Chapter 12
XII
Close behind the darkness, as ever, came the madness.
I retreated from the world, exhausted near to death, and the world retreated from me in turn. The blizzard’s roar softened to silence. The blaze of the bonfire diminished, growing dim and distant. The frigid slurry of snow, mud and blood darkened to black around me.
And suddenly I was warm and dry, seated at a familiar table by a familiar hearth.
Here in the dim vault of my own mind I found, as I had so often in the past, a place of comfort.
I came back to myself gradually, slowly making sense of where I was—and who I was. A powerful magician? An esteemed professor? A famed hunter of monsters?
No. The man who was all of those things was in the real world, still convulsing in the bloody snow by the bonfire of spruce, prey to dreadful passions.
Here in this private sanctuary I was something else.
A child.
A serious child, with dark hair, olive skin and an aquiline nose. The young Cypriot boy I had once been.
I was seated at my mother’s table, ready to eat.
The table itself was rough and sturdy, made from the wood of a shipwreck; the pride of a fisherman’s household.
Around me was a hazy recreation of my childhood home, conjured from my memories—a dirt floor strewn with wisps of grass, the faint smell of the ocean, the barest impression of a reed-bundle roof overhead.
The fire cast a pool of ember-orange light that did not quite reach the edges of the room.
I could see nothing beyond it but darkness.
My chair was a white stone from the field by the seashore, just the right size for a child.
It was cold against my bare skin. My arms were held down by my sides, bound with manacles that were in turn chained to a metal ring in the floor, no doubt salvaged from that same doomed ship.
Each metal link was marked with the shape of Wanassa. Just as I remembered them.
Wanassa. The Lady. We do not say her name. I shrank from the word and the memory both.
Wanassa. She who bound me. Bound us. We do not say her name.
“Ssh. My boy, you must eat.” From the darkness around me, a voice crooned; a low, rich voice but with a burned quality, as though the speaker were suffering a terrible thirst. Large hands emerged from the shadows, placing a wooden bowl on the table before me.
The meal was simple and unappetizing—a pulpy mash of grains and sour milk—but saliva pooled under my tongue; I was hungry.
The chains were short. The only way I could eat was by stooping forward and grubbing like a dog. I buried my face in the bowl, stopping only to turn my head and breathe.
“Good, good. Eat and grow strong.” The hands came again from the darkness.
The empty dish was removed and another took its place.
Beans and salted fish. I moaned as I smelled it, using my jaw to tilt the bowl.
My hunger was such that I wondered only for a moment why the food left a metallic tang in my throat.
“Sebastian.”1
A new voice. A deep voice, full of command. I raised my eyes from the peasant’s feast, my chin dripping.
A pair of golden eyes emerged from the darkness. Powerful footsteps made a slow circle around the table. A brilliant white light suddenly washed away the dim glow of the hearth, and a magnificent creature stepped carefully into the circle it made, shaking its mane.
Lion of Judah. Beautiful. Terrible.
He sat opposite me, looming somehow higher than the ceiling. His face was not entirely that of a man nor a beast. Jeweled wings with feathers like swords folded behind his back. In the white light, his claws and fangs shone with the luster of gold.
“So once again you have pushed your mortal flesh beyond its limits, and again you retreat within yourself. See yourself now as you truly are—a prisoner and a child you remain, trapped here these many ages,” he said sadly. “Do you not tire of it? Will you spurn me still?”
I could not answer. My hunger was only growing stronger and I ran my tongue around my lips, desperate for the next bite.
The lion sighed. “I feel your need. So long as you remain here, it will never end.”
He raised his taloned right hand and pierced the palm with his teeth, releasing a cascade of hot blood. The liquid was thick and sang like crystal as it fell.
Where it struck the table, the bounty of empires sprang forth.
Pomegranates and clusters of grapes burst from the red cascade.
Candied figs and chestnuts, bright apples and plums swelled and tumbled against each other.
The lion breathed over the feast, and unimaginable riches welled forth.
Rubies and pearls rolled amid berries of the thicket.
Amber and ivory were swept up in eddies of honey and spiced wine. Beads of molten gold pelted the floor.
It was too much to bear. I lunged forward, drawing my own blood as I strained against the shackles. But no matter how hard I pulled, the lion’s gifts remained just beyond my reach. I began to sob, tears joining the line of drool that ran from my mouth.
“Such are the riches of the Kingdom,” said the lion.
“They are yours. Already they are yours.” It licked its palm and the wound closed without trace.
A final crimson drop rolled across the scarred wood and shattered in a tumble of dates and black garnets.
“I have come to release you, Sebastian, and to give all of this to you. My very blood is yours for the asking, now and forever. Will you take it?”
I nodded frantically, close to delirium.
“Then you have but to tell me your name, and I will break the chain.” The lion leaned forward and licked the tears from my cheeks.
His breath was sweet and heady, like roses.
“Come. I am strength. I am succor. The name your mother gave you. Tell it to me, and you will join me in the Father’s Kingdom. ”
“My name?” My child’s voice sounded very small next to his. “I . . .”
“MICHAEL! ENOUGH!” The words struck the lion like a blow. He recoiled, flexing his wings in menace, and the world flickered once again. The rich, burned voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “This is not your place, Michael. He is mine.”
From the shadows, a shaggy creature swung up onto the table—a baboon, grotesque in its near humanity.
Long-armed and lopsided, it drummed its hands on the wood with a screech.
Its face was the lurid mask of the mandrill; crimson nose, bright blue ridged muzzle and gold beard.
It grinned and showed its yellow fangs to the lion, and then it opened its mouth to belch, unfurling a forked black tongue.
I knew the creature. A terribly complicated word surfaced in my mind, seeming to mean a dozen things at once—guest friend father teacher lover demon—before it settled into a name.
Sarmodel.
With a cackle, the baboon set about scooping the lion’s boons into its mouth, chewing noisily on succulent fruits and glittering gemstones alike.
The lion raised its lip in disgust at the mandrill. “And what do you offer, Lariel?2 What has your abominable union given him but the promise of misery without end?”
The monkey continued to eat, smearing the feast across the tabletop. It regurgitated a vile slick at the lion’s feet and then gorged itself anew, hooting with dark mirth. I watched in dismay as unimaginable bounty turned to ruin.
“Have you forgotten, Great Prince?” The mocking voice came from the darkness, but I knew it was him speaking—my Guest, the baboon, Sarmodel, the one who was always here with me. “I am as much a prisoner here as he is.”
“Then allow him to choose, and let me release you both.”
The creature’s laughter seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Such munificence! Release?” It turned and winked at me, food and bile dripping from its beard. “And I thought all the great deceivers were on my side of the Rift.”
The lion huffed in exasperation and lowered its beautiful face to the level of the table.
“If you will not treat with me, then I offer you—both of you—a warning.” In the shadows, its wings flexed, glittering with blades.
“Give up this pursuit. The Spirit you hunt has wronged me and stained the name of the Almighty. My mark of Justice is upon him and I will see it executed. Do not seek him out again; I will not countenance your interference a third time.”
The mandrill leaned forward and kissed the lion’s face with its foul lips.
“My mark is also upon him, Grand General—I have staked my claim, a life for a life. And I knew him in Rome, millennia before your Almighty deigned to sully his loins with mortal issue. So, tell me: Who is interfering with whom?”
Michael shook his head sadly. “It will give me no pleasure to destroy you, Lariel, but know that if you step beneath the shadow of my sword, it will fall on your neck.” He looked to me again.
“And you, child of Cyprus. Yours is a trial I would not wish upon the Father of Lies himself. But as long as you refuse to redeem yourself, your torment will grow.” His eyes softened in pity and he leaned over the baboon to tenderly lick my face again. “Sim Sala Bim,” he whispered sadly.
He gave the baboon a final, weary glance and then, with a flicker of brilliant feathers, he was gone.
The white light faded and once more I sat in the glow of embers.
The baboon turned to face me and sat on its rump amid the fouled remains of the lion’s feast. It watched me with implacable, intelligent eyes.
I lowered my face gratefully and continued to eat.
1. He actually used one of my (much) older names. For the sake of simplicity, I’ve kept to my current English name throughout this account, but I’ve had dozens of names over the years, often variations on “Sebastian.”
2. One of Sarmodel’s oldest names, dating back as far as the time of the Fall. There are very few—a handful of the angels—who still remember it.