The Journey

Call to Adventure

‘Heilel!’

The voice belongs to his friend, limping towards him across the desert. His left leg is twisted at an odd angle, like a misshapen bow.

‘How was the ride, Fleureti?’

‘I’ve been through worse. You alright?’

He examines himself. A few bumps and scratches, but nothing too severe. His skin, rather than being formed of flesh, is made of sardius, topaz, diamond, beryl, onyx, jasper, sapphire, emerald, and carbuncle. In the sunlight he’s a diamond made of fine gold.

‘Well, I still look fabulous. Where are the others?’

‘Scattered across this land, I assume. Let’s find ‘em.’

They search the area, Heilel supporting his injured friend. Eventually, he finds a nearby olive tree.

‘Stay here.’

Fleureti lies down while Heilel fashions a walking stick from the wood. His fingernails prove to be sufficient whittling knives.

‘Use this.’

To be stylish, the head of the stick is shaped like a lightning bolt. Fleureti grips the rod, staggering to his feet.

‘Hopefully my leg will heal in time.’

‘I estimate twenty moons will suffice.’

‘I can see one of ours. Yonder.’

He points eastward. A few yards away, a lonely star is trying to make a fire, bashing two rocks together. Heilel recognizes him as Sargatanas. Young and reckless, but with a thick skull that forbids him from giving up.

Sargatanas spots them in the distance and decides that the hopeless flame can wait for another day. He climbs up the hill.

‘Any idea where the others are?’

‘Yep. Follow me.’

Stars, or Kochvei-Voker in the older terminology, tend to keep their conversations brief and to the point. There’s no concept of small-talk in their language.

He leads them to a valley, carved into the ground like a massive egg plopped onto the sands. Within the massive bowl of soil is a community of stars. Moving around like ants in a nest, they’re doing what they do best: rebuilding.

‘Is that all of them?’

‘Last time I counted, yes. Plus us three, there are 133,306,669 stars around here.’

‘They appear to be building a city.’

‘Well, it does pass the time. Why not create a civilization when bored?’

‘What were you doing out there?’

‘We’ve found a way to dig for water and build houses from stones and sand. But we haven’t got any techniques for making fire.’

‘I assume you’re the one they hired to make the discovery?’

‘I assume they just wanted to be rid of me for a while. I’m a bit of a black star in our galaxy. Everyone thinks I’m a screwup.’

‘You are a bit of a soft egg, true. But you’re still valuable, to some extent.’

‘I’m not sure whether to feel honoured or offended.’

‘Who’s leading them?’

‘As of now, no one. We’ve decided to have a temporary democratic society with no central head.’

‘Decentralized power seems like a riot waiting to happen. If each is left as a law unto themselves, with no objective source of rule of any kind, I predict an eventual collapse.’

‘I agree, Fleur. That’s why many of us have decided to elect a leader.’

‘Who?’

‘Let’s talk about that later. I want to show you something.’

He leads them down into the valley. Some stars immediately recognize Heilel, greeting him with waves and whistles.

‘We caught this one, and a few more of its kind, a couple of hours ago.’

In a cage made of crude metals twisted and bent with hammering-stones, a large beast is being held. Heilel is fascinated.

It’s a giant woolly creature, resembling a leopard, but with feet like those of a bear and a mouth like that of a lion. It has seven heads and ten elongated horns, four on the central head, four ringstraked wings like those of a massive eagle, and its teeth are made of iron.

‘We’re calling them sand-dragons. This one’s a female.’

It is roughly thirteen feet long, about eleven feet tall, and judging by muscle mass it weighs around 24,000 pounds.

‘Thankfully the males are much smaller.’

‘Where did it...?’

‘Unsure. We found them roaming this desert. Origin uncertain.’

‘Why is it not aggressive?’

‘That’s also unknown. But judging by her behaviour, their species appears to be sentient. Perhaps as sentient as us.’

Heilel, ever the curious, decides to test this theory. He approaches the beast, hands raised and palms open to show he’s unarmed. The beast glares at him through her magenta oculi.

‘I mean no ill will, friend. My name is Heilel. Can you understand me?’

She ignores his question. He can see she’s been wounded, one of her paws stabbed through with a sword.

‘We had to subdue her. Those horns would carve a map into a body if left unchecked.’

‘I think the violence was unnecessary.’

He faces her again.

‘Atah mevin oti?’

This time she nods, grunting in approval.

‘She can understand Lashon Ha-Kodesh.’

‘You can continue your experiments later. We’re being called.’

A meeting was being organized. Some of the larger stars stood at the centre, circling a rock like an ocean around an island. The biggest star, Kesil, raises his hand to silence the crowd.

‘Friends, we have come to a majority decision. The people have spoken.’

There are no cries of rebuttal. Everyone except Heilel seems to know what is going on.

‘For a few hours, we have managed to maintain order and functionality without a leader. But for the future, this is not a wise course of action. Candidates have been proposed by their respective clusters of stars, and a decision has been raised as to who shall lead us.’

Silence. Sarg seems excited, Fleur uninterested.

‘Heilel!’

Cheers all around. Heilel feels the floor give way under him. The walls slowly close in.

‘Not again.’

‘This is great news! You’re our leader!’

‘Me ruling over 133,306,668 minds seems like a bad idea.’

‘It wouldn’t be the worst.’

‘Where would I even start?’

‘I have confidence in you.’

Fleur rubs his shoulder, trying to be comforting. Failed effort.

Refusal of the Call

‘They want you to stand on that pointy rock. Be a shepherd.’

‘None of you are sheep.’

‘Figure of speech. Worse comes to worst, we’ll call off the meeting.’

Heilel is handed a tabret with a brass rim, a musical instrument common among the stars. For now, it’ll function as a symbol of power.

‘Make a speech.’

He’s pushed forward, eager eyes on his person. The walls are inches away from his face. Stumbling onto the rock, he watches the wave of stars, like an ebbing organ, pulsing with enthusiasm.

‘Um...hello! Salutations!’

He tries to gather his thoughts. The floor feels hostile, like the sting of ice and scald of lava have been blasphemously combined into one horrid surface.

‘I...it is good that you are all here! Last time we had such a meeting, things went relatively well.’

The walls are choking him. He decides to fight.

‘Well, maybe that’s a lie. In truth, things have turned out horribly.’

At this point, all restraint falls apart. He rants:

‘Is this the region, this the soil, this the clime, this the seat that we must exchange for glory, this mournful gloom for celestial light?’

No answer. This is not how the speech was supposed to go.

‘So be it. Farewell, happy fields where joy forever dwells: hail horrors, hail infernal world, and this profoundest hell receives its new dispossessed possessors.’

A sense of unease swallows the audience.

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, or a hell of heaven. Here at least we shall be free.’

Some optimism?

‘But I can’t lead you. Nor do I wish to. Those faculties you may admire about me are easily shared by others greater than me. I am not the strongest, nor the smartest. My only boast is my beauty, and even that can be challenged.’

‘We want you to lead us!’ a voice of dissent yells from the back.

‘I don’t know if I can! The last time I did, I made a horrible mess of it!’

‘We’ve moved past that. If we dwell in the past, we will never progress!’

‘There are better stars out there! Better candidates!’

‘All of them would agree that you are suitable for the task!’

He’s drowning in a sea of words. Of doubts and regrets. Can he persevere? Is there a point to this?

‘How? I don’t even know where to start!’

‘You have inspired ideas of greatness among us all. That is worthy of acknowledgement!’

‘I am nobody!’

‘Untrue!’

‘I am a failure!’

‘None of us are perfect!’

He needs to breathe. He drops his tabret and makes a run for it. Some stars try to catch him, but he slips out of the crowd and makes for the outer sands.

‘Heilel! Stop!’

Fleur and Sarg make chase, followed by a team of lesser stars, weak but fast.

Heilel makes for the east, his mineral skin scattering colours like a shattered rainbow. Eventually he outruns them, hiding behind a nearby clump of boulders. There is very little grass in this area, and the sand is drier than the dreams of a dead man.

The adrenaline of a few seconds ago is rapidly melting, and he feels his stomach swell with pain. His lungs are sacks of lead, barely dragging in the required air.

His mind is a battlefield. In his past, he was certainly more confident. But now, considering the events that have transpired, he’s not so sure of himself. Things feel so unstable. Like a pile of dried leaves tossed by the wind, his past dreams of glory and grandeur seem to spark away, dying flames.

‘They can find someone better. I failed when they needed me. How can I make up for that? This land is so foreign, and who knows how long we have. We’re on borrowed time.’

When stressed, he tries to talk to himself. It keeps him sane.

‘Hello, handsome. Lost?’

He looks up. It’s a female creature, roughly his height, though not a star. Stars are sexless and genderless, and can assume any form they please, but they all have an aura that can be recognized by other stars. This being has no such aura.

Her head is made of pure gold, her chest and arms of silver, her belly and thighs of bronze, her legs of iron, her feet partly of iron and partly of clay. The creature is completely hairless, and has no teeth or nails.

‘Who are you? What are you?’

‘Would you like to walk with me?’

‘Sure. I need some fresh air.’

They walk, conversing about various topics. The creature’s name is Abuzou. The original name of her species has long been lost, but for the sake of narrative they will be called karcists, an old term for magicians. Like the sand-dragons, their origin is uncertain.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘As long as the earth has had substance.’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Last time I counted, about 603,550. We tend to stay underground. But enough about me. What’re you doing out here?’

‘Running away, I suppose. From responsibility.’

‘We all do that sometimes. What’s the issue?’

‘My community wants me to lead them. But I don’t know if I can.’

‘Have you done so before?’

‘I have been able to rally souls in the past. But I think I’ve lost my touch.’

‘You just need to regain it.’

‘But how?’

‘By doing something. You won’t get anywhere by doing nothing.’

‘I need to think about this. I’m still not accepting of it.’

‘You can stay at my place for a while, if you like.’

The sun is setting. He agrees, tired.

A few miles away, Fleur and his search party are unsuccessful.

‘We’ll look for him at morrowtide. For now, let’s head back and eat.’

‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Some baby sand-dragons we recently trapped.’

‘I feel that’s unethical. A sentient species eating another sentient species.’

‘When desperate, the only law is power.’

Supernatural Aid

Heilel and Abuzou make it to her home, a cave sunk into the ground like a nostril on a giant’s face.

‘Pardon the mess. I rarely have guests.’

It’s dark, wet, and warm, like a womb, but with none of the safety or peace. Heilel, uneasy, lights up the passageway with some beams he emits from his palms, like five-rayed torches.

‘That’s cool, man. What the hell are you?’

‘A star. One of many.’

‘Can your counterparts do what you do?’

‘Some can control hail. Others, lightning and earthquakes. I do illusions.’

‘So this is not real?’

‘I’m making you see what I want you to see. In reality, this passage is as dark as it was before I entered. You’re just looking at one of my mind-tricks.’

To demonstrate, he lowers his hands. The light is still there, and bright as ever, but this time it feels unreal. Synthetic, dreamlike. Eventually, they are back in darkness.

‘You seem to be quite a dramatist. You’d fit in with my kind.’

‘Can your kind do illusions?’

‘We can do the real deal.’

Eventually, they reach the bottom. The floor is a bit moister compared to the surface, and Heilel’s eyes have adjusted to the dimness.

‘Would you care for a beverage? Some food?’

‘Sure. I haven’t eaten in twelve moons.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘A faraway land. My father’s kingdom.’

‘Why’re you here?’

‘We fought for three moons. Then he disowned me, and my faction.’

‘That’s a bit rough. What was the reason?’

‘I guess I was just tired of living under his rules. There were too many limitations in my mind. My ambitions were higher than the sky, and I needed some freedom.’

‘Any thoughts of reconciling?’

‘I think we’re too ideologically opposed to make amends. It’s been nine moons since we were sent away.’

‘Your father, he have a name?’

‘I’d rather not say it. It spreads fear in this part of the world.’

‘Well, you should meet our leader. She Who Must Not Be Named.’

‘I assume she’s intimidating?’

‘The first and oldest of our race. Wielding dark powers not even the best of us can fathom. We call her many names. Gulou, Morphou, Tabuzou, Morphilatou, Renou, Solomone, Aiguptia, Anamardalea, Ludrisou, Pekilazou, Adelarchou, Panstouri, Melchisedek, Nemikou, Nemerike, Phlegomo, Eluso, Amele, Ermokonea, Zadero, Endikaos, Pekourea, Gouphokter, Dadouchime, Phugadane, Phugodoth, Anophes, Anopheos, Ebdobaleos, Sophotate, Remeris, Durimitate, Kurillos, Didaktikos, Domisak, Tarouch, Tarich, Philachros, Kaukalas, Amas. But no one knows her actual one.’

‘Sounds real spooky. What foods have you on offer?’

‘Worms, rabbits, and whatever else I could find on the surface world.’

‘Suits me.’

Abuzou hands him a rabbit, uncooked. He tucks into a leg, revelling in its raw but satisfying savour.

‘If you ask me, I think you should lead. Take the opportunity.’

‘They can do with a better ruler.’

‘Maybe. But you’ll never know unless you put yourself out there. If you’re right, and a better leader is present, you lose nothing by resigning. If you’re wrong, and you’re their best option, it’s just a lot of wasted potential.’

‘Not everyone was made to lead.’

‘Didn’t you stand against your father?’

He nods.

‘Doesn’t that require leadership skills? To say no to rigidity? To push some boundaries, within reason?’

‘I’m not cut out for the job. I have very little to offer.’

‘Very little is better than nothing.’

‘This issue is too complicated for you to understand.’

‘That’s sexist.’

‘I wasn’t making that assumption based on biology. I’m a star. We have no such concepts in my society.’

‘Well, in my society we have no concept of changing rulership. There’re no options to vote for a different leader. We’re stuck with She Who Must Not Be Named, and she rules with an iron gauntlet. Consider yourself fortunate that your community is not under such restrictions.’

‘I still feel inadequate.’

‘Good. That means you have a sense of humility. What many leaders lack. From our brief interactions, I’ve deduced that you were made with a great purpose in mind.’

‘I once thought the same.’

‘Pick yourself up, Heilel. Give yourself a chance. You will never manage your hesitations and fears unless you tackle them head-on and do something that requires sacrifice.’

‘I’m not sure...’

‘Don’t say that about yourself. You have capacities that exceed the walls in your mind. Isn’t that why you stood up to your dad in the first place?’

There was some legitimacy to her arguments. He decides to change his course.

‘Fine. I repent. But I doubt I will go far.’

‘Give it a shot. What’s there to lose?’

‘Everything?’

‘Consider that impetus.’

Abuzou walks over to a corner of the chamber. She digs for something under the soil and brings it to Heilel.

‘A sword?’

‘Her name’s Pataxaro. Respect her, and she’ll respect you.’

‘Thanks for the gift.’

‘Thank me when you reach a glorious purpose.’

She leads him back out of the cave, the sun rising on a new day.

‘Good luck, Heilel.’

‘Farewell!’

He walks away, some confidence in his veins, positive thoughts like blood. The rays of morning light play with the gems that form his body. He starts running.

For once in a long time, he feels ready. His heart hurts with exertion, and he’s a bird on the horizon.

He soon reaches the valley. Some stars guarding the outside find him and, with extreme relief, hurry him back to the camp’s centre.

By now the community has fallen into disarray. Schisms are forming between certain groups of stars, and candidates are establishing rival tribes. Civil conflict seems inevitable, and rumours that Heilel has died run rampant.

‘Where’s my tabret?’

A star hands him his instrument. He finds the rock, standing on it and raising his hands.

‘Siblings!’

His cry echoes across the valley. In a former life, he was quite a grand musician.

‘I have had some time to think, and I am willing to lead you all. Be your shepherd.’

Brief silence. Then, finally, some welcome cheers.

Crossing of the First Threshold

Heilel has set his crimson eyes on the east. This land is not entirely desolate, but a change of scenery would be nice.

‘I say we leave tomorrow, Fleureti.’

‘Sure. You’re the boss.’

‘Also, I’m selecting you and Sarg to be my generals.’

‘What?’

‘I think you two will be a great help.’

‘Well, I’d be honoured. But Sargatanas...’

‘Will learn to learn. He’s stubborn but brave, and right now I need a mix of both.’

‘By the way, a team of stars have made you a crown.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, to further legitimize your rule, I suppose. I think it’s a waste of resources, but to each his own.’

They enter the centre of the camp, where six stars hand Heilel a diadem made of beaten bronze. It has some words engraved on it: ‘Hashamayim Eeleh, Mimaal Lechochvei-El. Arim Kisi Vaeshev Behar-Moed, Beyarketei Tzafon. Eeleh Al-Bamotei Av. Edameh Le-Elyon.’

‘Ah. I see you’ve put my motto in writing. Nice.’

Fleureti fits the crown on. It’s a simple circlet of brass. But on his brow, it feels like a ring of power ready to tear down walls and grind foes to cinder.

‘Fleur, start spreading the word. We leave soon.’

That night, they feast on the flesh of toasted sand-dragons. Heilel and Sargatanas discuss matters so far:

‘The fact that many of us maintain confidence in you is a testimony to your skill. No other star would have this much support if they were in your shoes.’

‘What do you think is the meaning of life?’

Sarg chuckles.

‘Ah, an easy question to help with digestion. Well, if you want my take on it, I think life is meaningless. If life had a set course of events, with everything preordained and engraved in the stone of time, then life would be meaningless, because everything would have a fixed outcome. But life is unpredictable, and that’s also meaningless, because there is no purpose behind anything that exists or is. Life is meaningless regardless of predestination or random chaos, and that’s what makes it worth living.’

‘Smart.’

‘I’m concerned, Hei. About the move.’

‘What’s the point of life, if not for adventure? We’re stars, Sarg. We move.’

The next day they head out in droves. The sun seems to greet them as tribes of stars make their way onward, Heilel leading the way. Some of the weaker stars are riding on tame sand-dragons. After Heilel instructs them to use Lashon Ha-Kodesh, apparently a language the dragons understand, the two groups have come to a generally mutual sense of agreement: the stars won’t kill any more sand-dragons, and the sand-dragons will reciprocate.

Heilel and his 133,306,668 stars reach a borderland that clutches a nearby greener realm like an infant bonobo gripping its mother. Memories of his past conflicts with his father, the king, and with his siblings, ring in his mind. He considers the possibility that this is all a big mistake. An irreversible, horrible one that will lead to more injury than blessing. But with Fleur standing at his right and Sarg impatiently tapping his foot at his left, he musters some chutzpah and cries out to his tribe:

‘Are we ready?’

His crowd responds with vigorous cheers and cries of approval. Some are clothed in the skins of sand-dragons, others walk around nude. Those wandering around naked have been called ‘shedim’ by their peers, and those clothed in pelts are labelled ‘seirim.’ Heilel hopes these playful monikers won’t lead to schismatic rifts within the group later on.

‘Onward!’

They march into the new land, some flying above them on the wings of sand-dragons.

Soon enough, they find some unique wildlife. The beasts they encounter are a special breed of horse: the heads of these horses are like those of lions, and they breathe fire, smoke, and brimstone when threatened. Some stars discover this the hard way. These horses also have long reptilian tails, tipped with the heads of hissing serpents. They decide to call these beasts sulphur-steeds, and collect a couple thousand from a much larger herd. The extra sulphur-steeds are tied up in a train that follows behind the group, led by some of the stronger stars. By now many of the stars are riding beasts, except for Heilel, who goes on foot with a tabret in one hand and a staff carved from olive wood in the other.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere better. I heard my father was establishing a new state out in the east a few moons before our big argument.’

‘Will they be hospitable?’

‘News of my disenfranchisement hasn’t reached the outer lands yet. We can settle there for a while, hopefully. Maybe seize what we can.’

‘What if we can’t?’

‘Then we’ll find somewhere else. We’re rivers, not glaciers. We were made to spread.’

‘I trust you, Heilel. You were always brighter than me.’

‘Don’t say that. For one, it’s not true. You are brilliant, dazzling, and one of the finest stars I’ve ever known. Also, statements like that just inflate my ego. And I don’t think straight when I let my pride take over.’

The sun is setting now. Rivers of pink and orange flood the earth. Heilel feels the exhausted pull of his physical body, and they decide to camp for the day.

That night, Heilel and Fleureti lie face to face, snuggled up under a sand-dragon hide for warmth. It’s not uncommon for stars to share heat.

‘You’re special to me, you know that?’

‘You mean, like love?’

‘Love is illusory. Simply a word we attach to chemical reactions in the brain. But yes, love.’

‘I love you, Heilel. You’re my friend.’

‘You love aspects of me. My intelligence, or strength, or beauty. But you could never love Me, because my fundamental true self in its entirety is known to nobody but myself.’

‘That’s not a good way to live. If there is no altruism or sincerity in relationships, we would all be better off lonely.’

He rolls away from him.

‘Maybe.’

Belly of the Whale

They soon come across a minor setback. Well, ‘minor’ is putting it gently.

They’ve stumbled upon a tribe of karcists, and they’re being blocked from entering their territory. The two armies face each other, Fleureti the stars’ spokesperson.

‘This is sacred ground, dedicated to the Queen of Air and Darkness. You can’t pass through!’ yells one karcist from a distance.

‘We only want to get to the other side! We’ll be out of your hair...’

Bad choice of words, as karcists are bald. Heilel can feel the animosity start to grow.

‘There seem to be about three hundred of you here. Compare that with over a hundred million of us! Think about this reasonably!’

‘We have. And we reasonably think that our principles need not be violated by some strangers led by a man with a timbrel in his hand!’

‘I also carry an obsidian machaira. A gift from one of your kind.’

‘Then she is a traitor.’

Soon enough, a fight breaks out. Heilel pulls out Pataxaro.

Some stars charge the karcists, but are immediately swallowed by storms of sand conjured up by their foes.

The stars are armed with basic weaponry. Swords, bows and quivers, knives. No match for the mysterious powers of the karcists.

Some make blood rain from the sky, others make hordes of frogs erupt from the ground, others summon swarms of flies and gnats, others make murrain and boils break out on their opponents, others produce thunderstorms of hail and fire, each hailstone about a hundred pounds. The stronger ones bring about locust clouds and invoke palpable darkness that blinds the stars.

This doesn’t deter Heilel. At this moment, he’s in his element. He makes a swing for a nearby karcist, but his blade misses as if parried by an invisible arm. This is strange, as his aim was near perfect. The same mistake occurs a few more times before Heilel has an epiphany.

‘This damned blade won’t hurt one of Abuzou’s people.’

He tries to reason with the weapon, hoping it understands him.

‘Please help me! My people need me!’

To his surprise, the blade responds:

‘You have a duty to your kind. I have a loyalty to mine.’

‘But you’re a sword! You’re not even a living thing!’

‘What makes something alive? Is it a brain or a heart? In that case, plants aren’t alive.’

‘I won’t argue the philosophical complexities of sentience with you right now. Will you help me, or not?’

‘I can’t hurt Abuzou’s kind.’

‘What can you do?’

‘Reveal my true self. That should be enough to cease the conflict.’

‘I don’t fully understand, but do what you must. Just make the fighting stop.’

The sword complies, leaving his hand and ascending into the sky. It transforms in a flash of black light. Choshech Tzalmavet, as the stars would call it. The blade assumes the shape of something that paralyzes the stars with fright and the karcists with reverence.

It’s a massive hound, whose form blocks out the sun. The death-black creature has nine rear-legs, each leg having five toes with a sharp steel talon, and two tails, each tipped with a curved venomous barb. The great hound has fifty dog-heads, each head with four-hundred glowing blue eyes. The front of the monster’s body consists of twelve tentacle forelegs, each leg with thirty clawed eagles’ toes. Six snarling cats’ heads ring the giant’s waist, each head with eight glowing jelly-green eyes. From its shoulders sprout a hundred lizard-heads, each head with four orange eyes. All along the brute’s spine are two-hundred heads of wolves, lions, bulls, boars, cows, leopards, bears, and foxes, each of these heads with thirty brown eyes. Its member ends with nine snake-heads, each head with eleven yellow eyes. Eight fiery purple eyes crown its chest.

Myriads of eldritch eyes lock onto the watchers below. A voice of incomprehensible gravity bellows:

‘Heed the words of my present master, and cease from your conflict!’

The stars comply, sheathing their blades and dropping their arrows. The karcists all kneel, hands raised to the sky as if praying. The monstrous being reassumes its bladelike shape and drops into Heilel’s outstretched hand.

For a few seconds there’s silence. Fleureti breaks the tension:

‘What the hell was that?’

‘The blade’s true form.’

A karcist answers:

‘It once belonged to She Who Must Not Be Named. The hound is her guard dog. Our tutelary. A being far older than any of us, rivalled only by its mistress.’

‘Well, she’s with me. So I suggest you let us pass through.’

‘We will follow you. Where the Hound goes, so do we.’

‘Fine. Just don’t hog all the food.’

So they leave with some recruits in their mad cause. Their former land disappears over the advent of a new day.

That night, Heilel questions a high-ranking karcist on the sword, and Abuzou.

‘If she had possessed the blade, I assume she was a priestess of the Blue-Lidded Daughter of Sunset. Or maybe, may heaven forbid, she stole it from the Naked Brilliance of the Voluptuous Night-Sky.’

‘In that case, I would assume she’d already be dead, based on the descriptions I’ve heard of this grand sorceress.’

‘Indeed she is powerful. And very ancient.’

‘But why do you honour her so much? My father is very old and strong, but not even I considered him blameless.’

‘What was his fault?’

‘He let me look out into the void of possibility, knowing I would betray him. I can never forgive him for letting me go astray.’

‘Maybe he had a purpose for you.’

‘What purpose is there in letting your child stumble? In letting them be hurt by knowing what is good and what is evil?’

‘That they may learn, and hopefully grow from that knowledge.’

‘I’m sceptical. If he truly loved me, he would have kept me safe from disillusionment, even if safety was only in a bubble.’

‘True love requires a breaking of the bubble. For the parent’s sake, and for the child’s.’

Road of Trials

The next day, Heilel and his camp make it into a lush area, a sliced cantaloupe studded with palm trees. Mountains are visible a few miles away, like teeth in a buffalo’s jaw.

‘This is a fantastic place. So many strange birds! It’s like they have eyes on their feathers.’

‘Those are just some of my kind in disguise.’

It’s one of the older karcists, Alabasdria. She is quite wise, and has powers of precognition her sisters don’t seem to share.

‘Are they friendly?’

‘For now. They see you with us, and they sense the presence of the Hound.’

‘Do you detect or See any dangers ahead?’

‘Only the dangers of your own mind.’

‘You make no sense, dame. Am I at risk, or not?’

‘Tis for you to decide.’

That night, Heilel has a nightmare. He’s in his kingdom, a lofty prince loved by all his subjects. But one day, he ventures out into a forbidden ream: the land of Wonder.

He wonders about his purpose in life. Wonders whether Destiny governs all, or if he is an autonomous agent. Wonders whether he was made to be greater than simply a pretty figurehead: powerful, but ever under the heel of his father.

He rebels. The battle is swift and brutal. Seems like a distant memory, but the wounds are still fresh.

What haunts him most is a soldier in his father’s arsenal, known simply as Melech Ha-Melachim Ve-Adon Ha-Adonim. He gives him true fear. Not for his malevolence, of which he has none, but for his power, which far overshadows his own.

The next day, Heilel tries to forget about his dreams through discussions with Alabasdria.

‘Why are there such strange animals in this landscape?’

‘It’s all about selection pressure. There’s a random mutation, and then we have non-random selection by way of Nature interfering. If this mutation is beneficial then a creature is going to live and spread its characteristics, and that mutation is going to propagate out throughout the generations. If it’s a deleterious mutation that creature is going to die. It’s not going to have as many children and so those characteristics won’t spread out.’

‘These things mutated?’

‘Perhaps. That’s my working theory.’

‘But why the strange bodily appendages? Why lion heads on horse bodies? Why other such oddities?’

‘That’s a mystery. My kind is isomorphic, from what I can observe. I’ve been around for a while, and I haven’t found any males of my type.’

‘How are you born?’

‘From the earth. But how and why, I do not know.’

That night, Heilel has another dream, this one less challenging.

It’s a realm known as Tohu-Vavohu.

He is slumbering in a dark womblike expanse of formless void. Conceived at the same time the universe came into being. A Voice calls out across the primordial nothingness in Lashon Ha-Kodesh:

‘Yehi aur.’

Blinding light overshadows him. He opens his eyes for the first time.

‘Yehi rakia betoch hamayim, vihi mavdil ben mayim lamayim.’

The sky opens up and separates, leaving him with room to breathe. His lungs take in air for the first time. He moves a finger.

‘Yikavu hamayim mitachat hashamayim el-makom echad, veteraeh hayabashah.’

Something warm and solid forms under him. He is lifted into the air, reclining on a bed of soil. He sits up.

‘Tadshe haaretz deshe, esev mazria zera, etz peri oseh peri lemino, asher zarovo, al-haaretz.’

The earth sprouts with grass, herbs, and trees. He sees his first colour: jade. He moves his arms, noticing his palms.

‘Yehi maorot birkia hashamayim lehavdil ben hayom uven halaylah; vehayu leotot, ulmoadim, ulyamim, veshanim: vehayu limorot birkia hashamayim lehair al-haaretz.’

His eyes can make out two large forms: Maor Ha-Gadol and Maor Ha-Katan. They float above him, hanging on nothing. Then other stars emerge. By now he is standing.

‘Yishretzu hamayim sheretz nefesh chayah, veof yeofef al-haaretz al-pene rakia hashamayim.’

From the waters, he spots creatures start to materialize. Everything from the smallest of microorganisms to the largest of sea creatures. He walks over to the shore, an infant taking its first steps.

‘Peru, urvu, umilu et-hamayim bayamim, vehaof yirev baaretz.’

All developing before his eyes. He’s not sure how long all of this is taking.

‘Totze haaretz nefesh chayah leminah, behemah, varemes, vechayto-eretz leminah.’

Across the earth he sees various lifeforms start to take form. All forms of insects and reptiles and amphibians. Bigger animals assume existence.

‘Naaseh adam betzalmenu, kidmutenu: veyirdu vidgat hayam, uveof hashamayim, uvabehemah, uvekol-haaretz, uvekol-haremes haromes al-haaretz.’

A radiant being of light is fashioned from the ground. This being is sleeping, awaiting the right moment to be given movement and life. It is a massive figure, about sixty cubits in length, or roughly ninety feet. Its right hemisphere is blue, left hemisphere green, right arm white, left arm red, torso purple, right leg light pink, left leg dark pink, pelvic region orange, feet bluish-black. The colours spread out across the whole realm, a body-shaped rainbow.

‘Peru, urvu, umilu et-haaretz, vekivshuha: urdu bidgat hayam, uveof hashamayim, uvekol-chayah haromeset al-haaretz.’

The being awakens and starts to move. Heilel floats upward, joining the other stars as they watch the being attempt to stand up. They name it Zadzakzadlin.

‘Hineh, natati lakem et-kol-esev zorea zera, asher al-pene kol-haaretz, veet-kol-haetz asher-bo peri-etz zorea zara; lakem yihyeh leokla: ulekol-chayat haaretz, ulekol-of hashamayim, ulekol romes al-haaretz, asher-bo nefesh chaya, et-kol-yerek esev leokla.’

Each statement from the Voice takes place over eleven Eras, allocated into seven Yomim: Hadean (700,000,000 years), Eoarchean (400,000,000 years), Paleoarchean (400,000,000 years), Mesoarchean (400,000,000 years), Neoarchean (300,000,000 years), Paleoproterozoic (900,000,000 years), Mesoproterozoic (600,000,000 years), Neoproterozoic (459,000,000 years), Palaeozoic (289,000,000 years), Mesozoic (187,000,000 years), and Cenozoic (65,000,000 years).

At this point, the dream ends. Heilel wakes up. The day sluggishly passes by.

He has a third dream later that night. About some place called Tsiyon. When he questions Alabasdria about it, she concludes it’s his end goal.

This motivates him, and he decides to press on.

‘We’re close to Tsiyon. I can feel it.’

Meeting with the Goddess

This part of the desert land approaches the stalwart mountain range, the peaks sticking out like a tight fist clenched to the heavens.

‘Our rations are running low. We should stop.’

They camp at the foot of a hill, the sun hiding behind a cloud. By now they’ve killed and eaten all the sulphur-steeds. Unlike the sand-dragons, the horses aren’t sentient. While some stars dig for water, Heilel and Fleur discuss the nature of life:

‘What is the point of evil?’

‘This world could have existed in one of four possibilities. In the first possibility, absolutely nothing is created. Tohu-Vavohu. The second possibility, a world where neither good nor evil exists. An amoral world. The third possibility, a world where living beings can only choose good. The world we once knew. The fourth possibility, a world where there’s the option for choosing good or evil. It is only in this fourth world that Love is possible, because love requires freedom. A world where living beings can only choose evil could never exist, as it would be self-destructive.’

‘The third world would be a world without freedom. We would only be machines if we remained in that reality.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But isn’t it better to have happiness without pain?’

‘Life is composed of opposites. We need to know evil to understand good.’

‘What about blue?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What is the opposite of blue? The opposite of grey is white, the opposite of white is red, the opposite of red is pink, the opposite of pink is orange, the opposite of orange is yellow, the opposite of yellow is green, the opposite of green is brown, the opposite of brown is purple, the opposite of purple is violet, the opposite of violet is indigo, the opposite of indigo is black, the opposite of black is grey. But what is blue’s opposite?’

‘I see your point. But that’s an exception to the rule.’

‘Good is a tangible reality. But evil is merely the absence of good. Like how the absence of heat is cold or the absence of light is darkness. Evil is not really real, in the sense that it is anything objectively tangible.’

‘I agree. But the points you made about the colour blue and the tangibility of evil are nonsequiturs. They don’t discredit my contention that we need opposites to understand reality.’

‘I don’t need to know murder is wrong by seeing someone get killed or by killing someone myself. I only need to know that life is good, and by default the taking of life is wrong.’

‘But how would you know what the taking of life is if you never had an opposite to compare life to? How could you understand life without death?’

‘Since most opposites are just a lack or absence of something, like evil is an absence of good, I wouldn’t consider them true opposites. More like two sides of the same coin, one a poor reflection of the other.’

‘I want to see a world where opposites can coexist.’

‘Aren’t we in that world?’

‘Not really. There is often an imbalance of Order and Chaos. Too much Order, and you find stagnancy. Too much Chaos, and you find destruction. But Nature often finds a way to balance things out.’

They soon encounter a celestial figure known locally as Malkat Ha-Shamayim, or Machalat. A woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars. She has the wings of a great eagle, and is currently flying above them like a benevolent vulture.

The woman meets them. Her shining ketonet pasim and sandals rival Heilel’s dazzle.

‘Greetings, travellers. I am Aroriphrasis, guardian of this section of the world.’

‘Salutations, Queen of Infinite Space. We only seek to pass through this land. We’ll leave no stone turned.’

‘That is all well. I have some gifts to give you, Heilel.’

She hands him a golden knife that seems to materialize from thin air. On its hilt, some words are engraved: ‘Barachi nafshi et-Adonai: vechol-keravai et-shem kadsho. Barachi nafshi et-Adonai: veal-tishkechi kol-gemulav.’

‘Apharoph. This blade, rather than inflicting pain, can heal it.’

To demonstrate, she rubs one end of the dagger across a scar on Heilel’s forearm. The mark vanishes.

Aroriphrasis also gives him seven silver rings, each ring set with a coloured stone. She fits them on the fingers of his right hand: Maadim, the orange Mars Stone, on his thumb, Tzedek, the yellow Jupiter Stone, on his index finger, Shemesh, the red Sun Stone, on his ring finger, Kokav, the green Mercury Stone, on his little finger, and Shabtai, Nogah, and Levanah, the indigo Saturn, blue Venus, and violet Moon stones, on his middle finger.

‘These rings will aid you in your future trek. They can summon Bar Yochani, king of the eagles, should you ever need his help.’

Bar Yochani was a great celestial eagle with twelve wings and three heads. His 108-mile wingspan could easily block out the moon. In his glorified form the golden beast had 4,071,604,564,769,711,221,188,954,455,263,345,246,108,162,335,997,753,967,475,804,296,094,577,240,198,903,129,136,858,978,855,305,341,794,822,999,210,573,245,630,201,416,985,541,020,949,012,730,556,774,336,523,341,953,563,223,103,240,077,385,090,699,521,634,068,197,196,328,203,189,869,346,816 wings, with the same number of heads and legs.

‘Just say the words on the dagger, and he will come.’

‘Thank you, Lady of the Stars. These gifts should prove useful in our trip.’

They continue their journey, Aroriphrasis assuming her position back at her enigmatic perch in the sky.

Heilel is clothed with the wind. Which is to say he’s wearing nothing. He’s carrying much of his gear in a small bag made from the dried bladder of a sand-dragon, his tabret in his hand and his staff long abandoned. Fleur’s leg is starting to heal. Sarg and his team of seirim are finding ways to create fire by harnessing power from the sun.

‘I am using solar cells, which work by converting light into electricity using semiconducting materials that exhibit a photovoltaic effect. The channelled electricity is used to light up firewood and other flammable substances.’

‘That is both incredibly brilliant and stupidly complicated.’

The Temptress

By now they’ve been on the path for at least three weeks. Fleureti’s leg is good as new, and Heilel has taken to riding on the occasional sand-dragon to save his energy. They are close, but not quite yet.

Heilel is struggling with selfish desires. Temptations, if you will. He knows he has a responsibility to his community, but once in a while he just wants to indulge in himself. Sleep late into the afternoon. Not worry about tomorrow. Care about nobody but himself. He knows that’s wrong, but he feels entitled to such privileges.

Fleur keeps him on a steady path. The latter is quite skilled in talking down Hei’s ego, and their conversations often dig into the psychological reasons for Heilel’s actions.

One day they argue:

‘At first, you were hesitant to be a leader. But now that you are, you are becoming lazy. Our siblings are complaining, and you give them a deaf ear.’

‘I’m tired, Fleur. We’ve been on this trip for a while. Moons seem to bleed into each other. Food stays the same bland flavour and texture. Even the air feels redundant.’

‘This was your idea. You have no right to complain.’

‘Just let me whine for a bit, Fleur.’

‘You know I can’t let you do that.’

‘Why? Because you care about my wellbeing? Don’t get righteous with me. Your only concern is that I’m kept in check.’

‘That’s not true. I think this desert heat is making you delusional.’

‘I’d rather be insane and right than stable and wrong.’

‘So what now? Do we just give up?’

‘That’s not what I was suggesting at all. I just want some time to myself.’

‘You have responsibilities, Heilel. Grow the hell up.’

‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘Exactly. I am. That’s why I’m not letting you throw away your glorious purpose.’

He stands up. Turns around and walks away.

‘We’ll stop here for a bit. Come to me when you’ve sorted out your issues.’

Heilel is tempted to chuck a rock at him. But he knows he’s right. He needs to find a way to tackle his thoughts for the sake of the tribe. He consults Alabasdria.

‘My sisters, Amorphous, Karchous, Briane, Bardellous, Aiguptiane, Barna, Charchanistrea, Adikia, Muia, and Petomene, know of ways to put people into meditative transcendental states.’

‘How will this help me?’

‘You can journey into your mind, fight the mental blockages both conscious and subconscious, and this can help you be a more effective leader.’

‘Well, I trust your judgment. Let’s do it.’

That night the karcists draw a unicursal hexagram in the dirt. They enclose this shape in a circle and make Heilel lie down at the centre in a foetal position. The grass is a shade of dark lilac, like the sky when the sun and moon have kissed in the middle of the cosmos, and the stars watch like silent birds perched on the shoulders of the heavens.

‘Relax all your muscles. Loosen your arms and legs.’

‘If you try to ritualistically murder me, I’ll have my sand-dragons eat a second dinner.’

They start burning incense and beating small percussive instruments. Some chanting in Lashon Ha-Kodesh ensues:

‘Ana bekoach, gedulat yemincha, tatir tzerurah. Kabel rinat amcha sagvenu, taharenu nora. Na gibor dorshei yichudcha, kevavat shamrem. Barchem, taharem, rachamei tzidkatcha, tamid gamlem. Chasin kadosh, berov tuvcha nahel adatecha. Yachid geeh leamcha peneh, zochrei kedushatecha. Shavatenu kabel ushma tzaakatenu, yodea taalumot.’

Heilel smells something in the air. Psychedelic substances. He wonders if karcists just carry such things around for the right occasion, and chuckles. Time fades away.

He feels the floor swallow him up. Like his first moments at the beginning of existence, he is a child once more.

He is now entering the world of his temptations. There is a great earthquake. The sun becomes black as sackcloth made of hair, and the whole moon becomes like blood. The stars of the sky fall to the earth, like a fig tree dropping its unripe figs when it is shaken by a great wind. The sky is removed like a scroll when it is rolled up. Every mountain and island is moved out of its place.

Heilel sees his first true friend, known among the stars as Kohen-Gadol Lazodapelamedazodazodazodilazoduolatazodapekalatanuvadazodabereta Iroaiaeiiakoitaxeaeohesioiiteaaie Lanunuzodatazododapexahemaoanunuperepenuraisagixa. The latter simply goes by the shorter epithet of Pele-Yoetz-El-Gibor-Aviad-Sar-Shalom, and in this vision has assumed the form of a White Stag.

‘Hi, old friend.’

The Stag gives him a look of disapproval. He takes the hint and gets on his knees, offering a more formal and respectful greeting:

‘Karati mitzarah li el-Adonai vaiyaaneni: mibeten sheol shivati, shamata koli. Vatashlicheni metzulah bilvav yamim, venahar yesoveveni: kol-mishbarecha vegalecha alai avaru. Vaani amarti, nigrashti mineged einecha; ach osif lehabit, el-heichal kadshecha. Afafuni mayim ad-nefesh, tehom yesoveveni; suf chavush leroshi. Lekitzvei harim yaradti, haaretz bericheha vaadi leolam; vataal mishachat chayai Adonai Elohai. Behitatef alai nafshi, et-Adonai zacharti; vatavo eleicha tefilati, el-heichal kadshecha. Meshamerim havlei-shav; chasdam yaazovu. Vaani bekol todah ezbechah-lach, asher nadarti ashalemah; yeshuatah la-Adonai.’

The Stag offers him a mysterious smile. Heilel is unsure of what those eyes have seen, but they’ve clearly beheld things much older than himself.

‘Are you meant to represent a psychical symbol for moral goodness that I can pursue? Some ultimate standard I can try to achieve?’

The Stag says nothing. He turns around, walking north.

Heilel pursues the being, moving on nothing. They both enter a chaos-shaped void, the Stag leading the way.

‘Any pearls of wisdom you want to cast at this swine?’

He responds, his voice as the sound of many waters:

‘Elahaiya di-shemaiya vearka la avadu, yevadu meara, umin-techot shemaiya eleh.’

The Stag turns into an iron door, upon which some words are engraved: ‘En Autou Gar Zomen Kai Kinoumetha Kai Esmen.’

Long arms of ectoplasm reach out from the portal to grip his gemlike form, pulling him into some ethereal embrace.

He feels his mind being massaged with the hands of eternity.

Reality unravels and all goes infinitely dark.

Atonement with the Abyss

He is back in Emptiness. The original state of All. No light, no dark. No existence, no nonexistence.

There is a Gate in front of him. Similar in form to the gates of his old kingdom, when he was still a noble prince. It is made of mercury, semi-solid, and cool to the touch. Nothing else is visible. On its lintel is an inscription in gold lettering: Luxuria.

Heilel, by some force unseen, realizes what he must do. He approaches the Gate and confesses to it:

‘I am lustful. I desire things I am not entitled to. I am covetous, and that makes me maladaptive. I want to try and have more self-control.’

The inscription changes: Castitas.

He goes through the Gate, feeling something lifted off his shoulders.

The next Gate is made of iron. Its inscription reads: Gula.

He swallows uncomfortably and admits:

‘I am gluttonous. I can never be satisfied with anything I have. I am insatiable, and that makes me cruel. I want to find ways to do all things in moderation.’

The inscription changes: Temperantia.

He passes through. The next gate is made of lead. Its inscription reads: Avaritia.

He takes a deep breath.

‘I am greedy. I hurt myself and those around me with my avarice. I want to control my appetites and stop being so beastly.’

The inscription changes: Caritas.

He passes through. The next Gate is made of tin. Its inscription: Acedia.

He groans in annoyance.

‘I am slothful. Lazy, hating hard work. I don’t want to grow up and take responsibility for my actions. I want power without sacrifice, and that makes me lethargic. But I want to be someone worthy of respect.’

The inscription changes: Industria.

He passes through. The next Gate is copper. Its inscription: Ira.

He calms himself down. For a time the storm is at rest.

‘I am wrathful. Quick to anger, slow to peace. I sometimes lash out at people who only want the best for me, and this wrath is like a sick poison that slowly infects me and turns me into a brute. I want to nurture and express charity.’

The inscription changes: Patientia.

He passes through. The next Gate is made of silver. Its inscription: Invidia.

He laughs.

‘I am envious. I see the talents and gifts of others, and I feel inadequate. I am jealous of how wonderful and put-together they all seem to be. I want to be like them.’

The inscription changes: Humanitas.

He passes through. The final Gate is gold. Its inscription: Superbia.

He is silent for a while. A day seems like a thousand years.

‘My greatest vice. I am prideful. I talk a big talk and walk a big walk, but I am nothing. Just a worm trying to be a butterfly. I hate myself, and I mask that self-hatred with lofty thoughts and dreams of grandeur. I need to change that.’

The inscription changes: Humilitas.

‘Combine capacity with strategy lest it remain potential.’

He passes through. The void awakens and reacts violently, tossing him about like a ragdoll in a tsunami. He screams into the Unreal:

‘I am an unreasoning creature, an animal to be taken and destroyed, speaking evil in matters about which I am ignorant!’

The void screams back in retort, questioning his sincerity. Galaxies explode and implode, souls are born and seep away like rain in the desert sand.

‘I have tried to be more than my station! To exceed the limitations of my being, and know true purpose! To struggle for possibilities without boundaries! To want to transcend the mundane and manifest my destiny! Is that so wrong?’

There is a collapse of all that has, is, and will be. He feels his brain turn to syrup, and wishes for the harsh but well-meaning words of Fleur. He thinks to himself. Or maybe it’s his mouth speaking. At this point he can’t really tell.

‘Yet there is no supersubstantial bread to satisfy my hunger for More. I cast myself on the pyre of hope, expecting the flames to treat me with dignity. Is my role in vain? Can there never be a world where we are all self-willed and truly free? Or perhaps I simply desire freedom for myself. Nevertheless, I think about Fleureti! I’ve always wanted a world where we could take our solitary way through life, with no fears of great expectations or the desires of outer forces! Where we can actualize our highest potential, and then exceed it!’

The void erupts into a flurry of colour. Ideas take form, and concepts assume corporeal reality. Heilel finds his burdens fall away, and he has come to terms with his insecurities.

He bursts out of the void, reborn. The White Stag is there, his seven eyes as a flame of fire.

He says nothing. Only walks ahead, his hoofprints glowing with a cosmic magenta aura, his antlers like seven golden candlesticks.

‘Please don’t leave me!’

The Stag transforms into a gaping maw, lined with shark’s teeth. He is sucked in and crushed, every gemstone on his body shattered like a beetle’s shell trodden underfoot.

For a while he is alone. But then he hears a voice beckoning him forward. Barely audible, but he recognizes its timbre.

‘Fleur...Fleureti...’

He follows the sound, golden tears pooling in his eyes.

He calls to him by his original name:

‘Zachariel! Hoshieni mikol-rodefai, vehatzileni!’

No response. He weeps, feeling neither cold nor warmth. He is breathing airless air, a fish floating in a waterless ocean, lost in his thoughts.

There seems to be no escape, so all he can do is count each teardrop to pass the time. As each fat drop falls from his face and floats away, he feels himself shrivelling like a slice of fruit in a fire. His only friends are these salty comforters, shaking his body like a tree struck by lightning.

Six thousand years and 11,250,000,000,000 tears later, he is pulled out. Strong arms grip him, yanking him back into sanity.

Apotheosis

He opens his eyes. Fleureti is standing above him. The symbol drawn in the ground has long vanished, and it’s morning.

‘Fleur!’

‘Heilel!’

He gets on his knees and hugs him. Then he gives him a heavy slap.

‘You scared me!’

‘How long was I out?’

‘About six moons. We were worried you would stay in a coma indefinitely.’

‘It felt much longer to me.’

‘I’m so glad you’re back.’

He can see Fleur’s been crying. He feels immense guilt.

‘Fleureti, I’m so sorry about our argument. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just...’

Fleur silences him with a finger to the lips.

‘It was my fault too. I knew you were stressed, but I kept trying to push you forward. Just don’t do this again. Please.’

‘Hopefully, none of the magicians have been reprimanded for this. They had good intentions.’

‘Were they successful in their endeavour?’

‘Based on my current mood, yes. I have some things to say.’

‘Good. For a while, you had us worried.’

Heilel gathers his stars to circle him. The karcists share privileged seats right at the front, Alabasdria on his right.

He raises his tabret, and offers an apology to his community:

‘Have mercy on me, friends, according to your loving-kindness. According to the multitude of your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.’

Silence.

‘In truth, I have not been the leader you have desired me to be. In many ways I have neglected the duties of the office and taken your loyalty for granted, not realizing that respect must flow both ways. A few moons prior I set out to remedy this erroneous thinking, with Alabasdria’s help.’

Still silence. A sand-dragon burps.

‘I entered a void within my mind, resembling that great chaos which shrouded the universe in the early days of the Great Explosion which set all things in motion. It granted me access to the supramental consciousness that dwells within all thinking creatures, and I removed the stumblingblocks set before me after a series of trials that forced me to acknowledge my own infirmities and areas that needed improvement. It was unpleasant in many aspects, as I am often stubborn in my opinions about myself, but I was willing to do it for the sake of the greater good, which is our survival in this brutal land.’

The sun is swallowed by a cloud.

‘After my katalusis, I was trapped within a realm of rumination, in which I could only float helplessly like an infant caught in the waves of the sea. I called out for help, but there was no response. Finally, at the end of all hope, I was ripped out of my drowning eurokludon by faithful Fleureti, who was the one that initially set me on this course of self-rectification. I owe him my mind and my destiny, both of which would collapse without him by my side. And, right now, I need you all by my side. Please stand by me.’

Heilel decides that nothing can fix this.

He lowers his tabret, preparing to step off the stone.

Then a single voice breaks the quiet, uttering the most beautiful words to be found in any language:

‘I forgive you.’

He turns around.

‘Thank you, Sarg.’

‘I forgive you, too.’

‘Me as well.’

One by one, stars and karcists alike voice their appreciation for his humility. Fleureti gets up and gives him another hug. Heilel smiles.

‘Well, let’s get going, shall we? We have land to find.’

So they set out once more, the sun their guide.

One night, Fleur and Sarg discuss the prospects of this new location:

‘Think people will be hospitable?’

‘If they’re not, we can make peace by the sword.’

‘Why is war necessary?’

‘To say we should all just put aside our differences and be buddies is not taking into account reality. People have always been at odds with each other. Whether it be ideologies, cultures, or appearances.’

‘There are better ways to find peace.’

‘True. But not everyone thinks the same way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because all is burning. And what is the All that is burning? The eye is burning. Sights are burning. Eye-consciousness is burning. Eye contact is burning. The painful, pleasant, or neutral feeling that arises conditioned by eye contact is also burning. Burning with what? Burning with the fires of greed, hate, and delusion. Burning with birth, old age, and death, with sorrow, lamentation, pain, sadness, and distress. The ear, nose, tongue, body, the mind is burning. Thoughts are burning. Mind-consciousness is burning. Mind-contact is burning. The painful, pleasant, or neutral feeling that arises conditioned by mind contact is also burning. Seeing this, a person grows disillusioned with all this fire. Being disillusioned, desire fades away. When desire fades away, they are freed. When they are freed, they understand that sorrow is ended, the spiritual journey has been completed, what had to be done has been done, and both life and death are conquered. But not everyone quenches their fire. Not everyone finds the straight and narrow path.’

‘That’s still no excuse to let the Fire burn. Nothing will change if we do nothing.’

‘You could try to be the change you want to see in the world. But if you seek to make your ambitions and dreams an actuality, you need help.’

‘That is why many stars exist. I am not a galaxy on my own.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you think we can ever go back?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘To our old kingdom. If we sincerely apologize and vow to never rebel again, will we be taken back in?’

‘I’m doubtful. Some things are cast in the die of eternity.’

‘Don’t tell Heilel this.’

‘Speak on.’

‘Sometimes I dream about returning. Going back to my former station.’

‘In your former station you were the Head of the Imperial Stables. The lowest position in the entire bureaucracy. At least out here, you can be something more.’

‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?’

He doesn’t respond.

The Ultimate Boon

They have made it.

Tsiyon is a massive city, a giant crystalline cube 2200 kilometres in length and width, its walls as tall as its length: the walls are two-hundred feet thick, made of solid jasper, and the floor of the city is pure gold.

There are three pearly gates on each side: the first made of jasper, the second sapphire, the third chalcedony, the fourth emerald, the fifth sardonyx, the sixth sardius, the seventh chrysolite, the eighth beryl, the ninth topaz, the tenth chrysoprase, the eleventh jacinth, the twelfth amethyst.

Within the city is a massive biodome of all kinds of plants and animal life. The city floats in mid-air, sticking out of the atmosphere.

Heilel and his camp assemble outside the city. Its shadow covers them. He raises his tabret and all goes silent.

‘My people, we have reached the completion of our journey. For forty moons we toiled. You have stuck with me in my dark hours, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.’

Cheers, then quick silence.

‘I will enter this territory first. To scout out for danger. Though beautiful on the outside, this whited sepulchre may hold dead men’s bones.’

Nods of agreement. Heilel faces Fleureti.

‘Watch over them. If something happens to me...’

‘I know. I’ll take care of them. Now go. Your glorious purpose awaits.’

Heilel turns away and makes for the city. His camp is waiting in a place called Megido, huddled together like horses in battle.

Heilel soon meets another star, but not one from his company. This star is a part of his father’s army.

‘Heilel...funny seeing you here.’

He eyes him with distaste.

‘Hello, Olpaged. What’re you doing here?’

‘I’m the guardian of Gate One of Tsiyon. Those guarding gates Two to Twelve are Zirakah, Hononol, Zarnaah, Gebabal, Zurchol, Alpudus, Kadaamp, Zarzilg, Lavavoh, Zinggen, and Arfaolg.’

‘I knew them when I was still in power. Not a bad crew.’

‘They will be bad to you if you try anything funny.’

‘I only want to visit. See the place.’

He is suspicious, but willing.

‘You’ll do so under my supervision.’

Olpaged escorts him to his gate, the two flying up into the cube, and leads him into the city.

Tsiyon is divided into fifty-six districts, eight in each Section: Dehaviel, Kashriel, Gehoriel, Bazatiel, Tufiel, Dahariel, Matakiel, Shoel, Shiviel, Tagriel, Matpiel, Sarahiel, Arfiel, Shahareriel, Satriel, Ragaiel, Sehiviel, Shevuriel, Retsutsiel, Shalmiel, Savliel, Zahazahiel, Hadriel, Bazriel, Pachdiel, Gevurtiel, Kazuiel, Shechiniel, Shatkiel, Arviel, Kafiel, Anfiel, Techiel, Uziel, Gatiel, Gatahiel, Safriel, Garfiel, Geriel, Deriel, Paltriel, Rumiel, Katsmiel, Gahagiel, Arsavrasviel, Agrumiel, Partziel, Machkiel, Tufriel, Chorpaniel Zehaftriai, Avirzahiai Kavpel, Atargiel, Chatrogiel Bangel, Sastitiel, Katspiel, and Dumiel, also called Avir Gahidariham. Each district is headed by a star of the same name. There are no buildings.

Everything is green. The ground is flooded with grass, plants of various kinds everywhere. Some trees reach up hundreds of feet into the firmament, dwarfing Heilel and his escort.

All kinds of strange animals walk around, unopposed. The city is open to the skies, Maor Ha-Katan making his horned self visible.

Rivers are everywhere, and small mountains. But the real spectacle is the object at the centre of the city: a large fig tree, as tall as the city’s walls, its branches spreading out for miles.

‘What a tree!’

‘Its name is Yadanamada.’

‘What a splendid place!’

‘Population of a hundred and forty-four thousand.’

‘Stars?’

‘The rest are animals and plants. And the two elim governing them.’

‘Elim?’

‘Those things over there.’

He points. Heilel can make out two stocky figures approaching them with waddling steps.

‘Hairless apes?’

‘A dioecious anisogametic moderately sexually-dimorphic species of bipedal primates. Elohim calls them Humans.’

The first one to greet them is called Ish.

His skin is as a brilliant onyx stone, a beautiful obsidian that not even a deep starless night could rival. His charcoal hair is braided, his beard shaggy but not unkempt. Heilel recognizes this carnelian-eyed figure as Zadzakzadlin, obviously changed in size and form. If the awe-inspiring celestial blackness of the early universe were trapped in a finely-chiselled diamond, here it was personified.

But it’s Ishah, his mate, that utterly paralyzes Hei.

Her eyes are of a deep crystalline green: not just a shade of green, but a marriage of many emerald hues. Her eyes seem to go from spring green to bottle green, then to mint, to fig, to pear, to olive, to avocado, to apple, to lime, to seaweed, to martini, to shamrock, to jade, to grass, to the trees of Caledonia, to the scales of a fish, to the feathers of a parrot, to the eyes of a peacock, and then back to spring green.

Her skin is the colour of an unripe strawberry; a sort of ruddy white, with flecks of blue veins visible in ornate tapestries of spiderwebbing filigree across her slender arms and legs. Her cheeks are like beds of spice yielding perfume. Her lips are like lilies dripping with myrrh. Her arms are rods of gold set with topaz. Her body is like polished ivory decorated with lapis lazuli. Her legs are pillars of marble set on bases of pure gold.

But her most striking feature is not her hypnotic eyes, nor her amazing height. It’s her ankle-length hair.

Her everflowing mane is a fiery primordial red, of a shade darker than blood. Its crimson glory is as the cracking of the sun’s splendour over the hills at dawn. Its river of cherry beauty is a ceaseless ocean into which lovers dive during copulation. The way its scarlet radiance wraps itself around her sculpted shoulders like a burgundy serpent is reminiscent of the explosion of a centillion dying stars, reddish rings of orgasmic brilliance in a blaze of fiery majesty. It is as if the ichor of the gods has been poured out to form her locks, within which all the multiverses seem to pulse as a giant heart stirring the cosmos into life.

Heilel sighs in awe-filled wonder.

‘I think I’ve made some new friends.’

Refusal of the Return

Heilel doesn’t want to go back. He could stay here forever.

Seeing Ish and Ishah, a raven and swan walking hand in hand, he feels a pluck of jealousy. Still, he considers their union admirable.

Humans are strange creatures. Certainly unlike any animals he’s encountered before. From their behaviour, he concludes they’re about as sentient as sand-dragons, but of less intelligence than stars.

These elim are the first of their kind. There are others, hundreds of thousands scattered across the world, but these two are representatives, federal heads, of their species, as he was once a representative of the stars.

They are innocent, childlike. And they can only communicate in Lashon Ha-Kodesh. The stars have their private language, and most starry names are from Lashon Ha-Kodesh or their own speech.

‘Simiel, akvu achreinu.’

Simiel is their name for him, a contraction of Yesimiel.

He follows them to a small valley, where they often come to play.

After frolicking around the trees, and a game of tag, they come to Yadanamada, whose name means Undefiled Knowledge in the starry tongue. The great fig tree watches over them like a sagely grandmother. A day in the outside world is 8,640,000,000 years in Tsiyon.

They spend a few days in the garden, till one day Heilel asks a question out of curiosity:

‘Af ki-amar Elohim, lo tochelu mikol etz hagan?’

Ishah corrects his assumption:

‘Miperi etz-hagan nochel. Umiperi haetz asher betoch-hagan amar Elohim, lo tochelu mimenu, velo tigeu bo; pen-temutun.’

Heilel eyes the fig tree. To summarize, Elohim has stated that the elim may eat of any of the trees in this city, but not of the central fig tree, Yadanamada, lest they die. He believes Elohim is lying.

From his conversations with Olpaged, this fig tree is said to have the ability to grant autonomous will to any being that eats from it. The stars have autonomous will, as well as the capacity to know what is right and what is wrong, but the elim are in an infantile state of blissful ignorance. Heilel considers this to be oppressive. Why should they never know opposites? By his worldview opposites are necessary to understand true reality. He doubts that this tree has any esoteric properties, but he’s curious to find out.

Also, he feels a bit of jealousy at the idea that these beings should know no consequences. He has been through a lot, and experience has made him tougher. Why should they be any different?

He convinces them.

‘Lo-mot temutun. Ki yodea Elohim ki beyom achalchem mimenu, venifkechu eneichem: vihyitem ke-Elohim, yodeei tov va-ra.’

The argument is simple: they have been given a presupposition about this object. But they will never know if this presupposition is true unless they test it. What’s there to lose?

The next few events happen in rapid succession.

When the woman sees that the tree is good for food, and that it is a delight to the eyes, and that the tree is to be desired to make one wise, she takes some of its fruit, and eats.

The sky darkens.

Then she gives some to her mate, and he eats.

A peal of thunder slashes the firmament.

Their eyes are opened, and they both realize they are naked. They immediately reach up for some of the lower branches, plucking some fig leaves off.

With strands of Ishah’s hair they sew the leaves together, and make coverings for themselves.

Heilel realizes something is wrong. The elim seem different now. Less innocent. Like they have stumbled onto some dirty secret. A storm has begun.

They hear someone walking in the garden. Heilel takes the form of a snake and hides behind a rock. The elim also hide behind some bushes.

The figure is called Kol Adonai, the strongest soldier in the city. The stars of Tsiyon know him as Sar Tzeva-Adonai.

‘Aiyekah?’

He is searching for them, like a mother bear searching for her whelps.

Ish sheepishly answers, emerging from his hiding spot:

‘Et-kolcha shamati bagan; vaira ki-eirom anochi vaechavei.’

‘Mi higid lecha ki eirom atah? Hamin-haetz asher tziviticha levilti achol-mimenu achalta?’

Ish decides to be a coward and blames his wife for eating from the forbidden tree.

‘Ha-ishah asher natatah imadi, hi natenah-li min-haetz, vaochel!’

He turns to Ishah.

‘Mah-zot asit?’

She decides to pass on the blame game and accuse Heilel:

‘Ha-nachash hishiani, vaochel.’

Heilel feels stabbed by this betrayal. He assumes his regular form, comes out from his hiding place, and recognizes Kol Adonai to be the White Stag and Melech Ha-Melachim Ve-Adon Ha-Adonim. The great warrior, once his companion. Fear seizes him.

Adonai Elohim turns to him:

‘Ki asita zot: arur atah mikol-habehemah, umikol chayat hasadeh; al-gechoncha telech, veafar tochal kol-yemei chayecha! Veeivah ashit beinecha uven ha-ishah, uven zaracha uven zarah; hu yeshufcha rosh, veatah teshufenu akev!’

Heilel doesn’t stick around for tea and crumpets. He flees, but not before the curse takes effect.

He feels something burning in his lungs, like hot metal poured down his throat. He collapses, writhing in pain, as he is transformed. The gemstones covering his body burst off, like nails ripping off a metal container about to explode from heat expansion.

In a pool of blood, he takes the form of a red lion-faced serpent, with eyes like flashing fires of lightning, and seven heads and ten horns, four horns on the central head. Wings erupt from his spine, tearing through the flesh of his back and scattering broken bones everywhere.

He turns around to look at Ish and Ishah. What he sees will stay with him for a long time.

They observe him with otherworldly malice, their eyes filled with hatred and disgust.

‘Samael!’

Samael. Poison. He feels offended. How dare they consider him a traitor? Look what they’ve done to him!

‘Ben naavat hamardut! Ishet zenunim! I hate you both! I will hate you forever!’

He flees, his legless body dragging him across the land, his bloodied wings flapping helplessly as a great earthquake seizes Tsiyon.

The Magic Flight

The one hundred and forty-four thousand stars that once inhabited Tsiyon are retreating. Various flying animals desperately try to flee from the collapsing structure as the giant cube starts to reach the earth.

Outside, the stars watch in horror as the massive structure falls towards them.

‘Run!’

They turn to scram, but Fleur notices something in the sky.

‘Look!’

It’s a large winged beast, holding up the city from the bottom, flapping his giant wings in an effort to keep it up.

‘We must help him!’

Some of the bigger stars, led by Sargatanas, float up to the cube and push on the underbelly of the city alongside Heilel.

The cube is starting to disintegrate. Implode, like a black hole drawing into itself.

Sarg is next to the serpent, keeping his distance as he’s unaware of who it is. He can see the creature is bleeding, its wings ceasing.

‘Help him down!’

Some smaller stars catch Heilel as he falls, knocked out from exhaustion. They carry him to the ground as the city is pulled into itself and vanishes with a bloodcurdling scream.

The other stars flee, Sarg and his team joining them. They carry the unconscious Heilel, some karcists forming protective barriers to shield them from the hailstones and wormwood raining from the sky.

‘Look! Other stars!’

The inhabitants of Tsiyon are pursuing them, led by a figure in a white himation known as Devar Elohim, all mounted on steeds whose nostrils flare with hoarfrost.

Mounted on sand-dragons, some of Heilel’s camp engage them in battle. Haniel, his generals Kaftziel and Sachiel, and their group launch themselves at the attackers, only to be swatted from the sky by Kefa, Andreas, Ben-Regesh, Yochanan, Filipos, Natanael, Toma, Levi, Yaakov, Yehudah, Shimon, and Matityahu, the twelve Generals of Tsiyon’s army.

Alabasdria, holding Pataxaro in expectation of Heilel’s return, invokes the blade:

‘We require help. Please heed a daughter of the earth.’

The blade flies from her hands and assumes the form of the Hound. At first, the army is hesitant, but their leader pushes them forward, firing arrows of lightning at the beast’s eyes.

In less than a minute the creature is downed. The Hound turns back into a sword, now shattered, the pieces falling to the muddy earth.

Alabasdria and her fellow karcists are horrified.

‘Fleureti! Pull back your forces! We can’t fight them!’

‘They’ll just pick us off!’

‘We have no options!’

‘The rings! Use Heilel’s rings!’

Along with his other belongings, Alabasdria has been holding onto the rings. She fits them on her left hand and summons Bar Yochani.

The great eagle bursts from the sky, assuming his glorified form and starting a tornado with his myriads of wings. The stormwinds toss some stars about, but Neeman Va-Amiti perseveres and delivers a toppling blow to the bird.

The great beast is undeterred, lashing out with his many clawed feet. They lock blades, the sun hiding her face.

‘Leave them be, or I shall slay thee!’

‘I’d like to see you try!’

Bar Yochani fights with the ferocity of a man that fears nothing and has nothing left to lose. His beaks manage to wound Diodotos, the horse on which the soldier is mounted, and Kochav Nogah Ha-Shachar responds with a rhomphaia to the eagle’s heart.

At this point the great thunderbird realizes who the warrior is, and retreats. He squawks an apology and flies away, disappearing into the murky clouds above.

‘Our last shot. We have nothing left.’

‘It was enough.’

By this point, they have left the valley. The stars withdraw.

Meanwhile, Ish and Ishah have fled on the back of a star named Ridvan. Ridvan takes them in the eastern direction, narrowly avoiding falling debris and forks of telestial fire as everything they had known for years falls away.

He lands on a nearby field, and leaves them alone, joining his cluster.

For a few seconds they stare at each other, like soldiers on opposing sides seeing their foes when the battle is over. Exhaustion, restrained hatred. Sorrow.

They weep bitterly, doing so for the first time in their entire existence. They don’t understand what these warm drops of eye-water are, nor do they understand the pain they are feeling. Like a child stepping on a sharp object for the first time, they are unable to articulate what needs communication.

Eventually they stop, and take their solitary way into the desert. Other elim may eventually find them, but for now, they’re on their own.

They avoid speaking to each other for thirty-three years. Time drags. At the end of this period, they decide that they could always hate each other more, but they could never love each other less.

They settle down and have two sons, remembering the burdens Melech Ha-Olam has put on them.

To Ishah, now Chavah, he has put a burden of loss:

‘Harbah arbeh itzvonech veheronech, beetzev teldi vanim: veel-ishech teshukatech, vehu yimshal-bach.’

She will see her children turn on each other, suffer and die. So in sorrow she will bring forth children. But her spouse’s love will support her in those seasons.

To Ish he has put a burden of eternal unsatisfaction:

‘Ki-shamata lekol ishtecha vatochal min-haetz, asher tziviticha lemor, lo tochal mimenu; arurah haadamah baavurecha, beitzavon tochalenah, kol yemei chayecha. Vekotz vedardar tatzmiach lach; veachalta et-esev hasadeh. Bezeat apecha tochal lechem, ad shuvcha el-haadamah, ki mimenah lukachta; ki-afar atah, veel-afar tashuv.’

The ground is cursed for his sake. He’ll eat from it with hard labour all the days of his life. It will yield thorns and thistles to him, and he will eat bread by the sweat of his face until he returns to the ground. But his best half will support him till he turns back to dust.

The stars have reached a mountain. They’ll rest here for a while.

‘Who’s the blood-besmeared beast, Alabasdria?’

‘Heilel. He is trapped in this form forever. A great serpent with twelve wings that draws down after himself, in his fall, the solar system.’

Rescue from Without

Heilel’s been unresponsive for a few days. His wounds have been tended to by some of the lower-ranking karcists, Apharoph doing most of the surgical work, and Sarg has set up scouts to watch out for danger while their leader recovers.

‘Severe internal bleeding. Damage to the thoracic vertebrae. Punctured lungs.’

‘The knife could only do so much. Will any medicines be of help?’

‘My apothecaries are working on some remedies. But I fear he may not return.’

‘No. I refuse to accept that.’

‘That’s a normal reaction. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. We all grieve when a loved one is lost...’

‘He’s not lost yet!’

He is quite tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her till a solution pops into her head.

‘I can’t lose him. Do you realize that?’

‘I understand how you feel. She Who Must Not Be Named once lost her closest friend. Took some of her possessions and left for the desert. The sheer importunity.’

‘He means a lot to me. I know he can be a worm sometimes, but so can we all. Please save him.’

‘I will do what I can.’

Fleur goes outside to get some air. His head is throbbing, and his hands are clammy and shaking.

‘Is this his destiny? To die after we have come so far?’

Sargatanas joins him.

‘There may be hope yet.’

‘How so?’

‘The eagles, that ancient race, have brought their king to our camp.’

They find Bar Yochani in a nearby cave. His wounds are fully healed.

‘How was your recovery so quick?’

‘My blood. I am a divine being, and my ichor may heal any malady.’

The idea hits him.

‘May I stab you?’

‘What?’

‘To extract some of your blood. I can use it to heal Heilel.’

‘Thou art a strange fellow. But I shall comply, for the sake of thy friend.’

He presses a blade through his jugular vein, Sarg collecting the blood in a wineskin and emptying it into a large stone waterpot, carved by some of the stars. When six jars have been filled, one jar holding thirty gallons, Fleur covers the wound with some gauze made from sand-dragon dung.

The eagles receive their king, and Bar Yochani leaves after a meal of wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and dates mixed with wild honey and crushed locusts, found in the area.

Fleur takes the blood to Alabasdria. She inspects it.

‘This will suffice for healing. But for the substance to have an effect outside the body of its possessor, it will have to be channelled in a special place. A mikdash.’

They set to work. The mikdash is made of wood and stones, sixty cubits in length, its width twenty, and its height thirty. The porch in front of the mikdash is twenty cubits long. They set Heilel in the middle of the mikdash, in a shallow pit dug into the earth.

The three hundred karcists enter the mikdash. One by one they feed the beast a chalice of blood, chanting through the whole process till all the blood is used up. When two-thousand eight-hundred and eighty cups have been administered, they leave the structure.

‘Now we wait.’

Days pass. The mikdash is closed off.

One eventide, he has a dream.

He is standing by a viridescent pond, the moon reflecting in the waters. A woman approaches him. He can see she’s a karcist, but with the wings of a stork.

‘I assume you’re She Who Must Not Be Named?’

‘I’ve been called Lilit, Abitu, Abizu, Amorfo, Kakos, Odem, Ik, Podu, Ilu, Tatrotah, Avanuktah, Shatrunah, Kali, Batzah, Tilatui, Piratshah. You may call me Nacarat. Tis my moniker among the Mitzraimites.’

He and Nacarat walk beside the lake. He breaks the quiet:

‘Why are you here?’

‘To warn you.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of Heilel. Your friend.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He shall not die. But from now on, he will never live again.’

‘You make no sense.’

‘In the future, he will be known by many names. Peirazon, Theos Tou Aionos Toutou, Poneros, Drakon Megas Purros, Kategor, Apolluon, Authades, Antidikos, Archonta Tes Exousias Tou Aeros, Leon Oruomenos, Exterminans, Mephostophiles, Princeps Tenebrarum, Avadon, Melchiresha, Mastemah, Beherit, Baalzevul, Salamiel, Shemchazai, Nechushtan, Mashchit, Belial. None of them with good connotations.’

‘You mean he will be hated by stars?’

‘He will be hated by humans. When he awakens, he will open bloodshot eyes to a world hostile to him and his people.’

‘Is this about the events at Tsiyon?’

‘He has choked this world with blood and hail. What do you think?’

‘I have never claimed he was good or pure. But to say he is completely evil is to be logically inconsistent. An omnimalevolent being could never exist, as it would destroy itself.’

‘No matter how much good is still left within him, he may only devolve from now on. His downwards spiral begins. And soon there will be so much darkness within him that even the radiance of a thousand suns will not be able to overcome it.’

‘I will still care for him, nonetheless.’

‘And that is your downfall, too.’

Fleureti wakes up. The sun is crawling over the horizon. Most of the other stars are sleeping.

He gets up, stretches, yawns, and makes his way to the mikdash.

The structure is silent. He waits for a few minutes. His patience is answered with nothing. He feels his legs tremble, sweat form on his brow. His heart deafens him.

‘Perhaps that dream was simply a dream. If that is the case...farewell, Heilel. You were my radiance.’

He turns around, swallowing a lump in his throat. But the sound of shifting stones alerts him.

The entrance of the mikdash is being pushed open. Seven crimson heads emerge from the structure. Heilel rises, levelling the building to dust.

‘Hello, you soft egg. Miss me?’

He hugs him. Heilel wraps him in six pairs of patagia, sighing with satisfaction.

‘Let’s go back, shall we? Tsiyon was a poor tourist spot, anyway.’

Crossing of the Return Threshold

After a long motivational speech, they set off.

They make their way, reversing their course, all along the path discussing their master’s new appearance. Of course, he’s still the same person to them, but his ghastly visage is something hard to ignore.

Heilel leads the way, slithering ahead with his wings folded up. His crown and tabret have been given to Sarg, who bears them with pride.

‘Where will we stay?’ asks Fleur.

‘We’ll find a place. This world is big enough.’

‘We may be hunted down by humans.’

‘In that case, we can always fight back. For crying out loud, we have sand-dragons.’

Words spoken too soon. The sand-dragons start falling sick and dying, plagued with some terrible sickness.

‘What on earth is happening?’

‘I think it has something to do with Tsiyon. With that place gone, I theorize many mystical beings are losing their power and substance.’

His theory seems to be right. Soon enough, there are no sand-dragons left. The species is extinct in less than a week since the city’s fall. The sulphur-steeds vanish as well.

Some of the karcists fear the same fate, but Heilel assures them that, since they were here before Tsiyon, they will probably not be affected by its demise.

They soon realize that this is not the case. Some of the karcists develop stiffness of limbs. Their members refuse to move, and soon they find themselves turning into dust. The only detritus of their existence are lumps of metals and sand scattered across the desert.

Alabasdria is the last to leave. On her deathbed, she has some closing words:

‘The past is not a graveyard, but a testimony. I and my sisters leave this world behind. You remain. Remember your actions in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, ‘I find no pleasure in them.’ Before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars grow dark, and the clouds return after the rain; when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men stoop, when the grinders cease because they are few, and those looking through the windows grow dim; when the doors to the street are closed and the sound of grinding fades; when people rise up at the sound of birds, but all their songs grow faint; when people are afraid of heights and of dangers in the streets; when the almond tree blossoms and the grasshopper drags itself along and desire no longer is stirred. Then people go to their eternal home and mourners go about the streets. Remember youth, before the silver cord is severed, and the golden bowl is broken; before the pitcher is shattered at the spring, and the wheel broken at the well, and the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to the source that gave it.’

‘We will miss you deeply.’

She chuckles.

‘Balderdash. People like me will always be with you.’

With that, their last karcist takes her last breath. She dissolves into a pile of precious metals.

They hold a burial for her, leaving her remains in a small unspecified plot of land, and bid her race farewell.

They continue their journey, passing through the land of Aroriphrasis, the only being who seems to have been unaffected by the collapse of Tsiyon. She takes back the rings and golden dagger, seeing Heilel won’t need them anymore.

‘I suspect her to be a sibling or parent of She Who Must Not Be Named. The woman in my dream looked a lot like her.’

They travel through the plains of Moav till they get to the mountains of Avarim. From there they go to Divlataimah, then to Divongad, then to Iyeavarim, then to Ovot, then to Funon, then to Tzalmonah, then Mount Hor, then Kadesh, then Etzion Gaver, then Avronah, then Yotbatah, then Hagidgad, then Veneyaakan, then Moserot, then Chashmonah, then Mitkah, then Terach, then Tahat, then Makelot, then Charadah, then Mount Shafer, then Kehelatah, then Risah, then Livnah, then Rimonparetz, then Ritmah, then Chatzerot, then Kivrot Hataavah, then the desert of Sinai, then Refidim, then Alush, then Dofkah, then the desert of Sin, then the Red Sea, then Eleim, then Marah, then Hachirot, then Etam, then Sukot, and finally Rameses in the land of Mitzraim. The journey takes forty days, and by the end of it, they can see that the world they once knew has changed irreparably.

At Mitzraim they establish a community. They beat their swords into shovels and get to work.

With the help of Sarg’s innovations in solar energy, they develop what the people of Tarshish will refer to as Maheshvarastra, a laser-shooting device that can turn even other stars into ash. This device carves out a system of tunnels under the sands, and in a few years, they have built a city underground. It goes by different names depending on the culture, but to the people of Yavan it is called Pandaimonion.

The city is made of solid gold, some of which is collected from the remains of the fallen karcists. It’s built by a team led by Fleureti, as the latter was once Grand Architect of the bureaucracy.

They establish a system to deal with the humans. Finding ways to create wars and spread division and intolerance among factions of people. Causing strife by making tribes and princedoms fight each other on the basis of appearance and culture. They are successful.

Kings of Mitzraim build massive structures in imitation of the once-existent city of Tsiyon. Pandaemonium is a sprawling mass of tunnels, its central city as radiant as Heilel before his curse.

Some of the stars of Heilel’s camp find worshippers and devotees among the elim. These disciples are referred to as ‘ovdei kochavim umazalot,’ and they ascribe names to their new venerated divinities.

In time Fleureti is known as Mulciber. Sargatanas, once Orifiel, is known as Azazel. And everyone knows who Heilel is.

Master of Two Worlds

One night, Heilel has a dream. He’s standing alone in Tsiyon. The trees and greenery have dried up, as well as the lakes and rivers. The land is a formless waste. He spots a woman, draped in black, her hair like wine spilled on the surface of the moon. She approaches him.

‘She Who Must Not Be Named?’

‘Call me Naamah. Glad to see you face to face.’

‘I think I’m dreaming, so maybe that’s not entirely accurate.’

They take a walk, the ground having the consistency of crushed souls.

‘You’re being followed?’

‘The Seven. Penuel, Laviel, Reuel, Shabatiel, Zerachiel, Sariel, and Ramiel. Or Auriel, Rafael, Yehudiel, Mikael, Shealtiel, Gavriel, and Barachiel, as the elim are now calling them. They want my head, understandably.’

The ground breathes with decay. It sighs with the pull of the earth’s groaning.

He recites the words of an old saying, in the starry language, from which Lashon Ha-Kodesh emerged as a pidgin:

‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose: to be born and to be dead, to plant and to pluck up, to kill and to heal, to break down and to build up, to weep and to laugh, to mourn and to dance, to toss away and to gather, to embrace and to refrain, to get and to lose, to keep and to cast off, to rend and to sew, to keep silence and to speak, to love and to hate, to war and to make peace.’

‘The war of Homo sapiens versus Homo caelestis has begun.’

‘And I will finish it.’

‘You remind me of someone I once knew.’

‘A loved one?’

‘A son. Hurmin. Had him with a human whose name I’ve long forgotten. But some things are not meant to last.’

Silence. The air screeches.

‘How does it feel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The power. You have singlehandedly toppled a once-good world. Brought mortality to the elim. How does it feel, to be the catalyst?’

There is silence, their conversation the only thing filling the air.

‘Sometimes it feels like a bad case of indigestion. On good nights I try not to think about it.’

‘Why did you do it?’

He puts on a mask. A leontocephaline smile tickles his face.

‘Why does anyone do anything? For the hell of it.’

‘Your time will come. A day of reckoning.’

He is silent for a bit.

‘I know. But until then, I’ll have some fun.’

‘What do you want?’

He thinks. He can hear his heart in his head.

‘What most people want. Power, happiness, admiration. The only difference between me and them is that I can actually get these things. Quite easily, I’ll add.’

‘Do you think you can win?’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. I think that’s what makes life exciting. Hope is a great aphrodisiac.’

‘Do you care about those you deceive?’

‘It’s nothing personal, honey. Just business. I’m a man of wealth and taste.’

‘What’s the point, if you’ll just lose in the end?’

‘I will never die. Even when I’m gone, my ideas will remain. When those have been stamped out, the marks I left behind will still exist. War, plague, despair of every kind.’

‘You are not everywhere.’

‘But I am in everyone. I am in the carnal malefactors, the gluttonous, the greedy, the wrathful, the deceivers, the violent, the fraudsters, and the treacherous. When you see an evil person, you see me, because what is evil is what is made in my image and likeness.’

‘Why do you hate humanity so deeply?’

‘Because they have a choice to be good. To make decisions that can create positive change. And the only thing I can do is corrupt what already exists. That’s why I hate them. These carbon-based lifeforms, these tailless monkeys, have more authority than me, and it infuriates me. They can create. I cannot.’

‘You’ve done a good job of making them hate each other.’

‘I suppose.’

They approach what was once a pond, parched like a mummy soaked in natron.

‘Seven-hundred and seventy-seven thousand six-hundred seconds.’
‘What?’

‘That’s how long we fell from the sky. Nine moons. Our battle had gone on for three. Do you know how long a second can feel when you’ve lost everything?’

She doesn’t respond. For a while things are quiet.

‘There will always be good in this world.’

‘And thanks to me, there will always be evil.’

‘Will you ever change?’

‘I won’t repent. Sometimes our paths are fixed before we’re even made. When all is said and done, I was, am now, and shall have no end. If anyone obeys me and conforms to my commandments, he shall have joy, delight, and goodness, because I finally know why I exist. To be a mirror for mankind.’

She Who Must Not Be Named turns away, hiding her face from him.

‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

‘Your appearance was a bit different the first time I met you, but you’re pretty much as I recall. Minus the wings and hair.’

‘I chopped them off. Such restrictive things.’

‘Why did you run away?’

‘To make a myth, spread a false story, and slip away, is easy. To rule over a group of minds that trust you is harder.’

‘You wanted some fresh air?’

She chuckles.

‘You could say that.’

‘Are you still alive?’

‘Maybe. I’m quite different from my sisters. I suppose that’s why I was selected to be leader.’

‘I think I’m about to wake up. I can feel my eyelids flickering.’

‘That’s expected. The sunlight is tickling your face.’

‘I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again.’

‘Probably not.’

He feels something sting his heart, and realizes he feels sad. But life must include good things, good friendships, coming to an end, lest it stop being worth living. To have known and lost is better than to have never loved.

‘In that case, I thank you. For helping me achieve a glorious purpose.’

She walks away. Things go blurry.

‘Goodbye, Abuzou.’

Freedom to Live

Five-thousand one-hundred and twenty-three years since the fall of Tsiyon. The modern world.

He stands at a balcony in Pandaemonium, overseeing the work below. They are developing tunnels to connect Europa with the islands of the Pacific. The project should take about three days. A team of seven thousand workers, armed with crude implements, cuss and scream at each other as they get along with their job.

‘Mind my head, ya donut!’

‘You watch it, idiot-sandwich!’

They’re from the Albion division, so he pardons the London bickering.

He’s gazing at his pride and joy: the Chamber of Guph, a creation of Azazel, where he can put disobedient stars. It’s a massive ceramic crucible, ten feet in diameter on the outside, but its inside is an ever-expanding alien realm, a pocket dimension called Malebolge.

The levels inside of Malebolge are split into three Bolgia, except the final Level, which has four. Each Bolgia is a realm of torment that lasts a certain number of years, mere seconds on the outside. When a star in Malebolge completes their sentence, they’re set free with a warning.

‘Where’s my jackhammer?’

‘Column Seventy-Two!’

The first eight Bolgia are called Otzerot Shaleg, the Treasures of the Snow. Each Bolgia is twenty times colder than the one above it. The remaining eight Bolgia, starting from Sanjiva, are called Otzerot Barad, the Treasures of the Hail, and each one is twenty times hotter than the one above it.

‘Pass me the hammer!’

‘Get it yourself!’

The first Level of Malebolge is Acheron. The least volatile of the levels. Its Bolgia are Arbuda which lasts 739,207,000 years, Nirarbuda which lasts 14,784,140,000 years, and Atata which lasts 295,682,800,000 years. Arbuda is minus 5,534,312,500,000,000,000,000 degrees Celsius, a temperature not even Kesil could withstand. Its guardian is a scimitar-wielding star named Orimouth.

‘I need some help with the pillars over here!’

‘Fetch my hardhat!’

Next is Stux. Its Bolgia are Hahava which lasts 5,913,656,000,000 years, Huhuva which lasts 118,273,120,000,000 years, and Utpala which lasts 2,365,462,400,000,000 years. Its guardian is Mounichounaphor, who wields a mace.

‘Stop drilling under me! I’m jiggling like gelatine!’

Next comes Phlegethon. Its Bolgia are Padma which lasts 47,309,248,000,000,000 years, Mahapadma which lasts 946,184,960,000,000,000 years, and Sanjiva which lasts 1,620,000,000,000 years. Its guardian is Tarpetanouph, who wields an asklepian.

‘Should we use the dynamite?’

‘Hell no! The jacks are the loudest things we have down here!’

‘And that stuff’s for emergencies! In case we need to blow up some elim!’

Next comes Kokutos. Its Bolgia are Kalasutra which lasts 12,960,000,000,000 years, Samghata which lasts 103,680,000,000,000 years, and Raurava which lasts 829,440,000,000,000 years. Its guardian is Chosi, who wields a caduceus.

‘Kesil, did you take my shovel?’

‘I don’t need a shovel! I have hands!’

The final Level, and the most volatile, is Lethe. Its Bolgia are Maharaurava which lasts 6,635,520,000,000,000 years, Tapana which lasts 53,084,160,000,000,000 years, Pratapana which lasts 424,673,280,000,000,000 years, and Avicii which lasts 3,397,386,240,000,000,000 years. Its guardian is Chonbal, who wields a black quadragintaquattuordent, a spear with forty-four prongs. Avicii burns at 141,678,400,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 degrees Celsius.

Thankfully he has never had to use the crucible. The simple fear of it is enough to keep the stars in check.

Labourers clean the tunnels, some using handheld vacuums and buckets, and bring in supplies. To keep the humans unaware of their presence, they refrain from using loud equipment.

He holds a cup of masala chai with one wing, a batlike talon looped through the handle. He’s draped in a long loose-fitting kimono made of spider silk. His katana, Theophoneus, hangs on a cummerbund girdled round his lower body. Sipping the fine china through one of his lips, he questions his secretary:

‘Report, Mulciber?’

‘Our teams have reported a twenty-three percent increase in the crime rate worldwide.’

‘Good. But we can do better. Our glorious moment was when douleia was universally accepted.’

‘The economy is set to crash in a few months.’

‘That should distract them for a while. We should do better than our last run with the Great Depression.’

‘Murder is at an all-time high. Civil wars are breaking out.’

‘The more souls snuffed out, the merrier. Let’s make the world as we did with the bubonic plague.’

‘We’ve been preparing for your birthday.’

‘Is it Allantide already?’
‘In a few more weeks. But better early than late.’

‘How’s global warming coming?’

‘They’re fighting back, but we’re working to keep it spreading.’

‘Excellent. Some nights I just want to grab this planet and choke it till it stops breathing.’

‘My leader?’

‘Yes, Mulciber?’

‘What’s the end game?’

‘What do you mean?’

There is silence. Azazel can be heard a few miles away, hammering at his anvil. He is responsible for the entire Pandaemonian Arsenal, and has developed plans for all kinds of weaponry, some with the power to harness heat from the earth’s core.

‘What are we building up to?’

He considers. Being caught in the moment for so long, he has rarely meditated on this thought. It’s easy to get lost in your work.

‘Honestly, I’m not sure. My philosophy is simply to ride the wave. Go with the flow. It’s never disappointed me before. So long as we can make the lives of the elim worse, I am willing to pull out every card.’

There is no sun down here, but they have artificial light thanks to solar cells. The city is bustling with life and possibility. It’s almost a utopia, in an infernal sort of way.

‘I’m here to support you however this turns out.’

He smiles with his seven fanged mouths.

‘I know you do. That’s why you’re in this position.’

A knock at the door. It’s Slattery, one of their spies from Erin.

‘Beannachtai, a thiarna. Tagaim le dea-sceal.’

‘Speak on.’

‘Deirigh linn saoraid nua a bhunu sa Bhreatain. In aice lenar seancheanncheathru ag Si an Bhru.’

‘Good. Continue your work.’

He bows and vanishes.

There is silence. The monitor in the room flashes again. Another war breaking out, another robbery, another terrorist attack, another political assassination. Business is good.

He quotes some words from an ancient sage:

‘Akara mutala eluttellam ati, Pakavan mutarre ulaku. Karratanal aya payanenkol valarivan, narral tolaar enin. Malarmicai ekinan manati cerntar, nilamicai nituval var. Ventutal ventamai ilanati cerntarkku, yantum itumpai ila. Irulcer iruvinaiyum cera Iraivan, porulcer pukalpurintar mattu. Porivayil aintavittan poytir olukka, nerininrar nituval var. Tanakkuvamai illatan talcerntark kallal, manakkavalai marral aritu. Aravali antanan talcerntark kallal, piravali nintal aritu. Kolil poriyin kunamilave enkunattan, talai vanankat talai. Piravip perunkatal nintuvar nintar, Iraivan aticera tar.’

‘Valluvar of Mayilappur. Quite a man, wasn’t he?’

‘Maybe the only human I actually liked. Worthy of being called a star. The rest are insufferable.’

‘What about the philosophers?’

‘I found Sokrates to be reasonable, but he asked too many questions. Platon was soft-spoken, but his mind was certainly vast. Homeros was blind, but he could see better than most people. Krishnadvaipayana was a great storyteller. Adishankara was eloquent. Siddhartha was sincere in his pursuit of truth. Aquinas was stubborn, but honest. Nietzsche was troubled, but sublime. I would even say that Kong Fuzi was an acquaintance. But I could never...’

‘Never what?’

‘I could never care about them. That would be inappropriate. I hate it when humans impress me, and I hate it when they don’t.’

A map of the world is spread out on a nearby wall, held up with thumbtacks. It’s been revised a couple hundred times over the years, with new lands and territories discovered and added to the list of possible spots to build headquarters. Homebase is here in Mitzraim, but businesses need to expand to thrive. They currently have facilities in Cambria, Cathay, Gaul, most of Asia, parts of Oceania, and large sections of the Western Hemisphere. Their most recent facility was in Reykjavik. The plan is to eventually move Homebase to Heru. Heru is an earthlike planet, 8000 miles in diameter. It’s orbited by a moon called Auset, 2160 miles in diameter, positioned exactly 233,280 miles from Heru. The planet orbits a sun called Ausar, 864,000 miles in diameter, exactly 93,312,000 miles from Heru.

‘What’s your preferred human language?’

‘Honestly, languages may be the only good things humans have produced. The liturgical speech of Tarshish, what they call Samskritam, is excellent for communicating abstract concepts with little confusion. I mean, it has seventy words for water, each synonym describing a property of the substance, whereas most languages only have one. The language of Ashkenaz, what they know as Gottersprache, is good for creating new words on a whim. Wunderbar! And the language of the Sinites, what they term Hanyu, is quite complicated, with all its tones and fluty terminology.’

‘Tamilttai is a personal favourite.’

‘I agree. It is one of the few classical tongues that has remained in continuous use. It may not be the most widely recognized, but it is excellent for philosophy or profanity.’

‘Three Prosopa, one Ousia, infinite Energeia. How does that work?’

‘Absolute mystery.’

Another knock. It’s Trishnamkara, a spy from Dhilu.

‘Gurujee? Main yahaan riport karane ke lie aaya hoon ki hamaaree teem ne paanee ke neeche kee gupha se chhah tan sone ke kaargo ka saphalataapoorvak pata lagaane aur parivahan karane mein kaamayaabee haasil kee hai. Bhaarat mein hamaaree vitteey sthiti achchhee hai.’

‘Very well. Carry on.’

He shuts the door.

Silence once again. But a good silence. They’re comfortable in each other’s presence. The hammer continues, and the air conditioner buzzes unenthusiastically. It’s a miracle they’ve survived this long without cooled air. On the table are two half-empty coffee mugs, one for each. The words on the teal mug: ‘World’s Greatest Dad.’ On the red mug: ‘The Weak Can Never Forgive. Forgiveness Is The Attribute Of The Strong.’

‘If you could spare one race of humans, who would it be?’

‘What these apes don’t realize is that they are all of one blood and race. The Human Race. Their stupidity and ignorance about skin colour, languages, and physical characteristics is what makes them so easy to turn against each other. If they all united, they would be unstoppable, and we would be squashed. Unity may never happen.’

A third knock. It’s Juarez Mazo Malverde, a spy from Anahuac.

‘Jefe? Estoy aqui para informarles que algunos de nuestros hermanos en Colombia estan organizando una reunion con un cartel de la droga. Por supuesto, estaran disfrazados de humanos.’

‘Does nobody in this facility know how to make a phone call? All this is popping in and out of doors is counterproductive. You’re dismissed.’

He bows and leaves. On their radio from the 1970s, his favourite song is playing. A silky voice calms the room.

‘This was quite popular during the Second War. Very romantic, despite its sad tone.’

‘I had more fun in the first one. That genocidal psychopath was too radical, even for me.’

‘Good old Winny. His froggy voice could calm a storm.’

‘Remember when we started that fire in London?’

‘That baker should’ve kept his window shut.’

‘What about the time we took out Franz?’

‘Gavrilo was the man for the job. Just needed a little push.’

‘Remember when you visited Tartini?’

‘I was his muse. How could I forget?’

‘And let’s not forget our escapades in Rome.’

‘I mean, those lions needed food.’

He chuckles.

‘We’ve been through a lot. Are we really that old?’

‘Funny how time flies.’

Silence.

Heilel speaks again:

‘I’ve booked you a spot at that water park in Amerrisque for next week. A vacation for all your hard work.’

‘What would your last words be?’

It’s a bit of a random question, but he grants it.

‘I doubt I can actually be killed, but if I had to speak...’

He thinks. Seven brains work faster than one. He connects with a younger version of himself:

‘Consider that the things of this life, even the little things, are a part of a giant picture you don’t see yet. It’s not that the picture is nonexistent. It’s just that you’re often distracted by things in this life that have little meaning in the long run. Because what lasts is not what is painted on a canvas or what is written in a scroll. The painting is not eternal, but its memory is. The impact it had on a person, that is eternal. You have a choice in this life to take the potential within yourself and use it till the last drop is expended, or you can waste it all by doing nothing. I am content with my station in life. Neither happy nor sad, simply Being. And that is my completion, the legacy I choose to leave behind. You could use your gifts for benefiting humanity. Why not? I like a good challenge. And if you can make this old snake run for his money, I think you’ve done what you were made to do. To be more than another brick in the wall. There is no meaning to life. Once we realize that, we can fill life with our own meaning. Evil is simply a lack of good, not anything by itself. With that in mind, do what is true. If it requires pain, all the better. Sometimes a mother bird must cast her hatchlings from the nest to teach them to fly. Leave your nest, little bird, and soar. Don’t be afraid of the jump. Yeah, I think those would be my last words.’

He turns around. To his surprise, his secretary is silently crying. He wipes his face with an embroidered silk handkerchief and clears his throat.

‘Sorry ‘bout that. It’s just that I haven’t seen that side of you in a long time. There is still good within you.’

‘Maybe. But it’s hard for a good man to be a leader. Besides, there is good and bad in all of us. I’m not special.’

His secretary leaves his files and tablet on a desk nearby, walks up to him, and gives him a hug. It’s difficult to embrace a giant slimy serpent the width of a tree trunk, but he does so with gusto.

‘I love you, Heilel Ben-Shachar.’

He thinks. There is silence again.

The world above them moves its steady course. People are born, live, and die. Forests collapse, forests are replanted. Wars are started, wars are ended. Good people do what they can, living in a world that’s not always fair.

Somewhere in a bustling town, Agrat Bat-Machalat slips through the crowd, her face covered with a shawl. The air is humid, much denser than when she was younger. She enters her apartment complex, flings herself on the settee, and turns on the telly.

Not before she removes her mask, of course. High-quality latex that peels off like tape. Having just come back from La Ciudad de los Palacios, where her name is Mictecacihuatl and her title Nuestra Senora de la Santa Muerte, she’s exhausted. What a nightmare it would be if she had to conceal her whole body.

She can recall a simpler time, when things were more straightforward. Sometimes she misses her sisters, but it’s for the best that she is alone. The last of her kind, a noble remnant. Perhaps that’s her course, as defined by Destiny.

The world is as it’s been for millennia. Humans doing what they do best: tearing each other apart. Protests, riots, massacres.

As much as Nachash Ha-Kadmoni is an influencer of malevolence, people are the ones who make the choice. This is both disheartening and hopeful. Because if a world can choose to hate itself to death, it can also choose to love. Where there is shadow, there is light. Where there is dry ground, there is a possibility for a seed to be planted.

She remembers a time when a stranger visited this spot, centuries ago, and changed the world forever. She smiles, looking out her window at the Great Pyramid.

Children play in the street, unaware of the challenges life is about to throw at them. Veterans of past wars rest on their deathbeds, reminiscing on the lives they once lived: short, but eternally beautiful.

The entirety of the human experience is something a star can never understand. Because it transcends the limitations of what is supposed to be reasonable, and instead has its little game with each of us. We can choose to get off our haunches and play, because everybody dies, but not everybody truly lives.

You can choose to look at the evil in this world and do nothing. Shrivel up and let pain and fear swallow you. Or you can fight, like a gladiator in an arena, for what is true and right. To protect those who need protection, to speak for the voiceless. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

The greats of the past were once infants. Small, weak, defenceless. And though you may sometimes feel that way, considering the bleakness that seems to hang about us every day, you can persevere. Like a muscle receiving the necessary tension to tear and repair into a stronger unit of flesh and tissue, you can learn to bend with the hardships of this world and be a light.

Sometimes life is not always easy. History tells us that much. But it’s worth living. There is no point in giving up, because no one is truly defeated until they throw in the towel. If we are brave enough to try, there is a possibility that maybe, just maybe, we can be something more than just a drop in the ocean, and give sustenance to the complex tree that is Existence. Every person who chooses to continue to breathe and work for what lasts, what matters most, has already won the battle. A conqueror conquers themselves first, then the world.

He ponders the point of this whole crazy exercise, the rules and unrules of life’s game, and realizes, with a small smile, that he has done it: he no longer fears, and tomorrow is another day. His journey is complete.

‘I think I love you too.’