The Inner Circle: Holy Spirit (11 page)

Matt-hew 24

3. And as he sat upon
the mount near Veret, the reis came unto him privately, saying,
“Tell us, when shall these things be? And what shall be the sign of
the coming and of the end of the world?”

4. And the prophet answered and said
unto them, “Take heed that no man deceive you.

5. For many shall come using Maker’s
name, saying, “I am the Spirit,” and shall deceive many.

6. And ye shall hear of wars and
rumours of wars. See that ye be not troubled, for all these things
must come to pass, but the end is not yet.

7. For nation shall rise against nation
and kingdom against kingdom, and there shall be famines and
pestilences and earthquakes in divers places.

8. All these are the beginning of
sorrows.

19. And woe unto she that is with
child, and to she with a suckling infant in those days!

21. For then shall be the great
tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to
this time, no, nor ever shall be again.

Scriptures of the Holy Tome

CHAPTER Seven

Upon the Wind

The glowing golden sunlight of early
dawn shimmered between the gaps in the panelled wall of the shed to
touch Seeol’s tightly closed eyelids. Once sunlight would not have
served as a trigger to wake him, but his ways were not what they’d
once been. Seeol opened his eyes with a start. It was dawn. He and
his friends must’ve slept through the night instead of resuming
their journey as planned.

‘
Seteal?’ Seeol
peered around the shed from his place atop of an old tin can.
‘El-i-miish? Ilgrin?’ In their apparent absence he wondered where
they were.

Seeol flittered onto the hard-packed
dirt floor and made his way over to the enormous door. Fortunately,
it’d been left open a handswidth and he was able to escape. Before
he could even open his wings, the wind picked him up and tossed
Seeol into the orange and brown leaf litter. He hunkered down
against the wind to inspect his surroundings in search of his
friends.

A dead leaf fell, blanketing
Seeol and leaving him buried in an orange glow. For a moment, he
wanted not to resist his burial, but rather to remain there. It was
peaceful. Here, he would be safe from that which he suspected to be
true. Ignoring temptation, Seeol flapped his wings and scrabbled
free of the pile of leaves that’d covered him.

‘
Seteal!’ he cried,
panic rising in his chest. He leapt into the air.

The wind’s fury increased with the
height of Seeol’s ascension. In the treetops, his wings were near
to useless and his tail feathers failed to steer. He was another
leaf, bustled about at nature’s mercy. His wings burned as he beat
them furiously in hope of regaining some control. He ascended.
Higher. Higher. He wondered if he’d reached heights never
accomplished by an elf owl before.

Once gigantic trees paled to
insignificance compared to the expansive fields that surrounded
them. Breath came in short bursts. Elf owls were not designed for
extended periods in flight. His wings were meant for hunting prey,
not migration. The sun bit mercilessly at his large eyes, its
brilliance overwhelming a bird of the night. There was no sign . .
. not one.

The fields below were populated by none
but cattle. Even if one of them had seen Seeol’s friends, they
wouldn’t be able to tell him where they’d gone. Cows couldn’t talk.
Seeol knew this because he’d asked them on several occasions, but
was yet to receive a sensible response. Relaxing his wings, Seeol
floated back down to the treetops, where he spotted something that
gave him hope.

A large owl slept camouflaged atop a
branch. Seeol could tell by its great size that it was not an elf
owl, but an owl just the same.

‘
Hello,’ Seeol said
upon landing somewhat further up the branch. The bird didn’t
respond. ‘Hello,’ Seeol tried again with a louder voice. He crept
closer. The owl, standing five times his own height opened one eye,
but showed no other sign of life. ‘I’m looking for friendlies.’ He
shook his head. He’d said it wrong.

‘
I’m looking for my
friends,’ he tried again and was satisfied that he’d gotten it
right. ‘Please be helpful.’ The large owl responded only by opening
his beak and hissing. Seeol shuffled back along the branch. ‘I’m
sorry to have so intruded.’

He took his cue to leave. Meddling with
strangers could be dangerous and in this case pointless.

Landing on another branch, Seeol paused
to think. For whatever reason the others had left him. He wondered
what could’ve driven them to do so. They must’ve wanted to get rid
of him, but that didn’t make any sense. They were his friends.
Perhaps they’d been in danger and forgotten to wake him up. Or
maybe they’d gone out for breakfast and were attacked. What if
Far-a-mael had found them? Seeol’s heart began to pound as he
conjured up images of his friends meeting a terrible fate. Refusing
to accept that it might already be too late, Seeol decided that he
had to find them and save them. After all, they’d have done the
same for him.

Seeol leapt into flight and chanced a
glance at the sun to gain his bearings. Whether they were being
pursued by danger or not, he knew the others would be continuing
south for Old World. That was where he had to go. Seeol found the
road south and followed it. He knew the others wouldn’t be
travelling by road, but if they were still free, they wouldn’t be
far from it.

For days, Seeol flew. He was tired and
hadn’t eaten enough. He beat through the skies day and night,
sleeping minimally, always keeping out a watchful eye. Sometimes,
he was depressed. Other times, he was panicked by renewed fear of
the fate of his kin. And to him, they had truly become family. A
year ago, he’d never have guessed it, living alone in Narvon Wood,
that one day he’d have found family in the form of two humans and a
silt. He loved them. And it was this love that drove him onward
through pain and exhaustion.

In the distance, an ancient castle
became visible at the peak of a green mountain. As Seeol approached
he bore witness to a beautiful city filled with structures of equal
age. He was caught off-guard when he spotted the Elglair hadoan
approaching. Why would Far-a-mael be in this strange place? Perhaps
he was visiting his friends. When chaos erupted, Seeol was forced
to recognise that the people below were anything but friends. They
hated each other.

Arrows flew. Swords slashed. Men died.
He didn’t know why everyone always had to go about killing each
other. He’d accidentally killed heaps of people and couldn’t
understand why anyone would do it on purpose. It was so mean.
Desperate to help, Seeol banked toward the great walls at the base
of the valley, but something caught his eye. At the peak of a
broken mountain adjacent to the city, Seeol found his family.

El-i-miir, Seteal, and Ilgrin rested on
their elbows, peering out at the battle below. They were not under
threat. They hadn’t been captured. In fact, they looked quite well,
if a little shocked at the scene unfolding before them. Seeol
wanted to cuddle them, but he knew that time was short for the
naughty men below. He was torn. He loved his friends, but if there
was a way for him to stop the fighting he had to find it. He
couldn’t just stand by and watch while people were dying. They had
families, too.

Alighting on the great wall, Seeol
turned his attention to the men that lined it. They had bows and
arrows that they shot through small gaps. The wall kept them safe
so that they could kill from a distance. The inhumanity turned
Seeol’s stomach.

An arrow zipped past. The force sent
him spiralling off the upper part of the wall and onto the landing
below where countless boots trampled and rushed about. Seeol
panicked. Feet were raining down all around him, each time coming
perilously close to crushing him. He beat his wings, but couldn’t
escape. The men were too tightly packed. Here, a stray hand slapped
him back down. There, a bent knee knocked him off course.

A boot landed on Seeol’s tail feathers,
pinning him to the spot.

‘
Help!’ Seeol
shrieked. ‘Help! Seteal!’ He couldn’t be certain why he’d called
for her, knowing very well that she was far beyond
earshot.

‘
Watch out,’ a man
barked. ‘Get off him.’ The foot vanished and human hands scooped
Seeol up to safety.

‘
Maker bless thee,’
said a narrow-faced man with a short, neatly trimmed blond beard.
He smiled warmly.

Seeol had learnt that on many occasions
he should keep his mouth shut. Humans reacted strangely and often
dangerously toward animals that could talk. Emquin had been living
proof of that. But this was one occasion in which Seeol needed all
the help he could get. And besides, the Jenjen were supposed to be
fond of owls. Ilgrin and El-i-miir had both said so.

‘
Thank you,’ Seeol
replied, looking the man in the eye. ‘Maker likes to blessing you,
too.’

‘
My Maker!’ The man
stumbled back, all the while making sure to maintain his protective
hold on Seeol.

‘
Your Maker,’ Seeol
agreed.

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief.
And then he was running. The wall with all its shuffling men
disappeared as the archer hurried down a set of stone stairs and
along a poorly lit passage before re-entering daylight. Scared
women and children flashed by on either side as the human’s
powerful legs propelled him onward.

When the archer reached a smaller,
though equally as impressive wall, he slowed to a trot and headed
toward the gates. He beat his fist against them until he was
granted admittance by the gatekeeper.

‘
The king!’ the man
cried. ‘I must see the king!’ He raced toward the castle doors
without waiting for an escort.

‘
You there, archer!
You must wait for the guard,’ the gatekeeper ordered. ‘What is your
rush?’

‘
Everyone is getting
murdered,’ Seeol pleaded. How could he not see the urgency in
that?

‘
I’ll arrange you an
audience immediately.’ The gatekeeper’s eyes widened as he backed
away.

Before long, Seeol found himself
being jostled along through candlelit corridors. There were
brightly painted canvases on all of the walls depicting the Jenjen
victorious in battles passed. Seeol shook his head. How could this
be something in which they took pride? They’d killed people, people
that someone, somewhere had loved.

Gold gilded doors opened with a gush to
reveal the king making himself comfortable atop his throne, having
only just entered the room himself.

‘
My lord.’ The archer
bowed deeply, then waiting for permission to stand
again.

‘
Why have you
disturbed me?’ The king narrowed his piercing eyes irritably. He
scratched at a thick red beard with the kind of force reserved for
something he might detest. ‘My people are in battle.’

‘
The Holy Spirit,’
the archer panted. ‘Maker’s Holy Spirit has come!’

‘
What is your name?’
The king sat back and sighed disbelievingly.

‘
Phil Yas,’ the
archer said breathily.

‘
Tell me, Mister Yas
. . .’ The king tapped a finger against his gem encrusted armrest.
‘Are you aware of the penalty for heresy?’

‘
Tell him,’ Phil
pleaded, opening his palms.

‘
Tell him what?’
Seeol asked in confusion. ‘I don’t know what is happened,’ he
continued, fluttering out of Phil’s hands and hurrying over to the
king, ‘but this killing spree must stops immediately because people
are died!’

The king sat for an extended moment,
his eyes locked on Seeol. ‘As you say, my Lord the Holy Spirit.’
The old man leapt up from his chair and raced out of the room.

Moments later, a loud horn was sounded
repeatedly and the intrusive noise of battle came to an end. Seeol
breathed a sigh of relief. Everybody was safe now.

CHAPTER Eight

The End is Nigh

King Harundor’s grounds stretched out
over several hundred square strides in every direction. The top of
the mountain had been flattened so as to provide a level plain on
which to walk. The grounds were decorated by patches of perfectly
groomed hedges and brightly blooming flowers. One hundred servants
milled about the yard with trays of wine, tailing important court
officials and royal associates. At the centre of the yard stood a
rather extravagant golden totem of an owl--of no specific
breed--boasting sizeable ear tufts. King Harundor observed the
goings-on from his chair at the centre of a semicircular balcony.
To his right sat the queen and his three sons. And, of course,
Seeol too was present.

‘
Your attention,
please.’ A reedy man with a frilled collar stepped out onto the
balcony to capture the attention of those below. ‘His Lordship,
King Harundor will now speak.’ The man bowed himself off the
balcony and the yard fell silent.

The king paused for a moment,
before rising to his feet and swaggering across the balcony. He
gripped the rail, his ruby ring capturing and reflecting the midday
sun. ‘Many of you are aware of why you’ve been assembled,’ he began
with an elevated voice. ‘As the writers of the Holy Tome
prophesised over two and a half thousand years ago, Maker’s Holy
Spirit has come down to our people. The Holy Tome teaches that the
Holy Spirit would come to us with the body of an owl in our
greatest time of need. The prophesy of which I speak has recently
been fulfilled. It comes as no surprise that Maker should grant us
this blessing at a time when the Elglair seek to engage Old World
in war. We are on the cusp of a new age: an age of violence. The
end, my brothers, has become imminent.’