Authors: Nic Widhalm
“Please,” Valdis said, letting out a pent-up breath.
The General nodded, sitting back in his tall wooden chair. Valdis seated himself as well, his hands clenched between his knees. Jackie stared at the back of the enormous chamber, her eyes distant.
“Right,” said the General. “It began, as far as we know, with the death of God.” He watched Valdis intently, obviously hoping for some kind of reaction, but this part the priest had guessed long ago, so he simply sat.
The General frowned, then continued. “At least, that’s what we’ve been told. Whether or not there
was
a God—or if he
died, or was overthrown, or grew tired and left—is open to debate. In any case, he vacated and in his absence a vacuum arose. Those things have a tendency to draw whatever debris is lying about, which in this case happened to be a pair of Seraphim who couldn’t decide who would rule in God’s absence.”
“Mika’il,” Valdis said.
“Yes. And Gavri’el. Her lover.”
Valdis saw Jackie sit up, and smiled to himself.
Guess someone’s interested after all.
“The two quarreled for centuries over who would become the Ruler of Hosts, enlisting other angles until everyone had picked a side.
Almost
everyone
.”
“Lucifer,” Jackie mouthed silently, and Valdis nodded.
“The Bible,” Mary said, leaning over and spitting, “would have you believe our Lord wanted the throne for himself. But Lucifer never cared for ruling. His thoughts were on those strange creatures crawling around the low places of the earth.”
“Yes,” Valdis said, impatiently. “I know this part. What happened
afterward?
”
“You asked for answers,” The General said. “We’ll tell the story the way we have for four thousand years, if that’s alright with you?”
Valdis sighed and went back to wringing his hands.
“Malachs—Angels—were never supposed to rule,” Mary continued. “Lord Lucifer knew this. They were created as assistants, shepherds, caretakers of the creatures that prowled the lands outside the beyond. So, forsaking the path of Gavri’el’s
Adonai
and Mika’il’s
Elohim
, Lucifer came to the early clans of humankind bearing priceless gifts.”
“Fire. Weapons. Writing,” The General said. “These and more, our Lord taught our ancestors. And under his tutelage humanity grew and thrived, until they became a threat to Heaven—to the beyond itself.”
Jackie stirred in her chair. “Come on,” she scoffed. “I’ve seen what these fuckers can do. No way a bunch of apes with pointed sticks are going to challenge guys that can make the ground explode.”
Mary hesitated. “Well…yes, and no. Our Lord didn’t just give them pointy sticks.”
Yes
, Valdis suddenly sat forward, his eyes burning.
Finally!
“Surely you’ve seen it in Sunday School, Detective?” The General smiled. “I know you were brought up Catholic. I have it on good authority that Saint Catherine's has some nice stained-glass images of it.”
“Of
what
?” Jackie asked.
“Why, the Sword of Fire, dear.” The General’s smile widened. “The Sword of the Morning Star.”
Hunter marched down the dim rock corridor in a direction his internal compass told him was west. Behind him, his two companions followed. It was odd, Hunter leading their small group to a meeting he knew nothing about—in a place he had never been—but “strange” was becoming second nature to him. His steps never faltered.
As Hunter walked, he noted the murky light. There were brackets of rusted iron spaced evenly down the long tunnel, obviously made to hold candles, but they were empty, and by the cobwebs and dust that clung to them, had been that way for a long time. Hunter looked up, saw the ceiling was the same gray rock as the rest of the unfinished corridor, and tried to place where the light was coming from.
The walls themselves?
He wondered.
It wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen.
“
I give up,” Hunter said. “Where’s the light coming from?”
The elderly man had been carefully watching his feet as they walked, and at Hunter’s question he looked up and nearly tripped. The kid leapt forward, barely catching the old man before he crashed to the floor. Hunter stopped, wondering if he should help, but worried it might be a faux pas. He’d never been good at social graces. But just as Hunter was about to offer his assistance, the elderly man righted himself, patted the kid absently on the shoulder and cleared his voice. “Erm…yes, the light. A century ago it was all candles, you see,” he pointed at a rusted bracket, moving past Hunter and into the lead. The elderly man continued down the hall, Hunter trailing him this time, and pointed out additional candle holders.
“Haven’t used candles for a dog’s age,” he said, “though some in the Order think we should. Tradition, you know. But they make an awful stink, and even the smokeless ones—well, they’re never really smokeless, you know.” Hunter tried to decide if the elderly man was actually asking him a question or just using a turn of phrase, then figured it was best not to interrupt him in case he tripped again.
“Used to make them out of rapeseed in the old days,” the elderly man continued. “Strange thing to call a seed, you know. Silly word. Didn’t last long, I’m told. Got
industrialized
and made a big business out of this ‘special wax.’ Still rapeseed, you know, but the marketers had their own term for it now. Didn’t matter much if you ask me, still a piss poor alternative for a good gas light.”
“The Apkallu doesn’t care about all that, Jorah,” the kid said, his face tight with embarrassment. “For the Lord’s sake, he just wants to know what the light is.”
Jorah stopped and gave the kid a hooded glare. “I know what he wants, foolish boy. But just because you kids demand answers right away doesn’t mean us civilized folk have forgotten our manners. A good answer’s worth waiting for; it’s worth a proper story. For all you know the Apkallu might need a candle to light his way some day, and he’ll be thanking ol’ Jorah when that time comes.”
The kid rolled his eyes, but kept silent as the elderly man stared him up and down. “Now,” Jorah continued, moving forward again. “The thing about candles is they’re easy to understand. You take a little wax, some cord, flame, and there you are—a candle. And you know
exactly
how long that sucker’s going to burn. You can see it, watch the flame travel down, measure the melting wax, you know. That’s why some of the old-timer’s want them back. Don’t trust the glow cause they can’t see the ‘melting wax,’ you get me?” It turned out the last part was a question because Jorah stayed silent until Hunter finally agreed that, yes, he did “get him.”
"Doesn’t make a lick of difference, though. Candlelight or glow, it all comes down to the same thing—who cleans up the mess.
Someone
had to change those candles, you know. Clean up the melted wax, oil the iron, replace the ones that went out…crap job. The glow ain’t much different. Someone’s still cleaning up the shit.”
“And the glow is…?” Hunter asked again, but Jorah just walked in silence, his eyes back on his feet.
The kid stepped up next to Hunter and said quietly, “Sorry about that. Jorah loves a good story, but sometimes he forgets the end halfway through. He’s a great man, though. Well, used to be. Been in the Order his whole life…” The kid trailed off for a second, then, giving Hunter a shy look, said, “This is a huge honor for him, meeting an Apkallu. Me too,” he said quickly. “I mean, I’ve only met one other, and, well,
everyone’s
met her, so it’s not really a big deal. But you, coming from the outside like you did, it’s just…just…” he trailed off again, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
“Anyway,” the kid continued. “The glow. We don’t usually talk about it—not that we talk with outsiders about anything—but, well, seeing as how you’re Apkallu I guess it’d be alright. It comes from the source.”
Hunter stayed silent.
“The builders deal with it mostly. I’m library,” the kid’s face lit up, his voice rising in pitch. “Youngest librarian in three decades. Anyway, they tell me the source is directed to all kinds of stuff like that,” he nodded at the glowing walls. “Heat the rooms, light the halls, pretty much our own little nuclear plant.”
They reached an intersection and the kid reached inside his jean pocket and pulled out a thick wad of crumpled paper. Looking back and forth between the intersection and the paper he finally nodded and motioned with his head to the right.
Hunter looked to the left, frowning. “You’re taking me to see the priest, right? Father Valdis. Jackie?”
Jorah started walking down the right tunnel, ignoring Hunter’s question. “It doesn’t really heat our rooms,” the elderly man said abruptly. “We still have a big ol’ furnace. Bought in ‘73, but it still runs as hot as the day they got it. Course, the builders wouldn’t mind getting rid of it, running everything through the source. Say it’ll cut costs fifteen percent, but I think that’s nonsense. How can you trust something you can’t see?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Hunter said, following the old man, the kid trailing behind. “My friends?”
“They’re fine. Council’s taking good care of them. You can see them after.”
“After?”
Jorah just smiled and started humming tunelessly. Hunter turned to the kid, but he had sunk his hands into his pockets and gone back to staring at his feet. They walked the rest of the short distance in silence.
A few minutes later they reached an old wood door studded with iron bands and an ornate brass knocker. Jorah wasted no time giving the door a quick rap. As soon as his hand lifted away, the door swung open, and on the other side stood two men dressed in light brown army fatigues. The pant legs were tucked into high-fitting dark boots, and matching berets nestled atop their heads.
“This is him?” One of the men asked. Jorah nodded and stepped aside, leaving Hunter standing alone. The two men in fatigues looked him over, their eyes methodical and cold, and pulled back to confer with one another.
So this is what a horse feels like
, Hunter thought, fidgeting. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was auditioning for the pair of guards. Finally, the two reached a decision and came forward to escort Hunter through the door.
“Good luck, Apkallu,” Jorah said pleasantly as the men in brown took Hunter. “Make sure to say hi for ol’ Jorah.”
“What—” Hunter turned to ask, but the guards had already shut the door and were pushing him down a dark, dusty corridor. The glow illuminating the previous path was gone, and one of the guards held an old lantern that cast light in uneven fits. Ahead of them were stairs leading into darkness.
The guards pushed at his back, not rough or gentle but—again—methodical. Hunter continued through the tunnel and down the stairs. When they reached the bottom Hunter saw light in the distance, and as they moved forward the small dot of brightness resolved into candles.
I wonder if they’re made with rapeseed?
The dim lights dotting the tunnel fought against the dark in small islands of illumination, but the deeper the path went—and Hunter’s aching calves told him it was leading downward—the more the light struggled.
Why must it always be old and dark
? Hunter thought, remembering the cold stone corridors of Saint Catherine’s.
Once they made it a fair distance from the door one of the guards moved to the front, continuing to lead them down a maze of twisting passageways. Occasionally they would come across doorways, always guarded by at least two men in brown fatigues. At each checkpoint the men would ask Hunter’s guards a series of hushed questions, and then motion them through. Each time Hunter looked around, straining to detect some form of electronic surveillance, but the stone hallways seemed bare of everything except candles.
Finally, after what felt like hours—but was probably less, judging from Hunter’s still-full stomach—their party stopped at a final entranceway. This one was blocked by a massive black wood door crossed twice by thick steel beams, and had a long vertical row of locks running from floor to ceiling. Four guards stood before the entrance, their faces grim.
The guard who had taken the lead turned to Hunter. “Mr. Friskin.”
“Yes?” Hunter asked, unsurprised to find the man knew his name.
“Please show me the symbol.”
Hunter blinked, taken aback, then reached up and pulled down the shoulder of his sweat-stained tee. As the guard leaned forward to examine his marked shoulder, Hunter was uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t bathed or changed clothes in over forty-eight hours.
Finally, after running his hand over the triangular marks and pushing his face so close that Hunter was afraid the guard was going to kiss him, the man stepped back and nodded to the four others flanking the door. As one, three of the men stepped aside. The remaining guard stayed put as the others moved, pulling a set of keys from his belt. Starting at the top, he ran the keys down the door, pausing to insert a different metal object into each lock.
As the gate slowly unlocked, the first guard turned to Hunter. “There are matters of protocol,” he said. “It has been a long time since an outsider was brought to this chamber. It’s important you understand the proper…decorum.”