Energy - Chapter 37

7/27/2019 Energy - Chapter 37

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Ball/Energy/575

Chapter 37

Promise to Damnation

The passenger cabin was confounded. Items flew around violently.

Some rode the air through that gaping hole in the fuselage. It

was unnaturally cold.

The passengers continued to sit helpless amid the ongoing

chaos. Their clothes and those with any length of hair felt the

authority of a violent wind. They were whipped about

haphazardly. The overlapping sound of panic fell muted below the

raging tempest. Most of them had discarded their oxygen masks by

now.

Caela continued to stand in the aisle. Her fists were down

at her side. Her feet stayed fixed upon the floor when there was



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no logic to it. It was impossible, but this young girl flew

outside of the common envelope — that of an alternate law. Her

eyes bore cynicism.

The Charlie image now stood at the front of the passenger

cabin, unaffected by the ongoing pandemonium. It surveyed the

frightened passengers with a careful sweep from one side to the

other. The expression was clear: lambs to be had. Then it

conveyed a wicked look as it settled on the beautiful Energija.

You will be had.

Julie and Candice were seated and fastened in to their jump

seats. The Charlie image stood just in front of them. The young

flight attendants exchanged looks. It was a silent commune, but

it was defined. What’s Charlie doing?

Energija tried to keep her breathing steady. She didn’t

want to hyperventilate. She hadn’t noticed it, but she held fast

to Dragan’s hand.

The fellowship continued to descend for an emergency

approach to Rapid City.

Caela fixed her eyes upon the Charlie image. Then she took

approximately nine or ten steps forward and stopped. She now

stood beside Energija. Her eyes remained fixed on the Devil in

disguise. “You,” she shouted, “have been a very bad boy!”

The Devil was quick to respond. “Defined as such, by you!”

it responded. “I’ll accept your compliment!” The Devil smiled.



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“Thank you, Father. Sometimes, one must endeavor to conclude the

chase. No matter how earnest the desire might be to play on.”

The passengers were bewildered amidst the peril. The

questions that they were asking themselves were common ones. Who

is this young girl? Why is the pilot out here? Do they know each

other? Somebody save us!

“What was yours, my son, now belongs to the company of all

good things. As such, it was never yours to begin with.” Caela

lowered her head but, kept her eyes fixed on the Charlie image.

It was a warning. “The soul of that lonely wolf found

forgiveness amongst those that it once hunted. It fell from your

malice by my word. That soul, having served one violent death

after another was reborn by the feet of my Saint.” Caela looked

straight up and raised her hands to the side. “Lucifer, a child

of heaven is irrefutable. It is beyond contestation.”

The Charlie image knelt before an elderly couple in the

first row. It addressed the man in a soft and sympathetic tone.

“In your life,” it began, “how many nights have you delivered

unto your wife a lesson to be remembered?” The Charlie image

made a fist and held it up. “How many...?”

The elderly man was stunned by that question. He looked at

his wife awkwardly. She looked away. Then he looked back at his

asker. “Ah, I don’t know wh-”

“You are Herman Shultz?” it asked, knowing that he was.



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“Yes,” he said. “I am.” The man leaned forward meekly. “Do

I know you?”

The Devil just smiled. “Yes, Herman,” it said, “very well

I’m afraid.” The Devil grabbed Herman’s left wrist and turned

his hand over. “Your knuckles are scarred.”

Then the Devil addressed the man’s wife. “Like those that

find cover within the lines on your face, madam.”

The Charlie image looked back at Herman. “By me, you have

been judged.”

Suddenly, the elderly man reached between the seats and

touched the passenger behind him. He was now acting under the

jurisdiction of the Devil.

That receiving passenger did the same, only she reached to

the passenger beside her instead.

Then that passenger reached out to another within arm’s

length.

A demanding wind continued to score the cabin relentlessly.

There was no pattern to the ongoing passenger interaction,

but it was precise. It continued down the double row until it

crossed over to the tri-seats just forward of the damaged

fuselage. Then it began to work its way up. The discarded oxygen

masks confused the inspection. It was a mess.

As it continued on, the passenger chain approached sixty

percent. The connected passengers appeared to be somewhat



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diluted, or under some kind of infected influence. Some not

affected by it were confused. Some didn’t even notice it.

Energija felt a hand fall on her shoulder from the

passenger directly behind her.

Dragan was quick to pull his hand away from under

Energija’s.

The Devil stood. It looked at Energija directly. “None of

you will survive!” it said.

Caela demonstrated a critical look. Then she looked to her

side, at Energija.

Energija had been struck by a vision. Through the eyes of a

righteous young man, this vision would be an expose to an

ancient rebirth. And so it was.

#

The Mesopotamian scape was lurid by its polytheism amid the arid

antiquity of a sixth-century BC pre-Christian topography — a new

world conviction amid the old world estate. The people that

occupied this fertile crescent — Babylonians, Assyrians, and

Canaanites amongst them — were diverse, dubious, and violent.

To the far west, the Mediterranean Sea fed the Punic colony

of Carthage. An evening crowd had gathered by the public square.

A much younger sunset had tuned their Mediterranean sky to a

spectacular dark blue that faded to peach, then green, as it



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sank below the western horizon. An altar of stone was the

centerpiece to the time-honored throng of Carthaginians.

A bronze statue of their fire god, Kronos, knelt nearby

over a healthy fire. His arms were out in front with open hands

together, directly above the pit of breathing flames. That pit,

a crematorium that served as a carriage, delivered unto their

Ba’al a promise — human sacrifice by infanticide.

A child was placed into the open hands of Kronos. The fire

below would sear the child, causing the limbs to contract and

the mouth to open grotesquely. Then that child would fall from

the cradling hands of Kronos and pass through the fire.

A crowd had gathered to witness this public ceremony. The

sacrificial child, a result of adultery or prostitution, was

offered to their higher power as a promise for deeds yet

undelivered. The young boy was to be slaughtered first and then

placed into the bronze hands of Kronos so that he may deliver

unto his followers continued strength and prosperity.

A young man stood amongst those in the crowd. He was

ordinary and perhaps even more so impoverished than most of his

generation. This young man was appalled by what was about to

unfold. He was dismayed by the current state of exuberance about

him. The crowd around him sang hymns, played flutes, and struck

their hide-covered drums. The young man stood amongst them, his



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full, white chlamys covered his head. Every one of you deserves

to burn behind the walls of Geheena, he thought.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd by the emergence of their

high priest. The sacrificial child was with him. Wrapped in an

off-white chitin tunic, this child was less than a year old. The

high priest carried the child to the altar and gently lay him

down on a smooth, flat block of weathered stone. The child was

calm.

The dousing day was a symbol to the sacrificial order.

Falling sunlight that marks the end of a Carthaginian day

carries with it a life that must be extinguished before it can

be reborn for the greater good.

Most of the spectators fell to their knees in prayer. In a

very short time, all would do so or be punished harshly.

The young man in the crowd carried on his person, three

six-point stars — weapons to employ by the dexterous side-arm

swipe. The young man was somber. One for you, priest, he

planned, and one each for your two disciples. A true God would

not find appeasement by this, a detestable act of public murder.

Then the young man looked down at the sand on which he stood. A

child, he determined, is innocent.

The high priest raised his arms above him, a mark to

silence. The crowd obeyed him without delay. The mother of the

sacrificial child knelt by the foot of the altar. Her head was



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hung. The high priest addressed the people of Carthage. “Offered

on this day,” he said, “the fruit of their bodies, for the sin

of their souls — a burnt offering for continued posterity.”

The high priest drew a long blade from his belt and raised

it above him. “Kronos, accept this child as a gift.”

The young man had refused to kneel. He was now under the

attention of the authorities. He knew it to be so. He threw his

chlamys down and ran forward. He wore only a pubic band. The

crowd was stunned by this young man’s actions. He approached the

altar fleet of foot and armed himself with one star in his left

hand. He cocked it back. “He that kills children is no priest!”

he shouted.

Then the young man fired the six-point star at the high

priest. It flew from his hand, spinning to hunt. “Let a true God

judge you in death!”

Before the six-point star struck the high priest in the

neck, the young man loaded himself with the two remaining stars

and leapt into the air. With one star in each hand, the young

man reared back and fired both of them at the same time. They

spun in opposite arcs, sailing inward until both disciples had

been mortally wounded.

The young man landed on his two feet before dropping to one

knee. The sand about him was churned violently as he halted his

approach. He put one hand down and raised his head. He watched.



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The high priest stumbled back as a fresh wound spat life

from him onto the stone Tophet on which he stood. It would not

be long before lie dead.

The two disciples felt the spinning six-points sever their

carotid arteries. The absence of pain was misleading, but it

would be conclusive. Death was becoming them quickly. They, too,

stumbled briefly before collapsing.

The crowd was stunned. Not a word was said.

The young man stood and stepped forward slowly. He kept his

eyes focused on the sacrificial child. “The innocence of a child

is beyond judgment!” he shouted. Then he turned briefly. “Fear

instead, he who kills for favoritism!”

The young man sprung ahead and ascended the Tophet. He

gently lifted the child from the stone bed and held him close.

He turned and quickly descended the altar by its rear steps.

With the child in his arms, the young man mounted a dark Caspian

at rest and raced him into the Mediterranean night. The horse

was not his.

Behind the young man, budding chaos elevated quickly. It

overlapped, and then it began to fade away. That chaos would

soon follow this young man into an unforgiving desert.

An archaic witch hunt was now underway. It would span a

vast distance, finding the inner walls of Jerusalem and conclude



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in the sun-bleached Valley of Ben Hinnom, by the foot of Mount

Zion.

The moving night would be just as unforgiving as the

territory that it descended upon. The sun was almost gone now.

The wind was hard, but still warm on the young man’s upper

frame; it held on to the humidity of the dying day.

He held the reins in one hand and used the other hand to

hold the child close. The off-white tunic that the Carthaginian

high priest had bundled the child in, made him easier to manage.

Perhaps, the child was asleep. The young man lowered his chin

onto the top of the child’s head. Feel my beating heart, child.

Not far behind the young man, a small armada of armed

Carthaginians rode to take back that which they had offered to

their Ba’al, Kronos. Then justice would be served on the brazen

young man for the murder of their high priest and his two

disciples by stoning, by fire, or both.

The young man stayed close to the Mediterranean coast. A

large moon reflected a hidden sun onto the expansive rolling

waves to his left. The dark Caspian beneath him was tireless as

it found a top speed in excess of fifty-five miles per hour.

“You may be anything you like,” the young man said to his

courier, “but you are nothing of the ordinary kind.” He could

feel the inbred power course through him as it powered him on



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through his exodus, a journey that would ferry him through

Tripolis, and Rhacotis, to the holy land — Eretz Yisrael.

The night sky was clear. The young man’s need to navigate

by the night sky was redundant. The inland coast would guide him

to Yerushalayim. Then the child will be safe, he assured himself

over and over again. The sun will rise and fall again before I

can rest, he thought. Then the young man tightened his grip on

the leather holds. But ... if a new sun rises twice, the child

and I will surely be dead.

#

Energija rolled her head to the side. She was now facing Dragan.

The movement was sharp enough that he found it odd. It spooked

him somewhat. Her eyes were open, but she was still under the

influence of the ongoing vision. She didn’t blink. It was then

that Dragan noticed something strange. He leaned in to inspect

it.

The color of her eyes was ... changing . Then he looked into

the eyes of the young girl who stood in the aisle. His

expression was solemn.

The air about the passenger cabin was vivid by its

demonstration. It spun in random attacks. The passengers were

quiet. The hand-to-hand connection was unbroken between those

who chose one another by touch.



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Caela stood next to Energija. She was reserved. Her long

hair flew in all directions as if it were trying to escape her.

Seemingly, she was allowing this vision to hold Energija; a

necessary evil it was — a crucible.

The Devil was still. At the front of the passenger cabin is

where he continued to stand. A subtle smile was evident on his

Charlie image.

The ongoing battle between the Father and his fallen son

continued far beyond this young woman’s conscious mind.

Energija closed her eyes.

#

The young man found himself without much strength left in his

two arms. Throughout the night, he had cut a vague path through

the desert sand on his Caspian steed. A new sun had begun to

refract over the eastern bed. This young man felt a higher power

flowing through him. It called him on. Keep going, boy, it

urged. One moral victory is worth the price of a thousand

wounds.

The young man had carefully managed to cradle the child in

one arm, then the other, as he managed his journey. The child

was awake now. He was hungry and understandably irritated by the

hostile effects of their long distance bump and grind. He was

becoming restless.



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The young man reined the Caspian in to a gentle canter.

Then he looked behind him. He could not see any evidence of his

followers to the darker west. That buys me some time, he

thought.

To his left, the Mediterranean Sea defined the far north in

a rising, deep blue. It was an offering. The Caspian was huffing

definitively now. The young man stroked his courier’s coarse

mane. Your thirst is well-earned.

The young man led the Caspian to his left. I’m thirsty,

too. He secured his hold on the restless child. So must you be,

child. Then he gave the parched Caspian two strong kicks and a

loud kiss. The horse bolted ahead. It was with some spectacular

endurance that this Caspian steed maintained the ongoing flight.

Now, he needed to drink from the inland shore.

They all did.

The Egyptian inland coast was plush with low florae. The

new day had already served a familiar humidity to this western

region. The young sun had broken and was now visible to the

east. A lending wind snaked through the outcropping of hills

that littered the immediate inland beyond the rocky beach. It

delivered inspiration to those that found hope within its daily

gift. A specific hunger fed by this, the breadbasket of the

east.



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The young man, his unordinary steed, and the restless child

broke into a slow saunter through the Marmarika Plateau toward

the Mediterranean Sea.

As the three runners found the beach, rich in naturally

sculpted basalt and limestone, the young man noticed something

that he did not expect. An elderly man, mounted on his horse,

sat above the rolling tide and stared out onto the open sea. He

was alone if not in the company of his heavily armored courier.

A warm wind swept him from the side of the rising sun. But this

was not an ordinary man. Beneath a sky that is revered and

godly, this stranger sat quietly. He was dressed in a simple,

strange blue-colored cloth upon his battle-ready horse of war.

The young man approached the elderly stranger very

carefully. Thankfully, the child was quiet; perhaps, the

narcotic effect of a coastline touch had influenced him. The

stranger did not turn around. When the young man halted his

approach, the three runners had found themselves in a very

privileged position beside this strange man, unmindful as to

why.

The young man was weary of this one’s armored horse, its

armor scaled in a golden color. It was a vague clue at best, but

by no means a definition. “Salam,” the young man offered. “My

name is, Daprael.”



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The elderly man turned to engage his unexpected visitors.

His thick, dark beard was a common trait amongst the adult males

of this world. It was sprinkled with grey. Thick brows accented

dark, intelligent eyes. The young man would not have considered

this man to exhibit an exotic disposition. But he did, and he

was.

“Khosh Amadid,” the man said. Welcome to this place.

So far, so good, the young man thought.

The Caspian lowered his head and began to drink from the

salty inland sea.

The young man decided to engage this stranger. “If it were

not for the weight of your horse,” he said, “I would have no

choice but to consider you to be an average man.”

The elderly man smiled. “My horse is my keeper when I

travel far from my home.” He patted the four-legged soldier on

its neck. “He’s a descendant of the Al Khamsa. Bedouin blood

runs thick within him. He is my trusted friend.” Then he patted

himself on the chest. “I am an average man,” he assured. “It is

only my endeavors that are meant to be extraordinary.”

The elderly man noticed the child. Then he glanced about

the young man’s ride for supplies. There were none. “Why do you

hold that child?” He tilted his head and waved his raised hand

left to right. “Why do you seem so ill-prepared for such a

dangerous route?”



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Daprael considered his words carefully. “I can assure you

that my efforts are noble, sir. I intend only to deliver this

child to a permanent shelter, one that will encourage his novice

potential.” He let his eyes fall upon the child in his arms. “He

deserves that much,” he declared. “I should think that a true

God would agree.”

The elderly man was skeptical. “Ah, so what became of his

mother?” he asked. “Did she not provide this shelter that you

seek?” He shot the young man beside him a stern look. “Are you a

thief, boy?”

Daprael shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “The child’s

mother offered him to a death by sacrifice. It was by the hands

of a high priest that Kronos was to pass him through the fire.”

The elderly man nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps, she was

given no choice,” he suggested. “A mother’s love is not easily

bartered with. Perhaps, the boy’s mother misses him as this very

minute passes to the next.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “She may, and your logic is well-

intended, but this is the lesser of two evils because the boy is

still alive.” Daprael was now uneasy. “This boy’s mother’s was

to miss him either way.”

The elderly man said nothing. He turned toward the sea and

thought about that.



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Daprael dismounted the Caspian to offer the parched child

an old world drink. He wet his own dry lips. The tidewater

soaked his feet. He was not at all prepared to feed this child

and that was unfortunate. Daprael knew it, too. All he had on

him to serve the child anything of sustenance, was his own two

hands. He attempted to hold the cool saltwater in his hands. He

managed to collect a small amount and held it to the child’s dry

lips. The child winced at the adverse flavor of the salt water.

Daprael was regretful. What choice do I have?

The elderly man reengaged Daprael. He watched him

carefully, having reached a conclusion to his initial

misgivings. “Let me offer you both something more appropriate,”

he said.

He let his hand fall to the hidden side of his horse and

wrapped his fingers around what appeared to be the handle of a

sword. He raised it up and let the blade fall downward so that

the top position of the handle would define the absence of

hostility. Then he let the sword fall to his side.

At that, Daprael stood slowly with the child kept close. He

turned at the sound of metal on metal and hard galloping

somewhere behind him. What he saw placed a fear in him like he

had never known. Although he was gifted with a rare bravery, he

felt beyond helpless in this instance. What’s more appropr iate?





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The elderly man smiled again. This young man impressed him.

“Perhaps, when the child is safe, you can help me serve the

purpose of my kingdom and ride with my men,” he offered. “Until

then, you may go on your way but, not before you and the child

eat something, and I will offer you all some fresh water to

drink.”

He motioned to the rolling tide below him. “This water of

the sea is too bitter with the salts of our earth.”

The elderly man raised his double-edged sword before

swinging it in a downward arc and back into his saddle-mounted

sheath. It was an impressive move. “It has been my pleasure to

have made your acquaintance, young man,” he said with sincerity.

“I am Darayavus the first, King of kings.”

Three of the King’s men approached their Shah. They were

large men, dressed in full, bronze-scaled military armor.

King Darayavus kept his attention focused on the horizon

“See that this young man and the child are fed. Give his horse

something fresh to drink. Then leave them to go on their way.

See to it that they carry food and water with them before they

go.”

King Darayavus raised his hand toward the third man.

The King’s man obediently approached his commander. King

Darayavus spoke quietly. “Brand the boy’s horse on the



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hindquarter. Let it represent the Achaemenid Empire from this

day forth. As such, it will be respected and left in his hands.”

The king’s man nodded.

Daprael was bewildered. Never judge a man by his clothes,

he thought. He studied the golden armor that decorated the

King’s prized Arabian. Let his horse define him instead. He

carefully mounted the Caspian. “Thank you, sir,” was all he

could say.

King Darayavus turned to face the brave young man; that he

did after revealing himself should have been considered the

highest honor. “You’re welcome, Daprael,” said the King. “Good

luck to you.” Then he turned away for the last time.

Daprael followed one of the King’s men inland. He continued

to hold the child close.

King Darayavus addressed his two highest ranking men

without looking at them. His tone was imposing. “Take ten of

your best men,” he ordered, “and settle this young man’s plight.

Find the Carthaginians that hunt this boy. We will not kill them

but, serve to them our own brand of justice instead. Leave them

as they have left so many young souls who were unable to fight

for themselves — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. So it

shall be done, take their eyes from them. Let their unholy

visions feed the hungry birds of the desert.”



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The general nodded. He understood his commander’s order

perfectly. He bowed his head slightly. “It will be done.”

King Darayavus was not finished. “Let their horses run

free,” he ordered, “Then leave them to wander in the dark.”

The King’s general and his number one turned at once and

went on their way. Soon enough, as they were ordered to do, ten

of the King’s best men would deliver the harshest of lessons to

the unsuspecting Carthaginian guards that were dispatched to

track the boy. This lesson, one of permanence, fear, and then

eventual death, was written by the words of King Darayavus. As

such, it was done.

Eighteen hours would pass before Daprael and the child

breached the golden gate of Yerushalayim. He was now within the

walls of the old city. The second sun had not yet risen. Daprael

was exhausted. He was sore. He needed to sleep, but not yet.

He looked up. The dark sky is different here, he thought,

because it is not so dark. The godly stars played about the

circumference of a flat earth in bright fashion. Beneath them,

Daprael saw the holy temple of Yerushalayim rise up in the near

distance. It defined a holy skyline. A bright moon sat high in

the heaven’s west.

A new sun was not far below the flat earth. Before long,

locals would bustle about on sandy white footpaths to



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participate in their city’s active commerce. For now, they

continued to sleep.

Daprael moved slowly through the moonlit footpaths on his

royal steed. The child slept soundly in the security of his

strongest arm. The holy temple was close now. The fuel that

burned within this young man was unable to consume a rising

grief. His time with the boy would soon come to an end. So far

we have travelled, child. An emotional front moved in quickly. A

wound and a tear are one in the same.

Daprael approached the holy temple from the south. Four

gates were visible to him on this southern side. He directed his

royal steed to the left so that he could follow the western

wall.

The western wall was unadorned with the exception of two

gates. He considered these gates but, decided that they must not

be held in high enough regard. So he passed them by.

As he rounded the northwestern side, Daprael would pass two

gates before stopping in front of the third. This gate feels

right, he thought. He dismounted from his royal Caspian and

carried the sleeping child to the foot of this third gate. He

gently lay the child down. He was mindful to place the sleeping

child to the eastern side of the gate so that he may be hidden

from the heat of a new rising sun. You are safe now. “When you

wake,” he said softly, “a new love will have already found you.



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It will be within those hands that your new life begins.”

Daprael brushed the child’s silk cheek. “Goodbye,” he whispered.

Daprael quickly mounted his royal Caspian and headed toward

the highest point that he could see; that of Mount Zion. It

would be a short ride there. Then he would lay himself down

under the protection of a small tree. It would be under that

small tree that he slept. When he woke from his sleep, he would

be a man of nowhere.

The foot of Mount Zion was plush with growth. A cool breeze

fondled him from the east. Perhaps, it is the labored breath of

the sun, he thought, as it must climb a great distance to be

seen.

Daprael dismounted from his royal courier and fastened the

reins to a tree that would provide a great deal of shade under

the new sun. “You have carried me a great distance,” he said.

“Now you must rest, too.”

A small rabbit hopped out from a nearby bush. “Salam,” it

said.

Daprael jumped back. “Hello to you, little one,” he

responded. “How is it that you can speak?”

“It isn’t that I can speak,” said the rabbit. “Rather, it

is that you can understand me.” Then the rabbit took two short

hops toward Daprael. “You must follow me,” it warned, “before it

is too late.”



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Daprael waved his hand at the small creature. “I cannot

follow you, rabbit,” he said. “I must sleep through the light of

a new sun. I am weak by my strength and vision.” That the small

rabbit had forewarned him was inconsequential.

“I know,” said the rabbit. “Follow me anyway,” it urged

him. “It is just a short walk from here that I must take you.”

“If I agree, will you then leave me to sleep?”

“Yes,” the rabbit agreed. “It is a deal.”

Daprael followed the small rabbit a short distance, farther

in to the Valley of Ben Hinnom. He found himself standing in the

center of an opening amid the valley growth of both lofty trees

and bushes to the waist. The moonlight shimmered upon all that

surrounded him. It sedated him even further. Daprael was not

himself in his altered state of fatigue.

Suddenly the rabbit halted, turned, and just sat quietly.

Daprael was becoming irritated by this game. He just wanted

to sleep. “Rabbit, what is this about?” he asked.

The rabbit said nothing further.

Then from somewhere close by. A woman’s voice encircled

Daprael. It was a calm, sweet voice that surely found itself

spoken from the lips of an adult beauty. He could not tell from

where it was sprung. It just was and he was enraptured by it. It

was a snake that had found him and coiled itself around his

diluted attention.



Ball/Energy/599

Daprael looked around, beneath, between and behind him.

“Show yourself!” he demanded. “Allow me to justify my

assumptions!”

“Not yet,” said the voice. “For now, I will speak and you

will listen.”

Through the few moments that followed, the Valley of Ben

Hinnom became muted. It was an unnatural quiet.

The sweet voice carried forth once again, “The practice of

sacrificial offerings is one that reaches far and wide,” she

said. “You managed to save one child from the Carthaginians, but

how many children do you think found death by sacrifice before

him, and how many more will there be?”

Daprael was alert now. He took two steps back. Then he

looked at the small creature who had led him to this place. “Who

are you, rabbit?”

The beautiful voice continued to swim about the young man.

“You have done something extraordinary, Daprael. To save

innocence is a worthy act. Yes, it will almost certainly grant

you an invitation to paradise.” The voice forged a direction. It

now came from directly behind him.

Daprael turned to confront it.

As expected, a young woman emerged from the thick growth.

She was nude. Her hair was dark black and it was straight as a

spear. It sculpted itself over her shoulders, all the way to her



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hip. The moonlit highlights only enhanced her flawless frame.

She was seductive in her advance. But something was not right

about her image. Her face was indistinct. She stopped directly

in front of Daprael.

“I want you to lie with me tonight,” she hissed. “If

paradise is what you seek, then I can take you there.” Her scent

was intoxicating. Daprael’s groin was beginning to swell.

The woman calmly reached out and with her left hand and

began to rub his manly emergence.

Daprael was stunned by this woman’s advance. There was no

good reason to deny this pleasure. So he would not. He was

falling prey to her yearnings, or his own.

The woman sank to her knees and removed his loincloth band.

She occupied herself with his robust virility. It was something

new to him. Daprael brushed her dark hair back with his hands

and held it behind her. She was steady on him. He looked up. A

soft moan escaped him. The stars mapped out above him were the

decorative torches to this grand occasion. He would, from this

moment forth, forge his continued efforts as a new world man.

The woman stopped and stood. “Between us, there must be a

pact,” she said. She kept her hand busy on his swollen manhood

and licked her lips seductively. “If you comply, I will not deny

you that which you might decide to take by force anyway. Does a



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man not long to exert himself between the legs of a woman? Would

you rather bequeath pleasure or furnish my grief?”

She lay herself down in front of him and seductively spread

her legs — her arms swung above her head. “Lie with me, now.”

Daprael had almost forgotten about the one proviso. He took

a deep breath. “What must I agree to?” he asked impatiently.

“How does this man bequeath pleasure on this night?”

“Promise me that you will finish what you start,” she said,

“no matter what you hear?”

Unable to comprehend the significance of those words, he

fell to her advances. “Yes,” he said. “I promise.” He kept his

eyes locked on this mysterious woman as best he could. The dying

moon offered just enough light to accent his muscular frame.

He knelt between her open legs and entered her slowly,

lowering himself on top of her. Her skin was warmer than his.

She was some heaven on earth.

Daprael managed to find a hidden gear within his engine of

desire. He found a balanced rhythm and stayed with it — pounding

away at this beautiful stranger. He buried his face into her

shoulder. Her scent continued to influence his efforts.

The mysterious woman moved with him effortlessly. “You have

failed,” she said, quite unexpectedly.

Daprael stopped, held himself above her on his powerful

arms, and tried to focus on her faint eyes. “What?” he asked.



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She wrapped her long legs around his midsection and

repeated herself. “You have failed.” Then she began to squeeze

on him, pulling him closer. She was strong. He was now deep

inside of her. “The child that you laid by the temple gate will

surely find the hands of love as you promised he would. It will

be within the hands of Molech that that child finds his love.

But it will be evanescent. He will be passed through a different

fire as a nomad offering. That child will be offered so that

another might be saved in his place. Then his bones will be

buried here in the Valley of Ben Hinnom.”

She began to morph into something else.

Daprael tried to pull away from her. “Oh, no,” he

whispered.

This mysterious woman’s limbs were extended far beyond

their natural ability. There would be no getting away from her.

She continued to thrust into him. “Finish what you started,

boy,” she moaned. “Honor your promise!”

She threw her head back lustfully, “I am Ashmedai!”

Daprael felt it emerging quickly. It tickled him from the

inside and spread itself over his entire body. There would be no

stopping it now. As he felt the warm rush of his rising climax,

he raised his head and cried out, “Forgive me!” Then he thrust

himself hard into the demon as his climax peaked.

His descent was immediate. He was now forever damned.



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From all directions, a rolling wave of fire descended on

the grotesque copulation.

Daprael fell on top of the demon king, exhausted and

beaten. Far below the eastern bed, a new sun colored the

horizon. It refracted, turning the sky to crimson red.

The demon held fast to a helpless Daprael. “You are mine

now, boy” it whispered into his ear. That sweet voice was gone.

It had become cruel and much deeper. “You will now serve my

master as a collector of young souls.”

The rabbit sat still as a wave of fire approached. Then it

was no longer a rabbit. “There is only one righteous god,” said

the Devil, “and he has forsaken you.”

The wave consumed all that it washed over. In an instant,

Daprael was gone beneath its vehement action. It churned and

chewed at him.

History just witnessed the birth of a demon.

#

Energija jumped from her seat. She was unsteady, as if she were

suffering from flash vertigo. She lowered her head into her open

hand and placed the other on the backrest of the seat directly

in front of her. She felt nauseous all of a sudden.

The Devil was fixed on Energija, waiting for the grade to

present itself by his ancient illustration.



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Caela stayed fixed on the Devil. She was confident in

dominion by the virtue of her protagonist’s creed.

Dragan was uneasy. He stayed fixed on Caela.

This was a standoff of sorts.

The passengers were quiet amid the ongoing chaos. Some paid

attention to the trifecta. Most did not. They were apprehensive

and just wanted to feel the ground beneath their feet.

The young boy that sat in front of Energija turned around.

He looked up at her innocently, seemingly unaffected by the

terror abound. “Mith,” he whispered, “are you okay?” She was

unable to hear him over the violent air about the cabin.

Energija raised her head from her hand. She did not look

well. She cast a quick look at the boy. She hadn’t heard him,

nor did she care to communicate.

She turned slightly and slid out into the aisle. She

ignored Caela as she did so. The lower altitude had reduced the

vacuum to the point that Energija was no longer in danger of

being sucked out into the open air.

Caela allowed Energija to pass her by, confident in her

all-pervading influence.

Candice and Julie exchanged looks of concern. We should get

these people back into their seats!

The Charlie image immediately looked back at them. “Don’t

either one of you move,” he warned.



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The two young stewardesses exchanged very different looks

this time. Conflicted, they obeyed their first officer’s order.

Energija passed Caela and walked to the front of the cabin,

stopping directly in front of the Devil. Her dark hair flew in

wild strands about her. She made eye contact briefly and then

turned around to face the other passengers. “Judgment is a

scar!” she cried out. “It’s shared by those that live in the

freedom of democracy or the oppression of tyranny! There is no

right or wrong, only greed through status, education, money, or

fame and religion.” She paused. “Why bother? Isn’t it easier to

just fall?”

The Devil smiled.

She continued, “Why do we work so hard to keep our heads

high? Why must we suffer as my friends did, as I have continued

to suffer?” She gently put her hand on her midsection. It was an

implication to what might lie ahead for her baby, immaculate as

it may be.

Caela was unwavering. “Because it is by the efforts of the

righteous disciple, that our imperfections become the elements

to success.” She put her hands out, palms up. “Affliction and

grief, they are my two hands,” she said. “One must follow me

through the door of hardship. Believe me when I tell you, it’s a

journey that is travelled but once. Then she put her two hands

together and raised them to her chin in prayer. “Only then,



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behind that closed door, can mankind find intimacy on the wings

of human passion.” Locking her fingers, she lowered her hands to

her waist and took one step forward “Energija,” she said,

“nothing comes easy.”

Energija felt the power of faith run through her. Her eyes

began to well-up. “I’m confused,” she said, falling to her

knees. A conflict was raging within her.

Caela maintained a neutral expression. “You will understand

in short order,” she whispered. A tear presented itself on the

cheek of the Caela image.

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Energy - Chapter 37