as if all its substance is floating away like dust. I am soaked in his blood, his holy blood. I hold onto him, willing him substance, willing him flesh. ‘Come soon,’ I cry, inside my head. ‘Please come soon, come soon!’

  ‘Forgive me, Rayo,’ Mikha’il says; it is a weak sound.

  I kiss his hair. ‘Hush. We are all puppets, in one way or another. I do not blame you.’ I can’t stop the tears falling from my eyes. I am weeping for the world, for Mikha’il, for Gimel. I am weeping for myself. Is this the end of everything, here on an empty road, with a dying spirit in my arms? I solved the puzzle too late. If I had listened to Q’orveh, would it have made any difference? Still, no point in crying about it now. I am facing the unknown and, in these last moments, my old vigour returns in force. This is an adventure, and I am not afraid. ‘Hold on,’ I say to Mikha’il. ‘Hold on. I am with you.’ He does not answer. Perhaps he is already dead.

  Then, we are surrounded by light, light so dense and real we could gather it up in our arms, eat it, bathe in it, clothe ourselves in it. I see a being of light, manifesting in the sky before us, similar to Mikha’il, as I had first seen him, yet stronger, more vital. It is a creature of purpose and intention, whose motives are founded in greater concerns than fear of punishment. It can only be the brother of Mikha’il. He comes towards us and all I am holding in my arms is the fragment of a fragile soul. This, I offer up to the Prince of Light. Before he takes this burden from me, he asks, ‘Do you act of your own free will?’ He asks me that. I cannot believe it, and can hardly answer.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’

  Then he stoops and becomes, as Mikha’il did, a tall winged man, standing upon the road, but he does not wear armour; he is as naked as love, clothed only in his wings. His hair is exactly the same colour as the blood all around me. He kneels down in front of me and takes the smoky vestiges of his brother into his arms. ‘Mikha’il, I am here. I have you,’ he says, and with his fingernails, rips the skin of his own chest, above the heart. He places Mikha’il’s insubstantial head against the wound, and lets his brother drink. It is so bizarre, so like a mother with her child. And, just like a woman carelessly breastfeeding an infant, he talks to me while the meal is taken. ‘You are Rayojini,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Gimel has told me about you. She chose well.’

  ‘I have done nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Precisely,’ Sammael answers, and smiles.

  Mikha’il has regained his substance. He does not look like Keea any more, nor even Gimel. I realise that he is the person who pressed the coin into my hand at Ykhey’s gates, the strange figure I’d seen sneaking out of the upper room at the Temple Gate Inn. He is still weak, and lies helplessly in his brother’s arms, but I know he is no longer dying.

  ‘Now, we must conclude our business,’ Sammael says, and gets to his feet, dragging Mikha’il to a shaky stand.

  ‘My purpose is to kill you,’ Mikha’il says. ‘I am the obstacle in your path. Why sustain me? Why hold me now? I am your nemesis.’

  ‘My purpose is to love you,’ Sammael replies, ‘and you are only an obstacle if you will it so. I shall sustain you for eternity, for we are the future of two worlds. Separately, we are in conflict, but together, we are Potential.’

  I stand apart from them, watching, listening.

  ‘You desire power!’ Mikha’il cries. It seems that, even now, he is still clinging onto the lies he has been taught.

  Sammael has great patience. ‘I desire change,’ he says softly, ‘for the good of all. I am a servant of Elenoen and Earth, not a god. That is the difference you must understand.’

  ‘You are lying!’ Mikha’il cries, struggling in Sammael’s hold. ‘This cannot be true!’

  Sammael will not let him go. ‘How can I persuade you?’ he asks, and I can hear desperation in his voice. ‘By saying that in memory of you, I have lived apart from my people for hundreds of years? By telling you I never gave up hoping, that I knew the time would come when the arrested possibilities began to flow? You think I want to become Eloat? You are wrong; it is a lonely, terrible existence. And yet, it is my destiny. I have no choice, no matter how strongly I would like, at this moment, to take you
back to Earth and hide. We could hide, Mikha’il. I could take you beyond the reach of Eloat’s whip. Without you, it will take Eloat aeons to penetrate Earth’s reality again. We could be together for that long. But I will deny myself such contentment. This is the only proof I can give you of my intention. I have waited, Mikha‘il, to tell you these things, and I trust your integrity. Do not disappoint me.’

  Mikha’il turns his head to look at me. Does he really want my counsel? I am only human. ‘Try it,’ I say. ‘What have you to lose? If believing Sammael is the wrong decision, you will die, and Earth will suffer, but if it is the right decision, anything could happen. Great and wondrous things, perhaps. If I were you, I’d just believe him. It’s worth the risk, isn’t it?’

  ‘Listen to her,’ Sammael says, ‘human minds are full of marvels. Eloat will not be able to resist our combined intention to remove him and to rid our world of its stagnation. Let the new day dawn. Conjoin with me again, and we’ll take this power home.’

  Their communion is beyond my comprehension. I see two winged beings, neither male nor female, spiralling up, in a tangle of wings. They begin to spin, so fast, it is impossible to discern the two separate beings at all, and when the spinning stops, there is only one.

  I jump up, suffused by wild joy. ‘Who are you?’ I cry out.

  ‘Samikha’il!’ they answer, and I begin to laugh, the breathtaking laughter of tears.

  Samikha’il holds a sword in his hand. It is a sword of energy, the energy of raw creativity. There is a sound around me like lightning shattering plates of glass the size of the Earth. ‘Help me make me a doorway, Rayojini,’ Samikha’il says.

  ‘A doorway into where? Earth reality?’

  ‘No. Elenoen. We must pass through and put an end to this conflict once and for all, for the sake of both our worlds. Samikha’il cannot make this portal alone. In our combined state, we are detected as a threat, and there is opposition, but you, you can do it.’

  ‘How?’ I screech, my fists bunched in frustration. ‘I don’t know Elenoen! I can’t visualise how to reach it!’