Musings and reflections, prophecies and polemics, chronicles and ledgers, songs and poems; declarations, proclamations, letters for audiences big and small—even for audiences of one. Rules of thumb and rules of force. Accounts told to in-form, and stories concocted to trans-form. Each a stone in a much larger mosaic, which, once assembled, would hint at some greater overarching truth. One which only God himself could digest fully.
The drumming of the earth and the incantations and his pounding heart coalesce into an overpowering tide which cannot be withstood. He looks to his hand to see that the knife is already there. Luminous and salivating. The gods want what they want he tells himself before raising it over his head. And then he catches a glimpse of his black horned reflection in the polished blade.
A demon if there ever was.
As he charged out of the ravine toward the besieged camp, his shadow barely kept up. His robe flowing out like the wings of some horned bird of prey. The trial of a new Satan had commenced. And with it, a destroying wind, unleashed against a world gone mad.
She pulled herself in tightly against him, her cheek pressed flat to his heart. As if the cure could somehow be extracted from the cause.
“I would say that, ‘yes’, strictly speaking, maybe you are evil. But a necessary evil. For such a being, there is a fine line between scourge and savior.”
Under the shade of the hood was a long and bone-plated face. Black and menacing. The eye sockets empty and bulged out. Side-facing. Just human enough to be haunting and inhuman enough to be monstrous.
But before the final blow could strike, that final tear of the arrow through the air, Samuel had to see with his eyes what his mind already knew. His eyes went right to it, about halfway up the sheer rock face beneath the city’s southern wall. One cannot miss the sight of a specter once it endeavors to be seen.
He wanted to believe, more than anything, that he would not end up crushing that beautiful hope within her. But underlying this fanciful desire was the weight of an accumulated darkness that told him otherwise.
Clearly, they were succumbing to second thoughts. Perhaps realizing that this was their chance to secure a reunion with their families rather than their ancestors.
But like a rabbit and a couple wild dogs momentarily locking eyes, their mutual bewilderment was quickly shattered by the instinctive understanding of their respective roles in the predator-prey relationship. All three broke out of the standstill simultaneously, as if a starting bell had been rung. The desperate race for survival had begun.
But their violence was undoubtedly the pragmatic kind, abhorring acts of excessive bloodshed if only for the mess and complication it brought. And it was hard to imagine a thing messier, and more complicating, than the massacre of an entire town.
“The gods get far more amusement in watching us twist in torment than they ever could by sparing us. But there is one among them who is different. Willing to get his hands dirty in this messy world, even if it means defying his celestial masters.”
“You speak of Satan.”
“Yes.”
“I could scream for help. I have relatives close by.”
“You can bring as many to Sheol with you as you’d like.”
Every unfiltered breath flooded his sinuses with the stench of cooked flesh. Nothing could be more monstrous. More horrid. A blight upon Creation that would render it forever tainted.
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The Satan and the Cherubim Overview
