Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)
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THE CRIMSON SUNRISE"And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; For in them is filled up the wrath of God."
The Revelation of John Island of Nod Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean March 26, 2013
but the sun had not yet crested the horizon. For the Ancient Gathering it was a time of beginning, of emerging from the eternal night of the Immortals; for her, it was a time of contemplation, of banishment from light. But that was her will: that she would never again feel the warmth of life or see the bands, the rays of color, strips of a rainbow after the storm; that just as the spider eats the buzzing insects, and the sparrows the spider, and the hawk the sparrows, she would rid the earth of the creatures that walked among the world of the mortals.
to me! May black powers and the wrath of nightmares be with me!" The words of her prayers usually soothed Lilitu, usually led her calmly into the rest that was not sleep, but this morning the wrath of hell seemed far away, like a stranger traveling distant roads. Only recently had the winds shifted in the Dream and blown storm clouds over the horizon; only days ago her wrath had again laid open the demand of her soul, that all Immortals on earth should die. There can be only one. Herself.
she had known was borrowed, stolen. Now her masters reclaimed it. Not just one master but three: Quickening, Game and Hate. Each one jealous of the other, each all-consuming. Internally, she fumed and cursed that anything should hold her back, that anything should interfere. Somewhere above her, the sun burned, waiting for its chance to reclaim life from the earth. A whirlwind seemed to open before her, and she could see the Dream open in front her. "I am your Master!" she yelled at the hole in the air that eyed her. "You're my Slave! I know Thee!" But the twister closed the mouth of the Dream one more time. Lilitu frowned as her gaze rose toward the sky. "Do you think you have won? You did not! The only thing you won was time!" But there was no response. At last, her patience at an end, Lilitu rose and sat upright. She reached out and took hold of her ancient sword, which was never far from her hand. There was no light to reflect from the blade, but she didn't need sight to know every inch of her weapon's curves. She held the blade flat between her palms, feeling the cool bronze against her skin. Then she took the handle in one hand and pressed the blade against the tip of her other middle finger. The keen edge sliced easily through her flesh, down smoothly until it struck bone. Lilitu smiled but did not stop. Slowly, she rolled the blade along the length of its curve so that it sliced downward along her finger, across the palm, and to the heel of her palm. She kept her inner power from rushing to the wound, kept it from healing nerve and muscle, kept it from denying her pain and pleasure.
Dream. To ensure that she would survive and prosper—that there was a purpose worth serving, and Lilitu did so in her own name. To see that all Immortals vanished from the face of the earth— that too was a noble purpose, one that she served in her own name. But she knew that in the end, she would find no greater or more worthy purpose. Pure self-gratification, which she enjoyed more than anything else. Now she laid the flat of her blade against her cheek. The selfish feelings, the rage, would vanish with the destruction of the objects of its obsession. All Immortals would depart this life. "There is no God but I! I am that I am!" Lilitu traced a curve across her forehead, pressed with just enough pressure to leave a red crescent. The tip of her sword slid lightly over her cheekbone to her nose and followed the low route to the soft tissue at the corner of her eye.
She needed to see the Dream. She would banish doubt and confusion. Through force of will, she would defeat the new Dreamer and the Ancient Gathering, just as now it was through sheer force of will that she kept her eyes open while she picked and punctured at one of them. Relentlessly, she applied more pressure to the blade, sinking it deeper into the orbital socket. She would rule her own mind and heart, through constant vigilance, unceasing dedication. She would rule the Dream.
socket. With a quick flick of her weapon, she severed the nerve, and the eyeball fell softly to her feet. A great pleasure overcame Lilitu. She was all power, all will. The sun was high overhead when, in front of her and through her delirium, the Dream opened again, for her. But that troubled her not at all. She could not begrudge herself her own existence.
fully repaired, and at that moment, Lilitu's orbital socket flashed a blue light, and then her eye was completely healed, regrown within a few instants. With new sight and a calm heart, she looked out at the Dream. She brushed her hair back from her face. In the motion of the air, she could feel the suddenly active spirits, guardians and servants of the Dream. They whistled past her, obscuring her laugh. With a blinding flash, a streak of lightning hung in the sky as if frozen… then lowered slowly to the earth, taking on the form of the Goddess. The whirlwind around her became shadows. Strange figures danced in front of her as the darkness felt onto the island. Lilitu's eyes were lit from within, a soft red circling halo surrounded her pupils, and the dimness of the Dream was revealed to her as if it were daylight.
she yelled one last time as she stepped inside the Dream. In there, she would find not peace, but the power to control the storms, to command the shadows, and every other tool she would need to vanish the Ancient Gathering, forever. Slowly, she went into darkness. ====================================
Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013
matter right, but the insular path of the light was considerably dimmed. Darkness crowded around the seated figure. His fingers turned a page, and then another. A raspy, disconnected sigh accompanied the rattle of paper. Silence. Stillness. Then Joe Dawson's fingers reached for the printed e-mail on the desk and, with surprising deftness, seated in his wheelchair, he began to read. —Original Message— From: Lori Wright To: Joe Dawson Subject: Update Hope you're ready for this. Duncan MacLeod was caught in a fight against what looked a bunch of crazy Berserkers in Glenfinnan. Yes, you read this correctly: Berserkers. Can you believe that? Connor MacLeod was in the fight too, along with Cassandra. But that wasn't the strangest thing. A group of Immortals came to help them, Elena Duran and Corazón Negro among them. At night, Methos and another Immortal came to Connor's house. As for the others, let me tell you that no record exists in our database about them. I'm going to follow Duncan. What's happening? Lori Wright —End of Message— ==================================== Jerusalem 33 C.E
The strike was so brutal than the prisoner bent over completely over his knees. Tied up by his hands, Yehoshua bar-Joshua let out a stifled cry as his back was tinted in red. "Unus!—One!" yelled Cartiphilus as the crack sounded, a sardonic smile on his face. Yehoshua was completely naked. Cartiphilus was a consummate master of torture. With just a little twist of his hand, the instrument of pain performed a gracious turn in the air. The second strike of the whip slashed through Yehoshua's testicles. Blood beaded on the surface of his back and legs rapidly. As the flagrum stung flesh, the fragments of steel carefully woven in along the length of the cords peeled back skin. A horrid scream was heard all over the Pretorian hall. "Duo!—Two!" announced Cartiphilus again. Cartiphilus maintained a pace that would easily have killed any man, which would have driven many others to madness, deathlike fatigue and beyond. But the man in front of him harbored a level of devotion and determination that others could never comprehend or accomplish. After fourteen blows, Yehoshua's body was and looked a ruin. His back, shoulders and legs were covered in blood. "Are you the Messiah? The Christ? Then save yourself! Quinque!—Fifteen!"
Jews? Very soon you're going to beg me to kill you. But it isn't going to be that easy. I'm just getting started," he said to the prisoner, knowing, sensing that Yehoshua believed him.
blood that ran free from his forehead. The crown of thorns sank deeply into his flesh. He knew that in the end, this pain, this martyrdom, would save humankind, and so in consequence his pain, his sacrifice, would have to reach greater heights, so that he might sufficiently abase himself in the eyes of his Father.
punishment docilely, as if he knew something Cartiphilus didn't. The punishment continued. The staccato crack of the leather whip against his unworthy flesh measured the passage of time like the oscillation of a pendulum—steadily, rhythmically, counting the unvarying passing of the minutes from present to past. The whip flew again and cut the flesh. For a moment, it seemed to Yehoshua that he would pass out. However, he didn't. "Where is your God now?" Cartiphilus mocked him. "If You're His son, why does He let me torture You?" Years and years ago it had been the pain that had driven Cartiphilus half-mad—the burning, mind-numbing pain that scourged his flesh and cleansed him of pride, of sin. Those had been his mortal days, when he would pass out from agony on the Coliseum floor, or in later years, from exhaustion and starvation. Those were the days before Lilitu, before that greatest of boons to his Immortal existence. Yehoshua lowered his gaze, as if trying to reach his inner thoughts. His breathing was hard. Another unrelenting set of blows followed. And with every one of them, the prisoner let out screams of pain. Crack! "Triginta!—Thirty!" Cartiphilus chanted as the whip landed. With unending momentum, came the sure knowledge of his own damnation—as well as the physical capacity that allowed him to surpass all boundaries of pain as he'd known them. Lilitu's vengeance upon the nonbeliever, Cartiphilus came to realize, was as liberating as God's grace toward the prophets. Perhaps more so. After four minutes, the torment finished. "Quadraginta!—Forty!" Cartiphilus yelled at last. But this time, the prisoner's body didn't react at all. Frowning, the executioner walked over toward Yehoshua and grabbed him by his long air. Once he saw the prisoner had finally passed out, he grimaced. "Pilate is going to put you on the cross," he whispered in his ear. "And I will be delighted to nail you to the wood."
the king of the Jews. In a rage, he drove Yehoshua through the streets of the city. When the Christ lingered, resting to breathe, it had been Cartiphilus who struck his back again and said. "Keep walking, Son of God!" But one of the times, Yehoshua turned to him and gently whispered to him for the first time. "Yes, I will keep walking… and so shall you, until the end of this era." That threat, or so he took it, scared Cartiphilus, but only for a moment. Furious, he had volunteered to drive the nails into Yehoshua's wrists when the peasant's hammer hesitated. And at the end, it had been his own spear had cut the Messiah's side.
March 26, 2013 The torturer of the Messiah walked slowly on the red sands. His name was Cartiphilus, but some others knew him as Longinus, the Roman Centurion charged as Pontius Pilate's gatekeeper on the day Yehoshua bar-Joshua had been judged. Many times, the memories of those days still delighted the former Centurion. However, right now, his mind was filled with more pressing matters. A strange gust of wind came up around him, and for a moment, Cartiphilus grabbed the hilt of the spear he hid beneath his clothes. Many people believed that such weapon, a few scraps of wood and a battered iron head, either rested at the Basilica of St. Peter's in Rome, or at the Hoffburg Museum in Vienna. In either case the spear was not available for viewing by the general public. During WWII Adolph Hitler became the most modern of a long line of rulers who claimed ownership over the Spear of Longinus. Charlemagne, Theodosius, Theodoric, Justinian, and more than a dozen other emperors had had control of this Icon, believing that it brought good luck in battle.
destination. The entrance to the canyon was no different than dozens of other shallows cracks in the red rock. But Cartiphilus didn't hesitate, making no false start before choosing the correct opening in the mountain walls. He knew very well where he was going. The Arab tribes had been avoiding this place since time immemorial. Even though it was Holy Ground, the whole valley was cursed and shunned. Somehow, the passageway didn't dead-end. The sheer walls rose on either side, keeping the floor of the narrow canyon in permanent chill and shadow. Four men could hold off an army there, Cartiphilus thought, as long as no one climbed up and dropped rocks on their heads. Looking upward to find a strip of dark sky was enough to give him courage; the cliffs seemed to lean inwardly. At several points he could extend his arms and touch both walls at once. If it were not for the traces of cut stone beneath his feet, showing that once, the way had been paved, he would have been certain he was completely lost. But even that ancient road was broken, cracked, and uncertain, and he had to be careful of his footing in the rubble. Cartiphilus was more occupied with where he was putting his feet than of looking ahead, so when the moonlight splashed across his face, he looked up, surprised, catching his breath in sheer awe. There before him, not twenty feet away, rising fifty feet high, carved out of the living rock, was the entrance to a temple, or perhaps a tomb. Columns. Stone Carving of birds and animals. Delicate and massive, breathtaking, all carved into the coral sandstone cliff. Cartiphilus had to crane his neck to see it; there was no way to get a proper perspective from the floor of the canyon. The edifice was easily a hundred feet long. In the moonlight, the stone almost glowed.
had eroded away under the pressure of time and wind. But the columns, the cornices, the domes, cupolas, arches and parapets were still glorious. Cartiphilus moved forward as if under a spell, trying to see it all, and as he did so he caught sight of yet another building carved into a cliff across the valley.
followed he saw, at last, Petra, the rose-red city, half as old as time. The whole valley had been turned into a city, not in the middle of the valley but carved into the red cliffs that defined it.
hundred years, carving the face of the cliffs into a glorious city of homes, temples and final resting places. Every surface seemed to be covered, some barely in bas-relief, some nearly freestanding.
An uneasiness touched Cartiphilus, and he suddenly regretted having shouted. Somewhere in these mountains Lilitu was attracting him. Somewhere close.
demonic echo. Come, my son… came the secondary voice of Lilitu. Around him, an unearthed darkness descended, and Cartiphilus walked silently through the dimness toward his destiny. His sandals were left miles behind, neatly arranged before the threshold of the caverns. His feet did not so much as displace a single pebble or disturb a granule of dust from its resting place upon the sandstone. Cartiphilus' mind was quiet. Calming scripture arose from his soul like the cool evening breeze blowing from the north. I am forever. The darkness was now complete, yet the Immortal stepped with certainty and surety. Countless passages branched off from the winding tunnel he followed, but Cartiphilus' deliberate pace did not slacken. Never before had he traversed this path, but the twists of the roughhewn corridors were as familiar to him as the threads weaved into his simple robe. He could not deny the pull of that which drew him forwards. He could not lose his way.
nearly met each other again full circle, forming, broad arcs to the northwest, squared turns to the south, zigs and zags leading tangentially eastward but never directly toward the rising sun. Among the sculptured chaos, however, Cartiphilus' steps carried him always down, always deeper toward the heart of the earth.
moments, but in a vast chamber. Darkness opened before him like a void, but not even the absence of light could hide from his eyes the presence of the herald, the one called Mother.
statue that embodied her soul stood standing, unadorned as well. Its naked, womanlike body resembled a sculpture of hard-packed coal, each fissure, each crack in the kiln-hardened surface like a jagged scar streaking like black lightning across the blackest midnight sky—black except for a crescent and handful of matching bone-white stars. The crescent moon of this midnight was a necklace of bone that lay draped across the chest of Mother's perfectly motionless body. The stars were bone as well, though not as mere accoutrements; they were the bones of the original Ancient Gathering, visible where the midnight skin had peeled back or cracked and fallen away; they were the sheaths of Mother’s essence, and her marrow were liquid vengeance.
set beneath sharp ridges of bone, and the gapping nothingness was like an accusation of wrongdoing and injury thousands of years old, as if Cartiphilus himself had gouged out the eyes in sport or cruel jest. Those empty eyeless eyes looked at Cartiphilus with a penetrating hypnotic power, as if they wished to consume him. She was in there, and could see him. "Cartiphilus," the same dark echo spoke. At once, Cartiphilus prostrated himself before Mother. The sandstone, which should have been cool within the womb of the earth, burned the Immortal's forehead. But he did not stir. "Child of the eternal life," spoke the statue. "Blood of my blood." Its voice filled the chamber like the south desert wind. Its words stung like the first pricks of the sandstorm that gnaws flesh from the bone. "Rise."
sandstone, to the touch, had become the wide desert floor at noon. He needn't look at the palms of his hands to know that his own skin crisped—the left knee, on which his weight rested; the sole of his right foot; the top of his body paid silent burning homage to the master of his soul. His was the hate that stood behind each envious thrust, every greed, and every lust. It was as if suddenly he embodied every vile and odious act that had ever been and they all burned deep into his body.
burned away, as did his hair, his eyebrows, and lashes. Cartiphilus closed his eyes against the heat, but his eyelids soon curled back like singed paper. No hurt he did not feel through the piercing rod of his flammable suffering. He had no choice but to look upon his reckoning. He could not escape; every death that had ever been was now his, every ending, every last breath that had expired into oblivion. He felt them all and perished with each. He craved for relief in vain against the howling flames that would not relent in their furious punishment.
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