Naberius the Devil

the love that may be ( i. )

king

Beleth, the terrible King Beleth, is satisfied.

Here before him kneels—yes, kneels—haughty Naberius, head bowed and neck exposed as if for the ax-man's blade. The Marquis' eyes remain properly downcast, and he observes the ancient rite of the silver ring: his raised hand presses the metal firmly to his brow, suggesting both the posture of a man brought low by toiling in dust, and the prayerful attitude of a penitent.

His obeisance is plainly false, but the visiting noble has demonstrated, at least, flawless decorum. Beleth is pleased, and inclined to grant an audience. Lounging in his seat, he raises his wasted hand. The skin stretching across knuckles and finger bones glows like that of an old man, papery and translucent when the light catches it just so. Ancient and formidable, graying but mighty. What matter, that his hair falls pale and dull about his shoulders, and that his antediluvian brow has grown heavy and bristled?

“Music,” he commands, and is answered. The air stirs richly with the sounds of harpsichords, mandolins. Marvelous. About the broad dais, the forms of musicians stand or sit reclined: both vassal devils and those Children of Man within his thrall that the King deems skilled enough, sensitive enough to ply string or horn or drum with a grace like Yaweh's beloved David. They are lithe, lovely.

Here, there is beauty and wisdom—and power in great measure.

Several legions stand at attention within the vast crumbling spaces of his hall, which seems to—and may indeed—stretch for miles. And Naberius, with all his vitality and impertinence, has come to Beleth. A Marquis courting the favor of a King, because the Morning Star had seen in Beleth's ferocity and wisdom the mark of a ruler. Nor is Naberius the only supplicant within these walls: nay, many of the infernal peerage are lately gathered, and Orias, Naberius' equal in rank, stands with visible impatience flanking the great throne. Beleth has granted him permission to stay, to shortly continue the conversation Naberius interrupted with his arrival.

“Rise, Naberius, and be welcome.”

The Marquis complies gracefully: lowering his hand, sheathed in his wings and ornamented only by the burnished ring weighing his pale finger. Lifting his knee from the granite flagstones provokes motes of dust to dance and whirl in the shafts of illumination that fall through each window like sunlight. They open all along the great hall, broad and airy, with an expansive view of the underworld's sky; but this glow washes through them ruddy and fitful—the flames of bonfires, Naberius thinks, lighting this place in a false summer dusk. Hot, oppressively heavy, but thick with the promise of the night ahead.

The sepia tone that this light grants the hall, with its impossible ceilings and diffuse crowd of aristocrats murmuring amongst themselves, hides its lack of repair. Delicate hairline fissures cracking the walls. A film of dust wherever you touch, so that the Princes and the Dukes tread through it and come away with dirty soles, parts of them becoming gray as the King himself.

Beleth peers at Naberius, who wears a flitting smile. It is only now that the Marquis raises his eyes, and the ones that breathe from the impossibly black shadows of his wings gaze into those watching from Beleth's own.

“Hail, O King. Hail, Beleth,” Naberius murmurs, taking a step forward, drawing the circle of their conversation intimately closer. The King does not detect mockery as the lesser noble addresses him: only the bare farce of another devil's tongue, which envies even as it honors, because any of them would wrest his title and his power from Beleth if they could. This is commonly understood.

Naberius' attention flickers briefly to Orias, who smiles back. Sharp. Disdainful.

Contempt for the Marquis exiled by choice from his own country. Who entrusts its affairs to a mere Daughter of Man. Who arrives at the sprawling palace of the King alone, lacking any retinue, with all the prestige of a stray dog. A stray with head held high, skin luminous and beautiful, those narcotic eyes glowing with assurance: as if he has a right to be here, displacing Orias behind the throne, making him wait for whatever trivial nonsense——

“Orias,” Naberius greets him, and Beleth watches the tension slither through the other's frame and lodge in his jaw.

“Naberius,” he answers with thin, livid composure. His lips are drawn taut. “Lord Beleth and I were in the midst of—”

“—important conversation, I'm sure,” Naberius finishes effortlessly, and the smile on his mouth grows sharp-edged and mocking now, in the way it had not for Beleth. Orias snaps his jaw open sharply, but Naberius continues before a retort can form on the other's tongue: “This will take but a moment, Lord Beleth. I've come to propose an exchange. If the terms meet your satisfaction.”

Beleth has only a passing interest in their forming squabble, which does not concern him beyond his role as its focal point. He understands that pride seeks out contention. If not Beleth, then these two would lock wills over any convenient prize.

An exchange is another matter, and Naberius' words snare Beleth's attention immediately. The King tightens his hand on the arm of his throne, leaning forward several degrees with appropriately reserved interest. The absent rustle of his wings spills frankincense perfume. Several of the courtiers scattered about the hall have likewise turned their attention toward the lavish dais—draped in heavy velvet, carved with graceful culs-de-lampe that support figures of devils both fanciful and noble—in order to observe.

Beleth exudes patience. “What do you propose?”

the night ahead

mighty and terrible

Beleth

“The Thirteenth Spirit is called Beleth (or Bileth, or Bilet). He is a mighty King and terrible. He rideth on a pale horse with trumpets and other kinds of musical instruments playing before him.

He is very furious at his first appearance, that is, while the Exorcist layeth his courage; for to do this he must hold a Hazel Wand in his hand, striking it out towards the South and East Quarters, make a triangle, without the Circle, and then command him into it by the Bonds and Charges of Spirits as hereafter followeth.

And if he doth not enter into the triangle, at your threats, rehearse the Bonds and Charms before him, and then he will yield Obedience and come into it, and do what he is commanded by the Exorcist. Yet he must receive him courteously because he is a Great King, and do homage unto him, as the Kings and Princes do that attend upon him.

And thou must have always a Silver Ring on the middle finger of the left hand held against thy face, as they do yet before AMAYMON. This Great King Beleth causeth all the love that may be, both of Men and of Women, until the Master Exorcist hath had his desire fulfilled. He is of the Order of Powers, and he governeth 85 Legions of Spirits. His Noble Seal is this, which is to be worn before thee at working.”

—S. L. MacGregor Mathers, Trans., Goetia: the Lesser Key of Solomon the King (1904)

demiurge

“And when she saw the consequences of her desire, it changed into a form of a lion-faced serpent. And its eyes were like lightning fires which flash. She cast it away from her, outside that place, that no one of the immortal ones might see it, for she had created it in ignorance. And she surrounded it with a luminous cloud, and she placed a throne in the middle of the cloud that no one might see it except the holy Spirit who is called the mother of the living. And she called his name Yaltabaoth.

This is the first archon who took a great power from his mother.... And he is impious in his arrogance which is in him. For he said: 'I am God and there is no other God beside me,' for he is ignorant of his strength, the place from which he had come.”

—The Apocryphon of John (NHL-110/IV,1 10:7-20)

IESVS·NAZARENVS·REX·IVDÆORVM

I remember the morning heat, and the way it built alongside the clamor from those who came for the executions.  They were public affairs in those days; not like now, when death is a matter of privacy laws and human dignity.  No—the Romans would have laughed at these modern absurdities, and the Sanhedrin would have let them laugh, complicit in the spectacle.  And it was a spectacle: busy, loud, tumultuous things that spanned great lengths of the city, Pharisees and Gentiles and Sadducees all crowding to witness.

I wore a cloak, and wound a scarf about my head against the heat and the sun in the manner of the local men.  I clung to what little shade I could find while moving through the crush of bodies.  Their earthy stink, their excitement, the ringing noise of their layered voices.  I'll confess to irritation—but now, I'm unsure if it was at their naked schadenfreude, the Christ's farce as he struggled toward Golgotha, or—

—or maybe its was the opposite.  Because, God or not, he was suffering.  It was written into the rivulets of blood that dripped from his bent brow and into the dust, even after Pilate ordered the ugly crown removed.  Gibson made it into a spectacle himself—but he had the general idea.  It wasn't simply the physical pain, and the way the man's thin sun-burnt body bent under the weight of the beams that would later support his dying bones.  It was the resignation.  His despair.

I realized that there was a separation between Father and Son.  It's become a matter of doctrine and ceaseless debate; but you can't understand it in human terms.  You are made of dust.  We are made of God.  You were crafted in Father's image.  We are Father's image.  We are His fragments.  We are His cuttings, in the way you can propegate the growth of a plant, like a rose, by severing its connection to the parent and placing that cutting in fertile soil.  The new plant and the old grow separately, distinct from each other.

Yet the parent and the child are the same.  The same substance.  But no longer the same will.

I wonder if I could have stopped it.  If I had known what Father meant to do, or the sort of instrument the Christ would become, I would have.  Thrown off the cloak and the concealment of my skin, and ground the pulp of his blood and bones into the dirt of Jerusalem.  And had the Morning Star known, he might have cast the Christ from the top of the mountain, rather than tempting him.  No rising from the dead, no messages to his Apostles, no martyrdom to the Romans.  Christianity might never have existed: just stories of a Nazarene madman.

Phantom trajectories of time.  Useless now.

But I felt pity.  And we didn't know.  The Christ himself had by now gained a vague understanding of his purpose, and who he was, but little more.  The Hill of Skulls waited just beyond the five-hundred-year-old city walls, and he approached it with bleeding feet.  What lay in wait for him afterward was a blank, unknown expanse.  But he had been ordered.  And in retrospect, I wonder: Who the sheep? Who the shepherd?

He was thronged by screaming faces.  His breath came in rattling gasps, half-dead already.

My own attention lay elsewhere—because this was a matter of waiting, swallowing my eagerness and my restlessness and my desperation.  The Morning Star had learned that, for a brief time, at the moment of the Christ's death, the Golden Chain, the Ladder, would be accessible—a clear open path to rush upward and reclaim our lost kingdom.  We rallied and lay quiet across Jerusalem.  I and Haborym, Ronove and Bifrons, countless more, an entire swarm of us.  What would become the Holy Land was festering with devils.

"You will know the sign," Lucifer had assured me, "when you see it."

And I had been selected to shatter the Gates.  Wrest them open with my own hands.

I expected resistance, but I hadn't been prepared for Uriel.  Uriel, with Father's backing, waiting for me.  Useless.  Useless.  It had been useless.

I had been useless.

I wake up swallowed in darkness, and for a moment it feels like the center of an eclipse.  Sun blotted out.  Absolute black.  I grope for the little body tangled in the sheets beside me, but Nary—

It takes me a moment to remember that Nary had not said a word when we'd arrived home.  She'll be sheltering in Corbin's room tonight, because Master is a monster.

sign

pilgrimage

gabriel

Only few pilgrims have followed the star.  They are Catholic, Anglican, Orthodox, unknown to each other and lost within the rambling grid of New Amsterdam.  Some sought family, while others sheltered within the walls of a church, and the rest joined the destitute without food or warmth, but with a clear view of the object they followed.  It shone in the night sky, a single point that remained distinct even as electric lights drowned the remaining stars with dim, false daylight.

As I knew they must, they followed when the star moved northward.  Those with cars used them, and those without began on foot, on U.S. Route 209.  By chance, happenstance, or design, they began to draw together.  I cannot know if this is what Father intended of me from the beginning; but by the time three weeks had passed, they arrived together in a small, mismatched contingent.  Time enough had passed for them to know each other; they disagreed on points of theology, in nuances of ritual and observation, but their intent was the same.

They followed, as Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar had before them.

The little town of Rochester lies sheltered by the foothills of the Catskills as they roll through Ulster County, and the aging house sits on its fringe, surrounded by copses of white pine and spruce.  They found me there, and they were initially startled that a strange man should be waiting for them.  But I held up my palm in peace, and I spoke with the authority given me, so that several dropped to their knees before I could take one by the hand, and bid the rest calm themselves and rise:

“Do not fear, for I am Gabriel, who stands before God.”

Ah, but Father.  They're children.  Devout, yes, that they made this journey—some from across the seas, continents distant from this one, as far as the Christ herself.  They owe their unwavering fealty to Thee, and yet the thoughts of some border on heretic.  Still, I will do with them as need dictates.  The Catholics in particular seem adept exorcists, and perhaps with their assistance and  Thy favor, I'll drive Naberius back into the Abyss, and my work will be done far before he can return.

If they should die, I beseech Thee: allow them to join the saints by Thy side, as martyrs, that they might praise Thy glory even as we do.

Already, the enemy advances.  I catch his spies glimpsing in through windows, the rebellious ravens that refused to obey the word of Noah, who were compelled by Thee to feed Elijah in the wilderness.  Intelligent birds.  Clever as they perch on the windowsills of the old manse, and glare on the pilgrims as they go about their daily prayers and preparations.  I've explained to them what they must do.  Within these dusty walls, they prepare for war.

And yet—so much remains uncertain.  I cannot reveal that I wonder at the state of the world.  There is but silence from Thee.  I expected my Lord, the first Christ, and not a new emanation of Thee.  This child was born without my knowing, so that the star arrived long after its time, in a country I did not foresee, and she lived—no, best not to imagine what has been done with her, even when my wrath would be just.  Perhaps she has endured agony and crucifixion already, that she should never suffer again.

charting the sky

kingdoms of the world

temptation

“Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; and saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve. Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him.”

—Matthew 4:8-11 (KJV)

tongues

Thank you.

You start small, with simple games of point-and-name: Bed, Dress, and even Cat as she watches a tortoise-shell stray slink under a parked car and disappear during a sunny weekday morning walk.  Simple but steady stimulus, with periodic repetitions.  You soon evolve to verbs in single syllables, the everyday things.  Eat.  Sleep.  And you incidentally find yourself following Maslow's pyramid; though I plan to leave its base far, far below before too long.  An empress should not labor at the base of a pyramid, but be elevated to its peak.

Still.  She understands, or is beginning to understand, yet repeats only when nudged.  She reduces language to Please Master, with the looks and gestures we've been using from the start, when she stared up at me with those big and deep-dark eyes and I abruptly knew that she would be mine.  Even had things been clear to me then, I'd still have done it.  Another simple word: Kiss.

She is a quiet, vocally reserved.  As a rule, she does not cry, and I don't intend to make her.  She speaks with those eyes, her baby fingers tugging at my sleeve or grasping at my jaw or my cheekbones, and with chirruping sounds like a contented animal might make.  Let's not knock them aside.  Let them be the foundation of Nary's language, and let us simply add: like gabled towers to the palace, buttressed with English and eventually French or German, Greek and Latin and Hebrew.  Let her study the Scriptures in their native tongues.  Maybe we'll have a good laugh about it, when she's a grown woman, slight but gorgeously dark and exotic, and I still sit her on my knee.

If we make it that far.  If the towers don't all come crashing down.

Difficult, the prospect of relinquishing some of my grasp over her.  I'd be a liar, yes, if I didn't admit that power weren't involved.  And I'm supposed to lie, aren't I?  But the utter dependency of a child is intoxicating.  Even if I were a man, I'd be God in her eyes, the way a parent is God to any child.  And so she overflows with it, with faith in me like nectar, and I feel debauched, overflowing from the pores.  To loosen my grasp, relinquish it—ah, but don't crush the little nightingale, Marquis.  Don't be a fool.  Keep her tethered, keep her close, but don't ruin her because you're afraid.

You want her to thrive.  You want her to grow.  You want to give her all the things your father didn't, don't you.

So I let her fumble with the fork at dinner time, and brush her own teeth, and watch as she explores the flat with that fresh wonderment I envy—the mundane rendered extraordinary.  Puzzles to be solved, riddles to be undone.  Standing in front of the mirror and adjusting my tie in the morning, I let her pull on her clothes and slip into her own shoes.  But there are inevitably buttons she can't fasten, laces she can't tie, and I kneel down to help her.  She does not always articulate it, but occasionally her gratitude will escape in a clumsy-tongued, genteel murmur.

And whether or not I use words, my answer's the same:

You're welcome.

star of damocles

Feels strange to be drinking the wine—a vintage I can't name, but which tastes familiar, prying at my memory's faded edges.  Like the Pinot noir she replaced, it has a rich but subtle flavor on my tongue.  I shouldn't be surprised.  Of course, I've already decided.  There was never a need for deliberation.  But I need a few hours of isolation to take everything in: the enormity of the thing, somehow compressed into Nary's undersized frame.

Harming her, stopping her before she can affect the course of events is out of the question.  I could.  I could rend her flesh and bones, gnash her between my teeth.  It would be over before she could scream—and that would be the end of the Christ.  Not with a bang, but with a whimper.  Father's Host and the exiles and I would all be at a stalemate, and perhaps it would last forever, neither here nor there, quick nor dead, treading this mortal limbo until—

Until what?

It a few hours before dawn and the sky has grown a pale azure.  L'heure bleue, right before daybreak, right after sunset.  The star has faded to the ghost of a glimmer.  Even when I can't see it, can delude myself in brief moments that it isn't hanging above my head, it'll continue staring down.  Well then—let's have a contest, shall we?  Like the Children of Man do.  Let's see who blinks first.

I haven't bothered with a jacket.  The air is warm for November, but out on the balcony, with the tile chilled against the soles of my feet and the high breeze lancing through my shirt, the cold wakes me completely.  Sleep proved elusive last night—and she, curled in the blankets by my hip as I sat up on the pillows, may never understand why.  I've left her to dream safe and warm.  But I imagine Corbin is awake—waiting for the next order.

They'll be coming.  It's a beacon, this new Star of Bethlehem, for wise men and kings, angels and devils.  Kill her, and Father's plans are irreparably halted.  Save her, and the promise of the Thousand-Year Kingdom gleams brightly in the future—for the saints, for the chosen few.  Not for us.  But is it all that simple?  It sounds like Father's rhetoric to me.  Dogma in stark black and white.

Leaning on the balcony's rail, I watch the incessant flow of traffic on the street below, and the gradual brightening of the gleaming steel skyline.  The glass is cool in my hand.  I raise the wine-dampened rim to my lips and drain the rest.

For now, she is only a child with wide and adoring eyes.  Could that love ever wither—one day mirror Father's condemnation?  I struggle to envision it; but the possibility is something I won't deny.  I can only continue onward, regardless of what choice she makes.  For now, she trusts me entirely, placing herself into my hands without fear or reservation or guile, utterly, the way only a child can.

How else can I answer her, except by keeping faith?

tableau

Instruction can take several forms, but I've found modeling and repetition the most effective. Young children in particular learn by imitation—and so charming, the way Nary will fumble to upturn her jacket's collar, and the way it tends to frame the softness of her cheek and fragile jawbone. She follows the direction of my eyes, the gestures of my hand, and I may have caught her, once or twice, attempting to ape my expression. She's a natural mimic.

This, of course, will be far beyond her ability. But I want to acclimate her to these strange objects, these obtuse rituals. And so we're dressed for Sunday dinner—or at least Corbin and I are, both of us freshly shaven and dressed in pressed suits, and I'm sure that the half-Windsor knot like a noose around my throat is impeccable. Nothing out of place. The poised trappings of a child aristocrat can come later; I leave Nary, for now, in a simple dress colored like buttercream. A sugared confection. It complements her skin, which glows from her recent bath.

Corbin has set the table. Start small, with a simple family place setting. I don't even know if she's seen a fork, and stemware must be utterly foreign. There's a bottle of Burgundy Pinot noir, and we've been draining it a slow glass at a time. I've placed the tiniest amount in Nary's glass, but I don't expect her to like it. I sit beside her, with Corbin across from both of us, thoughtfully watching as I show her with exaggerated care just how to hold the knife and fork; the tenderness of the salmon filet causes it to melt at the barest pressure.

We've left Thelonius Monk playing in the background, low, soft. Nothing obtrusive. But let's affect her palette early—for clothing, food, music, for words and poise, for sights and smells. The lamplight falls soft and gold on the tabletop, the white linen cloth and the gleaming hardwood.

I take a taste; and it's good, damn good. I might prefer a Chateaubriand, but anything that bleeds trumps vegetable life; and salmon should be perfect for Nary. A new taste, but easy on the tongue, something that dissolves and nourishes her poor underfed bones. We'll make you strong, darling.

I cut another sliver, and cupping my palm beneath her chin, offer her the morsel on the fork's tines.

Corbin has been silent. It's only when he speaks that I realize he's been waiting for the right time and, not finding it, must break into the tableau with a calm, quiet dose of reality:

“Is there really time for this, Master?”

There's an ache somewhere in his voice. That's why I'm not angry. He wants there to be time enough, just like I do. The star is back again tonight, not some passing nocturnal fluke, and drawn curtains keep neither of us from feeling its weight. But I tell him:

“Of course there is. It's not the end of the world yet.”

I sense his nod more than see it, because my attention remains on the child.

And finally he asks: “More wine?”

still life with salmon, manet

meat

“Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.”

—Genesis 9:3 (KJV)