Fall of Lucifer (27 page)

His eyes were growing accustomed to the strange, unearthly light. He could vaguely make out eight or nine tall forms next to the fourth burning lamp: the Watchers, guardians of the flame. Tall and silent warriors, they stood with flaming broadswords. No word had ever been uttered from their mouths, for their mouths had been sealed with the very coals that they were guarding.

Michael stood next to the cavern wall, catching his breath. Beyond this point he had never dared venture. Nor had any archangel, for surely this was the hidden sanctum of the Ancient Ones. What did the labyrinths house? Sacred mysteries? Hidden treasures of His person?

The Watchers remained still. Michael saw them bow in recognition of his personage.

A voice from somewhere deep within the chamber echoed, ‘Celestial prince of Yehovah’s presence, commander of heaven’s armies, full of holiness and valour.’

As one the Watchers raised their flaming swords to him in brief acknowledgment . . . then returned to their worship of Yehovah.

Michael continued through the darkness. As he passed the Watchers on the fifth level, a great and terrible fright took hold of him. Still he ascended . . . to the sixth eternal flame . . . past the very fear of Yehovah.

Then he saw them: the Watchers of the seventh flame.

The dread warriors’ faces were as flint. The Watchers beheld him. As one, they lifted the weapons that barred his way through to the seventh chamber. Slowly, so slowly, he walked on through a huge iron grid.

Facing Michael was a strange and twisted crown. It was mesmerizing. He could hardly withdraw his eyes from it. In a manner that he did not understand, it held a strange and terrible beauty.

Michael reached out his hand to it . . . it ripped his flesh. He withdrew in agony. As he looked more intently at the crown, he realized that it was made up of huge, jagged thorns.

But he knew to move deeper into the cavern. As he did so, the Watchers drew back and disappeared. He was alone.

As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he saw a large hill far in the distance. Facing him in the darkness was a group of beings that seemed not to be angels, for their bodies were not transparent.

‘Man,’ Michael whispered.

But as he watched more closely, he did not understand. For they were dressed as warriors in gold and crimson, but they were not of noble intent. They were jeering and laughing. He looked again and saw women; tears fell from their faces. Suddenly, he felt his attention drawn upward, and as he stared into the darkness, he saw the outline of a large, wooden cross.

All at once he was gripped by a great terror. A voice said, ‘Come.’

Michael drew nearer until he stood directly under the base of the cross. A warm and sticky liquid poured down upon his hands. His garments went crimson with blood, and as he looked up, he could make out the outline of a form hanging from the cross. Directly above his head, a pair of feet were impaled on one enormous crude iron nail. The hole gouged through the man’s sinews was a sight so terrible that Michael turned his face away.

A chilling scream rang out from the impaled figure:
‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!’
It resounded throughout the Holy Mountain as if the echo would never stop.

Michael put his hands over his ears to block out the awful, chilling desolation and flung himself onto the cold earth of the cavern as vision after vision of the sufferings passed before him.

He saw the crown of thorns being pushed into the man’s head until the blood saturated His matted hair. He saw Him scourged. And he saw, lying on the open hand of Him who was seated on the throne, a scroll, closed and sealed with seven seals. And he heard an angelic voice crying, ‘Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?’

No one in heaven or in earth or under the earth was worthy to open the scroll. Then one of the twenty-four elders cried, ‘See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has won. He can open up the seal.’

It was many hours, maybe even days, later that Michael lifted his head off the ground to see a Lamb standing before him, with seven horns and seven eyes.

The Lamb went and took the scroll from the right hand of Him who sat on the throne. The twenty-four elders fell prostrate on the ground, and they sang, ‘You are worthy to take the scroll and to break the seals that are on it, for You were slain, and with Your blood You purchased men unto God from every tribe and language and people and nation, and You have made them a royal race and priests to our God, and they shall reign over the earth.’

He heard the voices of many angels on every side of the throne and of the living creatures and the elders, and they numbered ten thousand times ten thousand, and their voices thundered: ‘Worthy is the Lamb, who was sacrificed, to receive all the power and glory.’

And every created thing cried out, ‘To Him who is seated on the throne and to the Lamb be ascribed the blessing and the honour and the majesty and might and dominion forever through eternities of eternities!’

‘Michael.’ The voice called to him as the sound of many waters. ‘Michael.’

Slowly Michael raised himself to his knees. In front of his face were two feet of burnished bronze. They were gouged and scarred, the wounds still fresh. Above them the hem of a white garment dripped crimson blood onto the chamber floor.

As the holiness and the glory of His presence coursed through Michael, he flung himself at His feet as if dead.

A third time the voice called tenderly, ‘Michael . . . ’

‘Christos?’

Christos reached down to Michael and took his hand in His.

Michael saw the fresh, jagged wounds in His palms. As he rose to his feet, tears coursed down his cheeks. He could hardly speak for the terrible emotion that overcame him. ‘The Race of Men – they will do terrible things to You.’ Michael placed his hand on his broadsword, his heart filled with a dread fury. ‘I will protect You. I swear it!’

The Christ smiled at him then. And in His smile were the mercies and compassion of a billion aeons. ‘Nay, My fierce and noble Michael – stay your sword.’ He placed His hand tenderly on Michael’s. ‘There is much I must suffer still at the hands of the race of men. Let this one thing be your comfort in the moons ahead: that these are the wounds of love.’

He held out his palm to Michael. Slowly Michael reached out his fingers and touched the jagged wounds.

Then he was falling. He fell and fell, as through a thousand worlds.

Whether he was awake or slept, he would never be sure, but he awoke trembling and frozen on the ground, with a terrible dread. He sensed a figure standing over him, and he drew himself up, still shaking.

The figure stared down at him gently. ‘The sacred mysteries, Michael.’

Jether reached out for Michael’s hand. ‘Come. It is time.’

Chapter Thirty-four

The Vaults

‘The sacred vaults,’ Michael said in wonder.

They stood in the seventh spire, before the stormy wind that burned with fire and great lightning and flashings. The mighty presence of the cherubim of Yehovah were visible through the iridescent light. Jether motioned to Michael to follow him.

Beyond the veils stood an enormous vault between the cherubim, covered almost entirely by their golden wings. As Jether drew nearer, his face began to burn with what appeared to be living flames. He fell prostrate, weakened by the cascading glory, his face lying against the transparent golden floor.

Michael watched silently from the entrance in awe as the cherubim’s wings unfurled, revealing the enormous golden vault. Carved on the right side were strange angelic writings of which Michael had no understanding . . . except for the small, beautifully carved sign in the centre that he suddenly recognized: a cross.

Jether rose up, his face burning as the seraph’s, aflame with the ecstasy of Yehovah’s presence. With difficulty, he slowly opened the vault.

The fires of holiness forked like lightning and struck the cherubim and Jether, and Michael fell to his knees, his head bowed. The lightning coursed through Michael’s limbs, his soul. He felt the presence of Yehovah surge through his being like an immense voltage.

Jether reached into the vault and brought out a small vial wrapped in a living, muslinlike substance. ‘Yehovah creates a unique seed,’ he whispered. ‘Christos’ pure, undefiled DNA.’ He held the small golden vial high above him in ecstasy.

Michael stared at it, thunderstruck. Lightning emitted from its surface.

Jether nodded. ‘Christos shall be born one of the race of men. The ransom
shall
be paid!’

Chapter Thirty-five

Ex Nihilo

‘In man, conception is the result of the union of two germ cells: the egg from the mother and the seed from the father.’

Xacheriel’s brows furrowed. He pointed to the hologram of living, pulsating DNA molecules, the chromosomes and scientific calculations. Gabriel, Michael, and Jether stood around Xacheriel as he spoke.

‘In the race of men, these germ cells share equally in the inherited mutations of the sin nature – all from the Fall.’ He swung around, exhilarated. ‘But the Christos-man cannot receive any genetic inheritance through the host. He has to be free of
all
inherent sin damage.’

Gabriel’s eyes grew large with understanding. ‘Or He cannot meet the claim.’

Jether clapped his hands together. ‘Exactly!’

Michael watched intently as Jether gestured upward. The crystal cupola directly over the small assembly opened, and a vast, brilliant chamber of light began to descend. They watched in awe, as they had done aeons previously when the first prototype of the race of men had been revealed in precisely the same chamber. The glass-covered chamber was now fully descended.

Xacheriel stared at the vial that stood in the very centre of the chamber, the source of the intense pulsating light. ‘The Christ’s seed, ex nihilo – a body that is fashioned neither of the seed of the man nor of the egg of the woman but by Yehovah Himself.’ He whispered. ‘Not replicated.
Created
.’

Gabriel stared in wonder. ‘He is the second Adam!’

‘Like all of the race of men, He produces His own blood,’ Xacheriel declared. ‘When the Christ-child reaches maturity, His body will manufacture over thirty trillion red cells in his bone marrow, replenished at the rate of seventy-two million every minute, as measured by the race of men. Yet unlike men,
His
blood will be untainted by the Fall.’

‘Undefiled,’ Gabriel whispered.

Jether nodded. ‘He meets the claim.’

He swept his hand across the chamber. A hologram of an adolescent girl appeared. Her copper-coloured skin was as smooth as porcelain, the perfect canvas for her high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and full crimson mouth. Her thick tawny locks flowed past her waist. The brothers watched, entranced, as she walked across her spartan chamber, her slender nut brown limbs gliding easily over the stone floor with a grace far beyond her years. She leaned out of the window, her heart-shaped face resting on her palms, studying a tall young man with noble chiselled features who carved conscientiously at a piece of wood. She laughed spontaneously, her rich brown eyes glittering with merriment.

Gabriel moved closer. ‘The host?’

Jether nodded. ‘Her spirit is consecrated to Yehovah. She has not yet known a man. She will carry and give birth to Him. She is young and healthy and strong. Her body will withstand well the rigours of childbirth. We dare take no risks.’

Jether moved to the far side of the portal, where the huge dome was open and he could see the orbiting Earth as it came into view. ‘Christos prepares to join the race of men,’ he said. ‘As soon as He is prepared, His Spirit will enter the created seed and leave the First Heaven.’

Gabriel bowed his head.

‘He is in His garden,’ he whispered.

Jether clasped Gabriel’s shoulder.

‘I go to Him.’

Chapter Thirty-six

The Temptation

The twenty-four ancient kings knelt in a semicircle underneath the magnificent hanging blossoms of the Gardens of Fragrance. Their crowned heads were bowed, their mouths moving silently in supplications.

Christos stood before them in the centre of the ancient olive trees at the very edge of the Cliffs of Eden. His arms were raised towards the shafts of crimson light that radiated from the colossal rubied door embedded into the jacinth walls of the tower.

Christos drew His palm slowly over the horizon and stared in wonder at the image that appeared. A man around thirty years, as measured by the race of men, walked across the stark desert terrain. His long dark hair, lashed by the fierce desert sandstorm, flew across the strong, bronzed shoulders.

‘He views the future,’ Jether whispered to Lamaliel beside him. ‘He sees Himself as one of the race of men.’ Jether broke off as he saw a second figure walking towards the earthly Christ. ‘Lucifer!’

In the image Lucifer stopped twenty yards away from the earthly Christ. His dark hair was flying. He looked imperial, noble. They could be brothers. Now that Christos was one of the race of men, Lucifer stood two feet taller, his six wings spread behind him. In the distance, thousands of the fallen angelic host waited, menacing, covered in shadow.