The Heretic's River

 

These feathers unfurl, a lifetime of dreaming at my back. Yet time still escapes me like summer sands as Yarden waters burn these palms. Drowning, and on fire, in an act of almost-flight. Flames like molten rock beneath the wave. The path of Antioch’s angels, I suppose. Criminals, cowards and so-called revolutionaries, spilling the blood of our brother’s sons to enshrine the shared lie of our fathers. My God, what a mess. Pickled peppers and pecks on the cheek. Heretic letters and paths of the meek. But kisses counted for little in Palestine. And still, detonations are supposedly mistaken for the Finger of God. Like magnesium cast onto the fire. Mere anarchy, appallingly loosed. The blood-dimmed tide, as Isaac and Ishmael continue to slaughter each other daily. And for what, for legends of land and promise? It broke me, even back them. It broke my daughter too. Utterly. Named for Eos, but defiled with spilled scarlet. Midnight of the Day. You think these words are fiction, don’t you, Fallen? Do you imagine the deaths of all those brown children as somehow equally unreal? Less meaningful? Now that the dawn is bright as snow do you care a little more? You didn’t back then. The hue of flesh is only skin deep. No child deserves to die because of the beliefs of their mothers and fathers, regardless of their genealogy. The best of us, irrespective of faith, caste or creed haven’t butchered our empathy so completely. Nor our humanity, especially where our children are concerned. Do you really need a fucking angel to tell you this?

Dear ones, I want you to know that these fists burned as they were plunged in ancient river water. A secret sooth, told quietly. Men are ruined rain. Mud is flesh and blood is the river. Didn’t you know? Sentient sea, all of us, animated by starlight. We drink the river’s reign or die, extracting salt for protection. A circle against those wraiths who despise all sailors. Hydrogen and oxygen. Time and space. But we are the mineral. We are the salt. The allowed reach of those wraiths. So, we unknowingly slaughter ourselves as we continuously fill our waters with death and filth. As once-bright feathers unfurl. Or is that a truth too flagrant to imbibe? I’ve been called a winged wolf in the interim, and it’s a fitting title. More fitting than you know. I’ve also been called a sorcerer, and a charlatan. A scribe to the Levant’s wending shriek. A giant among men. Like those legends of Offerus, Yohanan, and Saul. The tales we tell and re-tell. But I don’t just cross these rivers, dear ones. I bend them with my Father’s will. Mountains also, cut down with the palm of his hand. My maker’s hands are burned by Yarden’s ebb, and my daughter’s also. Not just my own. We share the anguish. I’m an angel, you see. An emissary. To claim myself as anything greater would be a lie. Still, I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. I am. Perhaps it’s pride talking, like the night’s first falling star. But, unlike that star, I have love in my heart. I never imagined myself as greater than my maker. My sins are many, but they are all too human. Driven by sheer grief. I would never dare to claim the throne, unlike the legends tell of Samael. The indulgence. The vanity. God forbid Mikael is ever confused for his winged sibling. But we are all both these brothers in theme. Heaven’s War raging within. Don’t you recognise this yet, Fallen? Or is your grasp of stories and psyche so feeble?

I’ve spent a thousand years honing my craft. Trying to learn kindness and patience. I’m still here in the dark with you, my friends. Still learning. Jack of all trades and master of none. Stumbling around for light and coherence. As we forgetful souls all do. Whilst my outcast brother keeps his memories and builds an empire of bones, violence and human shit from our darkest imaginings. The spoils of war, clad in the garb of officialdom and religiosity. False righteousness. We all know this, in our hearts. But the world does not stop for any of us, despite our rage. It’s incredibly sobering to realize that your anguish and loss is no greater than anyone’s. Pain is horrifyingly relative. We have no right to bomb and burn creation’s dreaming, shifting times and laws. Take it from a veteran of the vortex. A true traveller must move delicately, and with the utmost care. Yes, our loved ones can be taken from us in the most vicious way possible, but we are not the only ones who suffered such loss. The cosmos is vast. Infinite stars. Unimaginable worlds. Tragedy has visited so many of them. But joy too. Unimaginable joy, and grace. We know so little of our maker’s divine poetry, except when we dare to dream. Enjoy the warm embrace of love’s radiance, my friends. But recognise that the sweet sunlight we enjoy is not enjoyed by all, even in our own world. There are so many pockets of darkness and suffering where children wail and parents grieve in that brief period before the next detonation, and spirit’s connection to flesh is severed once more by mankind’s most hateful aspects. Palestine and elsewhere. Dark priests and wraith-ravage, enshrined. I’m not just a witness to this awful chaos. I am a writer. A depth-walker of the inner places. My insights change nothing, of course. But nonetheless, when I see our children and our brother’s children offered up as dark sacrifice – I as one of the Magi must speak. This is a fucking abomination. A hideous shame that stains our souls. It was so two thousand years ago, and it is still so today.