EHYEH-ASHER-EHYEH (I AM THAT I AM): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Fri, 20 Sep 2002 10:06:32 -0400
Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (I am that I am) 2/34
Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx
Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com
Jerusalem
33 C.E
The flagrum-the short triple-tailed whip the roman soldiers used-cut the air
with a dry sound. The strike was so brutal than the prisoner bent over
completely over his knees. Tied up by his hands, Yehoshua bar-Joshua let out
a stifled cry as his back was tinted in red.
"Unus!-One!" yelled Cartiphilus as the crack sounded, a sardonic smile on
his face.
Yehoshua was completely naked. Cartiphilus was a consummate master of
torture. With just a little twist of his hand, the instrument of pain
performed a gracious turn in the air. The second strike of the whip slashed
through Yehoshua's testicles. Blood beaded on the surface of his back and
legs rapidly. As the flagrum stung flesh, the fragments of steel carefully
woven in along the length of the cords peeled back skin. A horrid scream was
heard all over the Pretorian hall. "Duo!-Two!" announced Cartiphilus again.
Cartiphilus maintained a pace that would easily have killed any man, which
would have driven many others to madness, deathlike fatigue and beyond. But
the man in front of him harbored a level of devotion and determination that
others could never comprehend or accomplish. After fourteen blows, Yehoshua
body was and looked a ruin. His back, shoulders and legs were covered in
blood. "Are you the Messiah? The Christ? Then save yourself!
Quinque!-Fifteen!"
Cartiphilus let his right hand rest and passed the whip to his left hand.
"What about it, King of the Jews? Very soon you're going to beg me to kill
you. But it isn't going to be that easy. I'm just getting started," he said
to the prisoner, knowing, sensing that Yehoshua believed him.
Around the prisoner, roman soldiers laughed and spat at the prisoner. "Hail,
King of the Jews!"
Yehoshua raised his head. The pain he was feeling was like pieces of glass
running through the blood that ran free from his forehead. The crown of
thorns sank deeply into his flesh. He knew that in the end, this pain, this
martyrdom, would save humankind, and so in consequence his pain, his
sacrifice, would have to reach greater heights, so that he might
sufficiently abase himself in the eyes of his Father.
When the Roman looked into Yehoshua's eyes, he saw mercy there, as if he was
accepting the punishment docilely, as if he knew something Cartiphilus
didn't.
The punishment continued. The staccato crack of the leather whip against his
unworthy flesh measured the passage of time like the oscillation of a
pendulum-steadily, rhythmically, counting the unvarying passing of the
minutes from present to past. The whip flew again and cut the flesh. For a
moment, it seemed to Yehoshua that he would pass out. However, he didn't.
"Where is your God now?" Cartiphilus mocked him. "If You're His son, why
does He let me torture You?" Years and years ago it had been the pain that
had driven Cartiphilus half-mad-the burning, mind-numbing pain that scourged
his flesh and cleansed him of pride, of sin. Those had been his mortal days,
when he would pass out from agony on the Coliseum floor, or in later years,
from exhaustion and starvation. Those were the days before Lilitu, before
that greatest of boons to his Immortal existence.
Yehoshua lowered his gaze, as if trying to reach his inner thoughts. His
breathing was hard.
Another unrelenting set of blows followed. And with every one of them, the
prisoner let out screams of pain. Crack! "Triginta!-Thirty!" Cartiphilus
chanted as the whip landed. With unending momentum, came the sure knowledge
of his own damnation-as well as the physical capacity that allowed him to
surpass all boundaries of pain as he'd known them. Lilitu's vengeance upon
the nonbeliever, Cartiphilus came to realize, was as liberating as God's
grace toward the prophets. Perhaps more so.
After four minutes, the torment finished. "Quadraginta!-Forty!" Cartiphilus
yelled at last. But this time, the prisoner's body didn't react at all.
Frowning, the executioner walked over toward Yehoshua and grabbed him by his
long air. Once he saw the prisoner had finally passed out, he grimaced.
"Pilate is going to put you on the cross," he whispered in his ear. "And I
will be delighted to nail you to the wood."
After the trial, Cartiphilus was so eager to earn the respect of Lilitu that
he had put on a show with the king of the Jews. In a rage, he drove Yehoshua
through the streets of the city. When the Christ lingered, resting to
breathe, it had been Cartiphilus who struck his back again and said. "Keep
walking, Son of God!"
But one of the times, Yehoshua turned to him and gently whispered to him for
the first time. "Yes, I will keep walking. and so shall you, until the end
of this era." That threat, or so he took it, scared Cartiphilus, but only
for a moment. Furious, he had volunteered to drive the nails into Yehoshua's
wrists when the peasant's hammer hesitated. And at the end, it had been his
own spear had cut the Messiah's side.
========
Petra, Jordan
March 26, 2013
The torturer of the Messiah walked slowly on the red sands. His name was
Cartiphilus, but some others knew him as Longinus, the Roman Centurion
charged as Pontius Pilate's gatekeeper on the day Yehoshua bar-Joshua had
been judged. Many times, the memories of those days still delighted the
former Centurion. However, right now, his mind was filled with more pressing
matters.
A strange gust of wind came up around him, and for a moment, Cartiphilus
grabbed the hilt of the spear he hid beneath his clothes. Many people
believed that such weapon, a few scraps of wood and a battered iron head,
either rested at the Basilica of St. Peter's in Rome, or at the Hoffburg
Museum in Vienna. In either case the spear was not available for viewing by
the general public. During WWII Adolph Hitler became the most modern of a
long line of rulers who claimed ownership over the Spear of Longinus.
Charlemagne, Theodosius, Theodoric, Justinian, and more than a dozen other
emperors had had control of this Icon, believing that it brought good luck
in battle.
Of course, all of them had been wrong.
The wind retreated, and Cartiphilus continued his walk. Ten minutes later,
he reached his destination. The entrance to the canyon was no different than
dozens of other shallows cracks in the red rock. But Cartiphilus didn't
hesitate, making no false start before choosing the correct opening in the
mountain walls. He knew very well where he was going. The Arab tribes had
been avoiding this place since time immemorial. Even though it was Holy
Ground, the whole valley was cursed and shunned.
Somehow, the passageway didn't dead-end. The sheer walls rose on either
side, keeping the floor of the narrow canyon in permanent chill and shadow.
Four men could hold off an army there, Cartiphilus thought, as long as no
one climbed up and dropped rocks on their heads. Looking upward to find a
strip of dark sky was enough to give him courage; the cliffs seemed to lean
inwardly. At several points he could extend his arms and touch both walls at
once. If it were not for the traces of cut stone beneath his feet, showing
that once, the way had been paved, he would have been certain he was
completely lost. But even that ancient road was broken, cracked, and
uncertain, and he had to be careful of his footing in the rubble.
Cartiphilus was more occupied with where he was putting his feet than of
looking ahead, so when the moonlight splashed across his face, he looked up,
surprised, catching his breath in sheer awe. There before him, not twenty
feet away, rising fifty feet high, carved out of the living rock, was the
entrance to a temple, or perhaps a tomb. Columns. Stone Carving of birds and
animals. Delicate and massive, breathtaking, all carved into the coral
sandstone cliff. Cartiphilus had to crane his neck to see it; there was no
way to get a proper perspective from the floor of the canyon. The edifice
was easily a hundred feet long. In the moonlight, the stone almost glowed.
Some of the carvings, the detail of the animals, the definition of the steps
leading to the interior, had eroded away under the pressure of time and
wind. But the columns, the cornices, the domes, cupolas, arches and parapets
were still glorious. Cartiphilus moved forward as if under a spell, trying
to see it all, and as he did so he caught sight of yet another building
carved into a cliff across the valley.
The sight of it pulled him along the path that curved around the edge of the
first temple, and as he followed he saw, at last, Petra, the rose-red city,
half as old as time. The whole valley had been turned into a city, not in
the middle of the valley but carved into the red cliffs that defined it.
An ancient Immortal, it was said, had enslaved a thousand people, and they
had labored at least a hundred years, carving the face of the cliffs into a
glorious city of homes, temples and final resting places. Every surface
seemed to be covered, some barely in bas-relief, some nearly freestanding.
"Mother!" Cartiphilus called.
The name echoed from cliff to cliff, from parapet to tower, startling him
into reaching for his spear. An uneasiness touched Cartiphilus, and he
suddenly regretted having shouted. Somewhere in these mountains Lilitu was
attracting him. Somewhere close.
Come to me. The inhuman whisper that replied was barely audible, but a
fractured, almost demonic echo. Come, my son. came the secondary voice of
Lilitu.
Around him, an unearthed darkness descended, and Cartiphilus walked silently
through the dimness toward his destiny. His sandals were left miles behind,
neatly arranged before the threshold of the caverns. His feet did not so
much as displace a single pebble or disturb a granule of dust from its
resting place upon the sandstone.
Cartiphilus' mind was quiet. Calming scripture arose from his soul like the
cool evening breeze blowing from the north. I am forever.
The darkness was now complete, yet the Immortal stepped with certainty and
surety. Countless passages branched off from the winding tunnel he followed,
but Cartiphilus' deliberate pace did not slacken. Never before had he
traversed this path, but the twists of the roughhewn corridors were as
familiar to him as the threads weaved into his simple robe. He could not
deny the pull of that which drew him forwards. He could not lose his way.
The passages wound this way and that way, seemingly without reason; sharp,
spiraling curves that nearly met each other again full circle, forming,
broad arcs to the northwest, squared turns to the south, zigs and zags
leading tangentially eastward but never directly toward the rising sun.
Among the sculptured chaos, however, Cartiphilus' steps carried him always
down, always deeper toward the heart of the earth.
When finally Cartiphilus had taken his last step, he stood not in one of the
corridors of the past moments, but in a vast chamber. Darkness opened before
him like a void, but not even the absence of light could hide from his eyes
the presence of the herald, the one called Mother.
She sat upon an arrangement of mammoth stones, an unadorned throne crafted
from bedrock. A statue that embodied her soul stood standing, unadorned as
well. Its naked, womanlike body resembled a sculpture of hard-packed coal,
each fissure, each crack in the kiln-hardened surface like a jagged scar
streaking like black lightning across the blackest midnight sky-black except
for a crescent and handful of matching bone-white stars. The crescent moon
of this midnight was a necklace of bone that lay draped across the chest of
Mother's perfectly motionless body. The stars were bone as well, though not
as mere accoutrements; they were the bones of the original Ancient
Gathering, visible where the midnight skin had peeled back or cracked and
fallen away; they were the sheaths of Mother's essence, and her marrow were
liquid vengeance.
Thus was the being Cartiphilus faced.
Cartiphilus looked into the deep emptiness that should have been Mother's
eyes. The sockets were set beneath sharp ridges of bone, and the gapping
nothingness was like an accusation of wrongdoing and injury thousands of
years old, as if Cartiphilus himself had gouged out the eyes in sport or
cruel jest.
Those empty eyeless eyes looked at Cartiphilus with a penetrating hypnotic
power, as if they wished to consume him. She was in there, and could see
him.
"Cartiphilus," the same dark echo spoke.
At once, Cartiphilus prostrated himself before Mother. The sandstone, which
should have been cool within the womb of the earth, burned the Immortal's
forehead. But he did not stir.
"Child of the eternal life," spoke the statue. "Blood of my blood." Its
voice filled the chamber like the south desert wind. Its words stung like
the first pricks of the sandstorm that gnaws flesh from the bone. "Rise."
Cartiphilus obeyed, as would he have even had he desired otherwise. He rose
to one knee. The sandstone, to the touch, had become the wide desert floor
at noon. He needn't look at the palms of his hands to know that his own skin
crisped-the left knee, on which his weight rested; the sole of his right
foot; the top of his body paid silent burning homage to the master of his
soul.
His was the hate that stood behind each envious thrust, every greed, and
every lust. It was as if suddenly he embodied every vile and odious act that
had ever been and they all burned deep into his body.
A storm was rising inside the cave.
The desert wind, an open furnace stoked by the rage of ancients, tore at
him. His thin robe quickly burned away, as did his hair, his eyebrows, and
lashes. Cartiphilus closed his eyes against the heat, but his eyelids soon
curled back like singed paper. No hurt he did not feel through the piercing
rod of his flammable suffering. He had no choice but to look upon his
reckoning. He could not escape; every death that had ever been was now his,
every ending, every last breath that had expired into oblivion. He felt them
all and perished with each. He craved for relief in vain against the howling
flames that would not relent in their furious punishment.
His being was consumed by agony, panic, terror, dread and horror. It was a
savage lesson. The wisdom of which he would not soon forget. For who but the
fool does not fear the power of hell unleashed? At that moment, Cartiphilus
sensed the unvoiced question given form in that fiery desert wind.
"Who gives you life, Cartiphilus?"
Cartiphilus could no longer reason, so great had become the heat. Ah, how
the awful weight of her infinite power pressed down upon him. He felt his
tortured and incinerated core beating wildly against his lips. He stood
helpless beneath the weight and suffered his own demise many times, but
could not die.
The question that echoed on the walls through the storm, was not new to him;
it had dogged him as long as he remembered, since before Christ, since his
mortal days following behind in the footsteps of great warriors. From deep
within his soul, the answer rose full like a gourd dipped in an oasis.
"The Daughter of the Night, the Taker of Heads, the Drinker of the Blood of
Gods. Lilitu gives me life," Cartiphilus said, bowing his head emphatically.
The fiery wind grew to a raging maelstrom inside the chamber. It roared in
Cartiphilus' ears, those fragile shells, it was as if flesh had began to
melt and run down the sides of his face. His naked eyes, too, were assaulted
by the storm. His tears dried before he could issue them. A thousand screams
sliced through the heavens, and every scream tore through his throat.
And then Mother's statue was no longer sitting far across the chamber upon
her great throne. It had not moved, but now Lilitu stood motionless before
Cartiphilus, mere inches from the Immortal. The statue's craggy, coal-black
skin shone against the violence of the vortex.
"Are you ready to join me?"
Cartiphilus' face was now upturned, though he did not remember moving. His
eyes had become pools of blood, as the tender flesh disintegrated beneath
the fury of Lilitu. The Immortal's skin cracked and peeled away. As the last
of vision fled, Cartiphilus was not aware, could not be aware, of the
eternal moment in which he resembled nothing so much as the stone and coal
figure that he had knelt to. He wanted to open his moth, wanted to speak, to
scream, but the muscles of his jaw were beyond use and his tongue was
shriveled away to a smoldering lump. And as he felt the first waves of
unconsciousness wash over him, it was the agony that forced back all the
mute whimpering screams into his chest.
As flesh burned away, one belief resounded from the core of Cartiphilus'
being. Lilitu gives me life.
"Very well," said the statue. Its words found their way through Cartiphilus'
ruined ears, within the mind that was beyond pain. "Come to me. Help me
destroy the world as you destroyed Christ, and you will rule beside me, for
all eternity."
After that, the wind settled, and all was again silent stillness in the
void.
Then Cartiphilus opened his eyes. His body was fully recovered. Blissfully
free from the terrific pain. He knew now that he would be her pawn forever.
A diabolical grimace crossed his face. "I'm coming to you, Mother," he
hissed in the darkness.
========
Nepal
March 26, 2013
The sky was already noticeably darker, and with the encroaching darkness
came the colder winds as a woman's shape stirred in the dimness. Lilitu,
standing like a demon out of hell, with blazing green eyes and red hair. For
a moment, she felt the world around her, sharing the age of sadness that had
come upon the earth. It was beautiful. After thirteen millennia, humankind
would tremble again hearing the sound of her name. She was the new Goddess.
Nothing or no one could stop her right now. The low temperatures around her
body meant nothing to her soul.
Thousands of years before, she had sworn to destroy all Immortals, and she
always fulfilled her vows. Now she had escaped her prison beneath the sands.
She raised her face toward the sky, watching the black curtain above her.
Grinning, she remembered the time long gone, when she first tasted the fruit
of the Quickening, when she felt the seeds of life and knowledge burning
within her. That night, she had sworn that she wouldn't turn back her spirit
to such greatness, ever.
So many eons had passed since the first time she had tasted the flesh of the
kill, since she had felt the tang of the blood and the crunch of the bones.
That night, she had sworn that she would not die. When first she had tasted
her own blood and felt the surge and the stir of her own life in her soul,
she had sworn to love herself above all things. When first she had tasted
the light of the moon, felt its glow and its wild tenderness, she had sworn
to walk forever under the darkness. When first she had tasted the true power
of what it meant to be a Goddess, felt it slashing through her like a bolt
of lightning, the songs of fire; she had sworn to cherish the flesh and
return someday with astonishing wonders.
She smiled confidently. Those moments would always remain as her own. And
whatever may transpire, neither God nor man could take them away from her.
Thirteen millennia ago she had promised these things for herself and her
Immortality.
Dressed in thin skinned-garments that fully displayed her ample charms, she
had long, flowing red hair, the color of the bloody moon. Full-breasted,
with a narrow waist and wide hips, she was the embodiment of every man's
desire. The pattern of intricate drawings and symbols that delineated both
of her arms and her face, showed that she was a witch. Her wide green-eyes,
knowing smile, and luscious lips offered evidence that her state of
Immortality had increased the passions within her through time.
All that she had seen on her solitary walk had been barren white plains and
ranges of blue-tinged mountains that seemed to vanish in the mists of the
distant horizons.
But she knew very well where was she going. Thunder sounded in the distance,
and Lilitu laughed, her voice broke the silence she had observed since she
had abandoned the Dream. The sound traveled wildly over the landscape.
Night was near and the winds were howling fiercely. The airstreams were a
roar in her ears. She paused for a moment, stopping her walk. "I can hear
you," she said, her voice flowing into the blustery weather.
She listened; the wind seemed to annihilate all sound; yet there came a dull
chorus from the earth, human voices chanting; some in rhythm with each
other, others at random; voices praying aloud in an Asian tongue she
understood very well. Far away she could hear them. Important to distinguish
the two sounds. First, there was a long procession of monks ascending
through the mountain passes, singing to keep their faith and courage alive
as they trudged on in spite of weariness and the unrelenting cold. And
within a stone structure on Holy Ground, a loud ecstatic chorus could be
heard, chanting fiercely over the clang of cymbals and drums.
Smiling, she continued her path. After a while, she saw the temple gleaming
in front of her, the terrain buckling beneath its meandering walls. The
sensation of holiness intermingled with the stench of burning incense that
rose from its blazing fires. And alongside steep ravines, holy men found
their way through safe paths from as far as she could see toward the cluster
of thatched roofs and towers.
She focused her gaze, letting the eye of her soul penetrate the stockades.
It was useless. She couldn't see inside Holy Ground. However, she knew that
inside the temple were gilded walls, cusped arches, every surface glittering
with decoration as the smoke from the incense spiraled up in sinewy columns
toward the ceiling, mingling with the scent of sanctity. And most important,
within the fortification was the Immortal she was looking for. She could
sense him.
"It has been a long time," she whispered. "I shall be your death now." Even
from where she stood, she could smell the fire, feel the flames, its warmth.
Purposely, she advanced again toward the sanctuary.
Ten feet from the main entrance, Lilitu raised her arm. The wooden door
opened as if by magic before her. She passed silently into a long corridor
of slender wooden pillars and scalloped arches, but this was the outer
border of an immense central room. The room was filled with holy men, Lamas,
who did not see or sense her presence as they continued to chant.
Many feet away, in the other extreme of the ornate floor sat the holy man,
the Lama Bhaktivedanta, clothed in red robes. His face was shining with
peace as he stared at Lilitu. Only he felt her presence. "You!" he
exclaimed, his voice cutting through the chamber.
The priests looked at her. Incredulous faces replaced the chant immediately;
the room was quiet, as a path lay open for her to the center of the room.
The cymbals and drums were silenced; moans and soft whimpers surrounded her.
Then a great sigh of wonder rose as Lilitu stepped forward and smiled.
Prayers rose from the crowd around her; a shrill voice cried out an anthem
to the eternal mother.
"You dare to come inside Holy Ground?" holy Bhaktivedanta whisper, his gaze
sad. "After all this time. Is it not enough that the entire world is
suffering? Is it not enough for you?"
"Silence!" Lilitu commanded. "You will die now," she continued once
everybody in the chamber was quiet, her voice even softer than anybody would
anticipated. "You who have misled these hopeless mortals; you who have fed
upon their hopes and dreams, offering to them your false salvation."
Screams rose from the Lamas, cries for mercy.
With a soft movement of his hand, holy Bhaktivedanta told them to be quiet.
"What right have you to condemn the world? You who have dreamt silently in
your realm. You, the mother of sin, trying to rule since the beginning of
time."
"Time did not begin with you, it began with me!" Lilitu answered. "I was old
when you were born. And I am raised now to rule as I was meant to rule since
the beginning of creation. And now you shall die as a lesson to the Ancient
Gathering. You are the first martyr in this Endgame."
Holy Bhaktivedanta looked at her, an intense inner peace burning in his
eyes. "This is Holy Ground. And even when I'll die, it matters not. The new
Dreamer is going to destroy you."
Lilitu laughed, an evil sound that made the shrine tremble. Her eyes turned
yellow, with inhuman, slit pupils.
The next thing happened too fast to be seen. Lilitu narrowed her eyes and
raised her arm, pinning holy Bhaktivedanta still by some invisible means and
jolted him up in a backward fashion so that his feet slid across the wooden
tile and he teetered, almost falling and then dancing as he sought to right
himself, his eyes rolling up into his head.
A deep gurgling cry came out of him as the heat invaded his being. He was
burning. His clothes were on fire; and then smoke rose from him in a gray
and thin column; he was writhing in pain as the terrified Lamas gave way to
screams and wails. Holy Bhaktivedanta was twisting as the blaze consumed
him; then suddenly, bent over staring at her, and ran toward her with his
arms stretched out.
It seemed he would reach her before she could react. But she was Lilitu, the
everlasting cup of power of all Immortals. With a quick shove of her right
hand she stopped holy Bhaktivedanta on his tracks not three feet from her,
who tried to reach her over some invisible and insurmountable force.
"Die!" she said laughing out loud. The Lamas around her covered their ears
because of the shrill sound of her voice. "Come into the pit of my soul, the
pit of perdition I've created for you now."
Holy Bhaktivedanta's head exploded. Smoke and flames poured out of his
ruptured skull. His eyes flew out of his face like two projectiles. Lilitu's
power penetrated his cranium and squeezed his brain. With a flash, the
entire frame of his body ignited; he knelt before her, his legs curling as
if he meant to try to stand again.
Lilitu stuck her long fingernails through his neck, and with an easy
movement, detached his head with her bare hands. Laughing, she held the head
high, so everybody could see it.
Panic descended upon the Lamas when the Quickening started. The hysteria
reached a dangerous pitch as the blue rays flew around Lilitu's body. Bodies
crashed against the slender wooden pillars. Monks were crushed instantly as
others rushed over them toward the doors.
The Lamas seemed to have lost their spirit. The dead and the mourning lay
everywhere around Lilitu, while from the earth itself the most piteous plea
was raised. She looked at them, and they couldn't see anything but the gates
of hell in her demon's eyes.
Lilitu turned full circle, her garments caught in a brief dance of blue and
white rays around her; and everywhere human beings were moving in an
eclectic dance like marionettes as if controlled by invisible hands before
being flung to the floor. Their bodies went into convulsions. Blood poured
from their ears and their eyes as they expired.
The mountain started to tremble. The whole sanctuary rumbled. Lilitu raised
her eyes. A sprawling swathe of blackness crept from where she stood and
spread slowly across the temple. The light seemed to flicker as it was
sucked into the darkness. Everywhere, the shadows seemed to come alive with
slow, methodical movements.
"Black Moon," she intoned, "hear me calling you. It is I, your Darkest
Sister Lilitu, whose hands formed the hellish mire. At my weakest; at my
strongest. Molding me as clay from fire. Black Moon; hear your beloved
Sister, the Mare of the Night. You cast your litter to this ground. Speak
now my ancient name and let me fly, and utter now my secret sound!" she
chanted as the shadows moved around her.
An explosion rocked the holy place. Bouts of flame burst from the altar and
fled into the night with the shriek of tormented spirits. A strong
air-stream came into the Buddhist shrine. Before Lilitu, the realm of the
Dream opened its mouth with the shape of a huge, black hole. Moments later,
she disappeared inside the shadows as the top of the mountain exploded, and
hot lava slithered down its sides like a thousand snakes of fire melting the
snow. The night was illuminated by the red inferno as the peak bled from the
Quickening on Holy Ground.
========