Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)
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| His being was consumed by agony, panic, terror, dread and horror. It was a savage lesson. The
wisdom of which he would not soon forget. For who but the fool does not fear the power of hell unleashed? At that moment, Cartiphilus sensed the unvoiced question given form in that fiery desert wind. "Who gives you life, Cartiphilus?" Cartiphilus could no longer reason, so great had become the heat. Ah, how the awful weight of her infinite power pressed down upon him. He felt his tortured and incinerated core beating wildly against his lips. He stood helpless beneath the weight and suffered his own demise many times, but could not die. The question that echoed on the walls through the storm, was not new to him; it had dogged him as long as he remembered, since before Christ, since his mortal days following behind in the footsteps of great warriors. From deep within his soul, the answer rose full like a gourd dipped in an oasis. "The Daughter of the Night, the Taker of Heads, the Drinker of the Blood of Gods. Lilitu gives me life," Cartiphilus said, bowing his head emphatically. The fiery wind grew to a raging maelstrom inside the chamber. It roared in Cartiphilus' ears, those fragile shells, it was as if flesh had began to melt and run down the sides of his face. His naked eyes, too, were assaulted by the storm. His tears dried before he could issue them. A thousand screams sliced through the heavens, and every scream tore through his throat. And then Mother's statue was no longer sitting far across the chamber upon her great throne. It had not moved, but now Lilitu stood motionless before Cartiphilus, mere inches from the Immortal. The statue's craggy, coal-black skin shone against the violence of the vortex.
pools of blood, as the tender flesh disintegrated beneath the fury of Lilitu. The Immortal's skin cracked and peeled away. As the last of vision fled, Cartiphilus was not aware, could not be aware, of the eternal moment in which he resembled nothing so much as the stone and coal figure that he had knelt to. He wanted to open his moth, wanted to speak, to scream, but the muscles of his jaw were beyond use and his tongue was shriveled away to a smoldering lump. And as he felt the first waves of unconsciousness wash over him, it was the agony that forced back all the mute whimpering screams into his chest. As flesh burned away, one belief resounded from the core of Cartiphilus' being. Lilitu gives me life. "Very well," said the statue. Its words found their way through Cartiphilus' ruined ears, within the mind that was beyond pain. "Come to me. Help me destroy the world as you destroyed Christ, and you will rule beside me, for all eternity."
He knew now that he would be her pawn forever. A diabolical grimace crossed his face. "I'm coming to you, Mother," he hissed in the darkness.
March 26, 2013 The sky was already noticeably darker, and with the encroaching darkness came the colder winds as a woman's shape stirred in the dimness. Lilitu, standing like a demon out of hell, with blazing green eyes and red hair. For a moment, she felt the world around her, sharing the age of sadness that had come upon the earth. It was beautiful. After thirteen millennia, humankind would tremble again hearing the sound of her name. She was the new Goddess. Nothing or no one could stop her right now. The low temperatures around her body meant nothing to her soul. Thousands of years before, she had sworn to destroy all Immortals, and she always fulfilled her vows. Now she had escaped her prison beneath the sands. She raised her face toward the sky, watching the black curtain above her. Grinning, she remembered the time long gone, when she first tasted the fruit of the Quickening, when she felt the seeds of life and knowledge burning within her. That night, she had sworn that she wouldn't turn back her spirit to such greatness, ever. So many eons had passed since the first time she had tasted the flesh of the kill, since she had felt the tang of the blood and the crunch of the bones. That night, she had sworn that she would not die. When first she had tasted her own blood and felt the surge and the stir of her own life in her soul, she had sworn to love herself above all things. When first she had tasted the light of the moon, felt its glow and its wild tenderness, she had sworn to walk forever under the darkness. When first she had tasted the true power of what it meant to be a Goddess, felt it slashing through her like a bolt of lightning, the songs of fire; she had sworn to cherish the flesh and return someday with astonishing wonders. She smiled confidently. Those moments would always remain as her own. And whatever may transpire, neither God nor man could take them away from her. Thirteen millennia ago she had promised these things for herself and her Immortality.
hair, the color of the bloody moon. Full-breasted, with a narrow waist and wide hips, she was the embodiment of every man's desire. The pattern of intricate drawings and symbols that delineated both of her arms and her face, showed that she was a witch. Her wide green-eyes, knowing smile, and luscious lips offered evidence that her state of Immortality had increased the passions within her through time. All that she had seen on her solitary walk had been barren white plains and ranges of blue-tinged mountains that seemed to vanish in the mists of the distant horizons. But she knew very well where was she going. Thunder sounded in the distance, and Lilitu laughed, her voice broke the silence she had observed since she had abandoned the Dream. The sound traveled wildly over the landscape.
paused for a moment, stopping her walk. "I can hear you," she said, her voice flowing into the blustery weather.
human voices chanting; some in rhythm with each other, others at random; voices praying aloud in an Asian tongue she understood very well. Far away she could hear them. Important to distinguish the two sounds. First, there was a long procession of monks ascending through the mountain passes, singing to keep their faith and courage alive as they trudged on in spite of weariness and the unrelenting cold. And within a stone structure on Holy Ground, a loud ecstatic chorus could be heard, chanting fiercely over the clang of cymbals and drums.
terrain buckling beneath its meandering walls. The sensation of holiness intermingled with the stench of burning incense that rose from its blazing fires. And alongside steep ravines, holy men found their way through safe paths from as far as she could see toward the cluster of thatched roofs and towers.
couldn't see inside Holy Ground. However, she knew that inside the temple were gilded walls, cusped arches, every surface glittering with decoration as the smoke from the incense spiraled up in sinewy columns toward the ceiling, mingling with the scent of sanctity. And most important, within the fortification was the Immortal she was looking for. She could sense him.
she could smell the fire, feel the flames, its warmth. Purposely, she advanced again toward the sanctuary.
before her. She passed silently into a long corridor of slender wooden pillars and scalloped arches, but this was the outer border of an immense central room. The room was filled with holy men, Lamas, who did not see or sense her presence as they continued to chant. Many feet away, in the other extreme of the ornate floor sat the holy man, the Lama Bhaktivedanta, clothed in red robes. His face was shining with peace as he stared at Lilitu. Only he felt her presence. "You!" he exclaimed, his voice cutting through the chamber.
as a path lay open for her to the center of the room. The cymbals and drums were silenced; moans and soft whimpers surrounded her. Then a great sigh of wonder rose as Lilitu stepped forward and smiled.
"You dare to come inside Holy Ground?" holy Bhaktivedanta whisper, his gaze sad. "After all this time. Is it not enough that the entire world is suffering? Is it not enough for you?" "Silence!" Lilitu commanded. "You will die now," she continued once everybody in the chamber was quiet, her voice even softer than anybody would anticipated. "You who have misled these hopeless mortals; you who have fed upon their hopes and dreams, offering to them your false salvation."
to condemn the world? You who have dreamt silently in your realm. You, the mother of sin, trying to rule since the beginning of time."
And I am raised now to rule as I was meant to rule since the beginning of creation. And now you shall die as a lesson to the Ancient Gathering. You are the first martyr in this Endgame."
And even when I'll die, it matters not. The new Dreamer is going to destroy you." Lilitu laughed, an evil sound that made the shrine tremble. Her eyes turned yellow, with inhuman, slit pupils. The next thing happened too fast to be seen. Lilitu narrowed her eyes and raised her arm, pinning holy Bhaktivedanta still by some invisible means and jolted him up in a backward fashion so that his feet slid across the wooden tile and he teetered, almost falling and then dancing as he sought to right himself, his eyes rolling up into his head. A deep gurgling cry came out of him as the heat invaded his being. He was burning. His clothes were on fire; and then smoke rose from him in a gray and thin column; he was writhing in pain as the terrified Lamas gave way to screams and wails. Holy Bhaktivedanta was twisting as the blaze consumed him; then suddenly, bent over staring at her, and ran toward her with his arms stretched out.
power of all Immortals. With a quick shove of her right hand she stopped holy Bhaktivedanta on his tracks not three feet from her, who tried to reach her over some invisible and insurmountable force.
sound of her voice. "Come into the pit of my soul, the pit of perdition I've created for you now."
flew out of his face like two projectiles. Lilitu's power penetrated his cranium and squeezed his brain. With a flash, the entire frame of his body ignited; he knelt before her, his legs curling as if he meant to try to stand again. Lilitu stuck her long fingernails through his neck, and with an easy movement, detached his head with her bare hands. Laughing, she held the head high, so everybody could see it. Panic descended upon the Lamas when the Quickening started. The hysteria reached a dangerous pitch as the blue rays flew around Lilitu's body. Bodies crashed against the slender wooden pillars. Monks were crushed instantly as others rushed over them toward the doors.
Lilitu, while from the earth itself the most piteous plea was raised. She looked at them, and they couldn't see anything but the gates of hell in her demon's eyes.
everywhere human beings were moving in an eclectic dance like marionettes as if controlled by invisible hands before being flung to the floor. Their bodies went into convulsions. Blood poured from their ears and their eyes as they expired. The mountain started to tremble. The whole sanctuary rumbled. Lilitu raised her eyes. A sprawling swathe of blackness crept from where she stood and spread slowly across the temple. The light seemed to flicker as it was sucked into the darkness. Everywhere, the shadows seemed to come alive with slow, methodical movements. "Black Moon," she intoned, "hear me calling you… It is I, your Darkest Sister Lilitu, whose hands formed the hellish mire… At my weakest; at my strongest… Molding me as clay from fire… Black Moon; hear your beloved Sister, the Mare of the Night… You cast your litter to this ground… Speak now my ancient name and let me fly, and utter now my secret sound!" she chanted as the shadows moved around her.
the shriek of tormented spirits. A strong air-stream came into the Buddhist shrine. Before Lilitu, the realm of the Dream opened its mouth with the shape of a huge, black hole. Moments later, she disappeared inside the shadows as the top of the mountain exploded, and hot lava slithered down its sides like a thousand snakes of fire melting the snow. The night was illuminated by the red inferno as the peak bled from the Quickening on Holy Ground. ==================================== Watcher's Headquarters Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013 The constant flickering of the desk lamp cast a strobe effect over the tiny oasis of light. The seated figure drummed his fingers, and then finally raised a hand to strike the recalcitrant lamp. Steady, if not bright, illumination replaced the flickering just before the blow fell. The hand lowered slowly... Joe Dawson turned back to the computer and impatiently confirmed his messages. —Original Message— From: Tirnanog To: Joe Dawson Subject: A volcano in Nepal If you thought this was going to be an easy gig, think again. The Lama Bhaktivedanta is dead. You heard right: murdered, on Holy Ground! How could this happen? Who did this? A volcano erupted where the Lama's Temple used to be. Hundreds died. Not a single clue so far, but I'll keep looking. Tirnanog —End of Message— ==================================== Yussupov Palace, St. Petersburg, Russia 1916
given to him by that betraying dog, Prince Felix Yussupov. Yussupov had lured him here, to his palace, on the pretext of meeting his wife, the Princess Irina, famous for her beauty. Rasputin had half-suspected a plot against him, but not one quite so open, so obviously carried out by a nephew- by-marriage of the Tsar himself. He leaned forward in his chair, moaning, unable to vomit to relieve himself, holding his stomach while spasm after spasm shook him. "You look unwell, Rasputin," said the hypocritical Prince soothingly as he stood over him in mock concern.
nobles, the boyar, were. The only thing that made him feel better at that moment was the thought that the Russian nobility was doomed. "Wine!" he called out, and a sterling cup was pressed into his hand. As he drank deeply, he realized that the wine, too, was poisoned. "Yussupov," he whispered. His mouth tasted like almonds, and his skin felt hot. He tried to stand, dropping the goblet to the ground with a crash. "You will all die!" were the last words he mumbled as he pitched forward onto his face. He'd died before, the first time in Damascus in the thirteenth century. He was clearly dying now. But he knew something the Prince didn't know.
alone, he reached up to the edge of the table and laboriously pulled himself to his feet. His knees could hardly hold him, but although his body was still weak, his mind was already plotting his revenge. Wiping his hands and beard with a beautifully embroidered napkin, he straightened up as he heard footsteps close by. Obviously the Prince wanted to verify his, Rasputin's death. The bastard would have quite a surprise instead. And there was only one set of footsteps. The Prince had returned alone—good. He walked over to examine one of the Prince's many paintings and turned innocently as his host entered the basement room. "There you are," he said, happily noting the shock on Yussupov's face. "I wondered where you had gone, my lord."
but I'm better now," the monk answered, smoothing his heavy beard down over one of his best black tunics, one he had worn specifically to meet the beautiful lady Princess. In fact … Feeling confident that he was now safe from an incredulous Yussupov, Rasputin picked up the fallen cup and put it down firmly on the table, noticing with delight how Yussupov jumped at the sound. "Now that I'm refreshed by your very generous meal," he said, gesturing at the poisoned food, "perhaps this would be a good time for me to meet your lovely wife."
strengths were in two areas: medicine and seduction. Long ago he'd realized that the best way to make people trust him was to find a way to keep them alive. So, using the skills and especially the knowledge of circulation of the blood he had learned from his mentor, the Islamic surgeon Ibn A- Nafis, over six hundred years before, Rasputin had managed to keep someone very important alive—the tsarevich, Alexis, heir to Nicholas' throne. By doing that he had gained the undying loyalty of the tsarina, Alexandra, and had established himself firmly in the middle of the Russian first family. As for seduction—well, many women, a lot of them boyar wives and daughters in St. Petersburg, were aware of Rasputin's insatiable appetites. And an Immortal recovered faster than a mortal and could continue to have and pleasure women… forever. It all added up to power for Rasputin—his ultimate goal. And that was what Prince Yussupov and his co-conspirator nobles could not abide. And as Rasputin considered this and turned to look at the dreadful painting, Yussupov pulled a gun out of his belt and shot him. Shot him! Rasputin had thought the young Yussupov would be overcome with fear and wonder, but it turned out the puppy could still bite him! Curse him to hell!
would-be-killer ran out to tell his conspirators, the monk decided he did not want to die for a second time tonight in the basement of this palace. If he could just get away, he'd be able to continue to be Rasputin, advisor to the Tsar, as long as that lasted. His chest wound was deep but hopefully not fatal, and he pulled himself to his feet, stumbled, and fell again, finally being forced to painfully drag himself along the ground, trying hard to breathe, leaving a trail of blood on the basement's floor, up the stairs, and through the courtyard. Hopefully by the time he reached the palace gate he'd be able to walk— But it was not going to happen. Rasputin heard them coming just as he'd managed to pull himself up to his knees to a standing position, leaving bloodily palmprints on the wall. If he only had a few more minutes—but this time they were smarter, came more quickly and came in full force. The first bullet slammed into his back, a sword impaled him, and as he blacked out for the last time he hoped none of them would think to decapitate him. ==================================== Paris March 26, 2013 The large, dark bearded man sat in a Paris suite of rooms overlooking the Seine, finally appreciating all things French. He was dressed in the finest tailored silk suit, wearing rings on his fingers and drinking a fine cognac after a dinner of chateaubriand and champignons beurre and fresh strawberries and cream, prepared by his personal chef—who was also his current lover. He was full of life and had everything he desired—and he brooded. He'd been born Abu al-Hazm Ibn al-Quarshi in the thirteenth century in Damascus, Syria, but his favorite alias had been Grigori Rasputin, the 'mad' Russian monk, and he clung to that name, calling himself Anton Rasputin, in spite of the jokes made about it. 'Was the mad monk your uncle? Your father? Your older brother?' he was asked with a laugh or a sneer, every time he gave his name. Rasputin merely smiled. In those years at the turn of the century, he had actually influenced an empress! Since that time, it hadn't been the same. Life hadn't been the same. Oh, he had enough money to lead quite an extravagant lifestyle, drugs, alcohol, and especially women—he had never managed to satiate himself with women, he never tired of them—and he'd made a lot of his fortune selling arms to all sides during both world wars Yüklə 2,56 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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