Monday, December 26, 2005
part 2 of...
Hell's Wait -or- The Repercussion of an Angel's Infelicitous Affair
"Please, step this way." The angel turned and motioned with his arm in the direction of a track, recessed in the stone rooftop, leading toward the open section of stone in the parapet about the towers rim where the fallen angel sat. Hesitantly the prophet inched back to his previous spot and peered down at the sea level below. Through his fear squinted eyes he could now see that the water did not flow between the pointed rocks encircling the base of the rocky peak, but instead ran downward in what seemed to be a hole from which the stone columns foundation extended. He had assumed that this chasm had reached deep into the furnaces of hell, he judged so purely from the dancing swirls of heated air emitted from the shaft. "Is that..." the prophet cut off his words as he gingerly stepped away from the abysmal height.
"...Hell?" the angel finished as it craned its neck out over the well. "At least for now- well, that's what He dares to claim."
"So we are...?"
"In Hell? Goodness sakes, no dear man. Technically, we are at the ritual that marries the profane with the sacred. This tower is no more a part of Hell than it is of Heaven or Earth. It is the place where all combine-- yes, earthly in its geography; yet joined to both poles. Everything's symbolic."
The prophet inched his head over the side once more. "That seems more than just symbolism to me." Caught up in the interest, even the damned and the saint poked their heads over to catch the view. Annoyed at all the interest in Hell's mouth, the angel huffed and turned back toward the direction of the machine.
"Would I be wrong," chimed the angel, "to presume that you have not as of yet been introduced to the workings and nature of the device?" The prophet came away from the lip of the roof and gave a nod of his head in response which the angel found all too pleasing to hear. "Not surprising, for although it is He," the angel pointed a finger in the direction of the chasm below, "who has been given reign over the workings of the device, the Devil may care... all that aside, it was envisioned by our Lord himself. I had been chosen to aid Saint Peter in its inception. And although it was the Creator who called for the device, it was the hands of Peter that are to be credited for its divine engineering." The angel leaned an elbow against a thin metal girder at the front of the structure, and tilted its head up to the clouds. "Have you met Saint Peter?" the angel called out to the prophet. "How foolish of me, of course not, you're still among the living. Eventually, the time will come and you shall have your chance at the gates. That is of course if the machines current keeper," the blessed again hinted hellward with a rolling of its reflective black pearl-like eyes, "doesn't claim you first. The devil is always trying to spoil things. Perhaps it would all seem more logical if he did so for the sake of evil. But heaven forbid, that the rascal would be so simple, he's always playing at some new game!--Nevertheless," the angel let out a heavy sigh, "a story for another time; it is this device that warrants the hour. Although there are many nuances to its design, as you can see, there are essentially three key operating systems; keeping with the tradition of the holy trinity of course. The front part is referred to as the 'Crux,' the lower part which is hidden within the tower is the 'Assessor,' and this one in back which spans the horizontal bar of the Crux is called the 'Lament.'"
"The Lament?" asked the prophet. His attentions were beside him and not before; for he was focused on the calm offered by the inspiring view of endless sky and sea, hoping to forget the gates of hell below. In fact the whole scene was beginning to make him a bit wary of the blessed angel’s role, despite its reverent nature; as well as his own for that matter. He could not help but wonder what, in God's name, would the Devil want with him here? As for the saint, he seemed to be as the prophet, equally enamored by the auspicious skyline. He had wound the leash of the damned around the stone parapet, where he sat, seemingly deaf and dumb to that which attended around him, with his chin cupped at the palm of an arm that rested upon his knee. His nonchalance, for some reason, did not surprise the prophet. Then again why would it? The saint had probably heard this all before, he thought to himself. Judging from the wear upon the gears, this wasn't a new means of penance. Yet even more queer to him was the calm attentiveness assumed by the damned. Since the moment it had picked up the interest of what the prophet and the blessed peered over the side at, the creature sat hanging on every word uttered by the angel. In fact, the prophet seemed to notice a slight change in the manner to which its wings had been slumped. As well, the feathers seemed less disheveled than previous, and the stone cold face looked to thaw as its eyebrows and ears shifted in curiosity as does a young pups. Upon the prophet's inquiry, along with the blessed angel, it turned its head to take notice.
"Yes, the Lament," championed the angel, "a fitting moniker I can assure you. You see, although it is the device as a whole which is the executor of the penance, it is the Lament that provides the actual deliverance as well as the embodiment of the machines symbolism. If it were put before you, to construct a device to which fallen angels were to be sentenced, what would this entail? Well, Saint Peter saw in this the answer by way of symbolism. For what is it that symbolizes the angelic but its wings? You see, the prongs are actually divided into three parts; with each tooth serrated on the inside so as to provide the best possible grip. Every set acts randomly on the caster to pluck the feathers from the fallen's wings; the ultimate stripping of its nature. Do you know much of the anatomy of an angel?" The prophet was unable to answer for he was astounded by the entire plot of the machine unveiling before him. He could not help to look wide eyed at the damned as it paced calmly about the device's construct, enveloped in curiosity; he, wondering if it, understood the task that lay ahead.
"Most men like yourself, liken an angel's feathers to the hairs that sprout from the crowns of your heads. But this is not the matter at all; each shaft is like a pliable sliver of bone that is firmly set beneath the fleshy tissue of the wing. Unlike your birds, angel’s wings do not molt and therefore each feather is eternal by design. So you can guess the pain conceived in such a contrivance. There is but one penance for the fallen; to be stripped of its wings, excommunicated from our Lord and cast to the service of Lucifer. So you see- one might even go so far as to say that the device works as a great philosopher; a teacher of theology, as well as the hand of the just. Nevertheless, it shall all make sense in due time." The angel stepped around the damned that, now, hovered about his every word. "On the Crux is placed the condemned with its arms spread along the lower of the two horizontal bars- it's best to explain such details prior to the actual act. It seems to heighten the anticipation. And besides, some of the lesser angels weep out to the Lord for salvation or even curse him; it can get rather hard to hear one's own thoughts, much rather any others' voice with such distractions; even sometimes, on especially blustery days, the feathers will blow between the gear work of the Assessor and in the later stages, begin to smolder, puffing out great halos of black smoke; so you understand, it can get quite distracting- at any rate, this is the Crux as I was saying. As you can see it has been fashioned into the shape of a crucifix, hence the name. It doesn't appear like much from this vantage, it looks a bit as if Saint Peter gave up abruptly and it was left unrealized. Yet, therein lies the beauty of it; its simplistic construct is but a testament to its overall symbolic nature. Aside from playing its role in deliverance, it reminds one of the sacrifices endured before ours. The two spatulate pieces of metal, adjustable along the minor bar, rest underneath the blades of the shoulders, pulling the wings away from the fallen's back which rest along the larger horizontal; but we'll come to more on that later. On this crucifix the angel is placed, much like the fathers son- Saint Peter always did his part for the Lords history- of course; here are the spikes for the hands, and here for the feet, prostrating the condemned before the world."
"Is that velvet there at the top?" asked the prophet, stepping closer to the Crux.
"Yes, and in the traditional papal violet," added the angel, "it offers a nice splash of color to the overburdening muted tones of the apparatus, wouldn't you agree?" The prophet nodded in agreement as he scanned over the black wrought-iron work of the Crux, and housing for the Lament; the weathered, wood braces framing the myriad of gears and spindles; and the gray, time hewn stones that held it all up. "I'll explain its purpose presently." The prophet could not help but begin to feel his interest in the machine grow; his eyebrows squinted in contemplative scrutiny as he scanned every visible inch. He even felt compelled to descend into the tower to glimpse the guts of the apparatus; to better marvel in the size and scope of such a machination. The Assessor was the orchestrator of the machine, and hence, was the largest part of the device. Only the small portion of it that housed the Lament, linking it with the Crux, stuck out from the ceiling of the tower; the rest was left to sprout downward, rooting throughout the inner chamber. From what he could see of the thing down the opening in the floor, he could only imagine the vast labyrinth of cranks and gear shafts; axels stabbing from every direction, jutting in and out of monstrous toothy pistons like the skeleton of some industrial beast. The Crux and the Lament were of relatively similar size. The latter being of more substance; made up of the many finger-sized, jagged, three-pronged pincers gathered along a spider-web-like metal grid. Whereas the Crux was merely a cast-iron crucifix, adjustable along a track from the lip of the tower to the Lament, with two horizontal bars: an upper, being of same size as the vertical; and a smaller that was situated about a meter below the upper, hinged at its cross section.
"As I had mentioned earlier, the whole device is designed to deliver the condemned from its sins..."
"Sins?" interrupted the prophet.
"That's it exactly, sins," the angel replied with a slight of annoyance.
"I'm sorry, but I did not realize that angels were capable of sin."
"Indeed, they are not to be." The prophet noted the contempt in the words, as did the condemned; for it shrank slightly from the machine returning its wings to their former slouch.
"And pray tell- what might this angel's sin be?"
"Assuredly it is rude to speak of the misfortunes of others would you not say?" The Angel leaned closer. Almost scolding, like a father to a child; bending at the waist to meet eye level with the prophet who stammered to cover his oversight of etiquette.
The Angel quickly thrust up a finger, "Well that just wouldn't be... kosher."
A snicker slipped from the lips of the attending saint, causing the Angel to break his punitive gaze with a grin.
"Forgive my levity." The Angel corrected his posture and stepped past the prophet toward the damned. "How bullish of me. Here you are to witness and account for the world the proceedings at hand, and I make jokes. You pose a serious query, and so you deserve a serious answer." It turned back toward the prophet and leaned closer to an ear and whispered; "...love."
(to continue)
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"Please, step this way." The angel turned and motioned with his arm in the direction of a track, recessed in the stone rooftop, leading toward the open section of stone in the parapet about the towers rim where the fallen angel sat. Hesitantly the prophet inched back to his previous spot and peered down at the sea level below. Through his fear squinted eyes he could now see that the water did not flow between the pointed rocks encircling the base of the rocky peak, but instead ran downward in what seemed to be a hole from which the stone columns foundation extended. He had assumed that this chasm had reached deep into the furnaces of hell, he judged so purely from the dancing swirls of heated air emitted from the shaft. "Is that..." the prophet cut off his words as he gingerly stepped away from the abysmal height.
"...Hell?" the angel finished as it craned its neck out over the well. "At least for now- well, that's what He dares to claim."
"So we are...?"
"In Hell? Goodness sakes, no dear man. Technically, we are at the ritual that marries the profane with the sacred. This tower is no more a part of Hell than it is of Heaven or Earth. It is the place where all combine-- yes, earthly in its geography; yet joined to both poles. Everything's symbolic."
The prophet inched his head over the side once more. "That seems more than just symbolism to me." Caught up in the interest, even the damned and the saint poked their heads over to catch the view. Annoyed at all the interest in Hell's mouth, the angel huffed and turned back toward the direction of the machine.
"Would I be wrong," chimed the angel, "to presume that you have not as of yet been introduced to the workings and nature of the device?" The prophet came away from the lip of the roof and gave a nod of his head in response which the angel found all too pleasing to hear. "Not surprising, for although it is He," the angel pointed a finger in the direction of the chasm below, "who has been given reign over the workings of the device, the Devil may care... all that aside, it was envisioned by our Lord himself. I had been chosen to aid Saint Peter in its inception. And although it was the Creator who called for the device, it was the hands of Peter that are to be credited for its divine engineering." The angel leaned an elbow against a thin metal girder at the front of the structure, and tilted its head up to the clouds. "Have you met Saint Peter?" the angel called out to the prophet. "How foolish of me, of course not, you're still among the living. Eventually, the time will come and you shall have your chance at the gates. That is of course if the machines current keeper," the blessed again hinted hellward with a rolling of its reflective black pearl-like eyes, "doesn't claim you first. The devil is always trying to spoil things. Perhaps it would all seem more logical if he did so for the sake of evil. But heaven forbid, that the rascal would be so simple, he's always playing at some new game!--Nevertheless," the angel let out a heavy sigh, "a story for another time; it is this device that warrants the hour. Although there are many nuances to its design, as you can see, there are essentially three key operating systems; keeping with the tradition of the holy trinity of course. The front part is referred to as the 'Crux,' the lower part which is hidden within the tower is the 'Assessor,' and this one in back which spans the horizontal bar of the Crux is called the 'Lament.'"
"The Lament?" asked the prophet. His attentions were beside him and not before; for he was focused on the calm offered by the inspiring view of endless sky and sea, hoping to forget the gates of hell below. In fact the whole scene was beginning to make him a bit wary of the blessed angel’s role, despite its reverent nature; as well as his own for that matter. He could not help but wonder what, in God's name, would the Devil want with him here? As for the saint, he seemed to be as the prophet, equally enamored by the auspicious skyline. He had wound the leash of the damned around the stone parapet, where he sat, seemingly deaf and dumb to that which attended around him, with his chin cupped at the palm of an arm that rested upon his knee. His nonchalance, for some reason, did not surprise the prophet. Then again why would it? The saint had probably heard this all before, he thought to himself. Judging from the wear upon the gears, this wasn't a new means of penance. Yet even more queer to him was the calm attentiveness assumed by the damned. Since the moment it had picked up the interest of what the prophet and the blessed peered over the side at, the creature sat hanging on every word uttered by the angel. In fact, the prophet seemed to notice a slight change in the manner to which its wings had been slumped. As well, the feathers seemed less disheveled than previous, and the stone cold face looked to thaw as its eyebrows and ears shifted in curiosity as does a young pups. Upon the prophet's inquiry, along with the blessed angel, it turned its head to take notice.
"Yes, the Lament," championed the angel, "a fitting moniker I can assure you. You see, although it is the device as a whole which is the executor of the penance, it is the Lament that provides the actual deliverance as well as the embodiment of the machines symbolism. If it were put before you, to construct a device to which fallen angels were to be sentenced, what would this entail? Well, Saint Peter saw in this the answer by way of symbolism. For what is it that symbolizes the angelic but its wings? You see, the prongs are actually divided into three parts; with each tooth serrated on the inside so as to provide the best possible grip. Every set acts randomly on the caster to pluck the feathers from the fallen's wings; the ultimate stripping of its nature. Do you know much of the anatomy of an angel?" The prophet was unable to answer for he was astounded by the entire plot of the machine unveiling before him. He could not help to look wide eyed at the damned as it paced calmly about the device's construct, enveloped in curiosity; he, wondering if it, understood the task that lay ahead.
"Most men like yourself, liken an angel's feathers to the hairs that sprout from the crowns of your heads. But this is not the matter at all; each shaft is like a pliable sliver of bone that is firmly set beneath the fleshy tissue of the wing. Unlike your birds, angel’s wings do not molt and therefore each feather is eternal by design. So you can guess the pain conceived in such a contrivance. There is but one penance for the fallen; to be stripped of its wings, excommunicated from our Lord and cast to the service of Lucifer. So you see- one might even go so far as to say that the device works as a great philosopher; a teacher of theology, as well as the hand of the just. Nevertheless, it shall all make sense in due time." The angel stepped around the damned that, now, hovered about his every word. "On the Crux is placed the condemned with its arms spread along the lower of the two horizontal bars- it's best to explain such details prior to the actual act. It seems to heighten the anticipation. And besides, some of the lesser angels weep out to the Lord for salvation or even curse him; it can get rather hard to hear one's own thoughts, much rather any others' voice with such distractions; even sometimes, on especially blustery days, the feathers will blow between the gear work of the Assessor and in the later stages, begin to smolder, puffing out great halos of black smoke; so you understand, it can get quite distracting- at any rate, this is the Crux as I was saying. As you can see it has been fashioned into the shape of a crucifix, hence the name. It doesn't appear like much from this vantage, it looks a bit as if Saint Peter gave up abruptly and it was left unrealized. Yet, therein lies the beauty of it; its simplistic construct is but a testament to its overall symbolic nature. Aside from playing its role in deliverance, it reminds one of the sacrifices endured before ours. The two spatulate pieces of metal, adjustable along the minor bar, rest underneath the blades of the shoulders, pulling the wings away from the fallen's back which rest along the larger horizontal; but we'll come to more on that later. On this crucifix the angel is placed, much like the fathers son- Saint Peter always did his part for the Lords history- of course; here are the spikes for the hands, and here for the feet, prostrating the condemned before the world."
"Is that velvet there at the top?" asked the prophet, stepping closer to the Crux.
"Yes, and in the traditional papal violet," added the angel, "it offers a nice splash of color to the overburdening muted tones of the apparatus, wouldn't you agree?" The prophet nodded in agreement as he scanned over the black wrought-iron work of the Crux, and housing for the Lament; the weathered, wood braces framing the myriad of gears and spindles; and the gray, time hewn stones that held it all up. "I'll explain its purpose presently." The prophet could not help but begin to feel his interest in the machine grow; his eyebrows squinted in contemplative scrutiny as he scanned every visible inch. He even felt compelled to descend into the tower to glimpse the guts of the apparatus; to better marvel in the size and scope of such a machination. The Assessor was the orchestrator of the machine, and hence, was the largest part of the device. Only the small portion of it that housed the Lament, linking it with the Crux, stuck out from the ceiling of the tower; the rest was left to sprout downward, rooting throughout the inner chamber. From what he could see of the thing down the opening in the floor, he could only imagine the vast labyrinth of cranks and gear shafts; axels stabbing from every direction, jutting in and out of monstrous toothy pistons like the skeleton of some industrial beast. The Crux and the Lament were of relatively similar size. The latter being of more substance; made up of the many finger-sized, jagged, three-pronged pincers gathered along a spider-web-like metal grid. Whereas the Crux was merely a cast-iron crucifix, adjustable along a track from the lip of the tower to the Lament, with two horizontal bars: an upper, being of same size as the vertical; and a smaller that was situated about a meter below the upper, hinged at its cross section.
"As I had mentioned earlier, the whole device is designed to deliver the condemned from its sins..."
"Sins?" interrupted the prophet.
"That's it exactly, sins," the angel replied with a slight of annoyance.
"I'm sorry, but I did not realize that angels were capable of sin."
"Indeed, they are not to be." The prophet noted the contempt in the words, as did the condemned; for it shrank slightly from the machine returning its wings to their former slouch.
"And pray tell- what might this angel's sin be?"
"Assuredly it is rude to speak of the misfortunes of others would you not say?" The Angel leaned closer. Almost scolding, like a father to a child; bending at the waist to meet eye level with the prophet who stammered to cover his oversight of etiquette.
The Angel quickly thrust up a finger, "Well that just wouldn't be... kosher."
A snicker slipped from the lips of the attending saint, causing the Angel to break his punitive gaze with a grin.
"Forgive my levity." The Angel corrected his posture and stepped past the prophet toward the damned. "How bullish of me. Here you are to witness and account for the world the proceedings at hand, and I make jokes. You pose a serious query, and so you deserve a serious answer." It turned back toward the prophet and leaned closer to an ear and whispered; "...love."
(to continue)
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