EHYEH-ASHER-EHYEH (I AM THAT I AM): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Fri, 20 Sep 2002 10:07:35 -0400
Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (I am that I am) 4/34
Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx
Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com
Monastery of Santo Tomas de Avila
Avila, Spain
1498
'The hammer of heretics', 'the light of Spain', 'the savior of his country',
'the honor of his order'. These were some of the words used to describe
Tomas de Torquemada, this First Inquisitor of Spain during the reign of
their most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.
He certainly deserved the accolades, Torquemada thought, as he lay in his
bed, dying. In spite of the fact that his own grandmother had been born a
Jewess and had subsequently converted to the True Faith, and in fact was a
Marrana, Torquemada, as confessor to the Queen, felt it his God-given duty
to cleanse Spain of the Marranos and those other questionable
converses-converses from Islam, the Moriscos, and follow the cult of sangre
limpia-pure blood, for his country. To that end he had pursued all so-called
Christians, who were really enemies of the state, of the Church, and
therefore of God. After their trials, their punishments had ranged depending
on their crimes severity from public humiliation/flogging, immurement,
community service and forceful enrollment in the holy crusade, all the way
to the autos da fe, the public burnings of confessed heretics, eventually
culminating in the 1492 Edict of Expulsion, which exiled all non-Catholics
from the Holy lands of Spain.
His life's work done, Torquemada had then retired to his beloved monastery
at Santo Tomas de Avila. It was the year of our Lord 1498, and this simple
Franciscan friar, who prided himself on having reformed the abuses of
previous inquisitors, organizing the courts and especially of having no high
honors or preferences in the fulfillment of his holy task, was on his
deathbed.
The unicorn horn, an antidote against poison, lay by his bedside, and he
could hear the priests muttering as they applied the consecrated oil on his
body, starting with his eyes and working their way down to his loins, one by
one: "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord
pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed-quidquid
deliquisti-through sight," Then, "through hearing, smell, taste, touch,
walking, and finally by way of carnal delectation."
After they were done, he was still alive, although his breaths were labored
and the pain in his chest had increased. Sometime later he heard his name
being called from faraway, and with some difficulty-he could hardly breathe
now-opened his eyes to mere slits. Standing over him was Padre Julian, a
youngish Franciscan priest who Torquemada had taken into his wing in the
last few years. Loyal and true, Padre Julian bent down to whisper what
Torquemada thought would be a last comforting prayer in his ear. Instead,
the priest said something that set Torquemada's heart to a wild beat, even
in his extreme state: "You will die, my brother. But you will live again."
As only Nuestro Senor Jesus Cristo-Our Lord Jesus Christ could die, then
live again, Torquemada was awestruck by this blasphemy from a man he trusted
and loved. To hear such words at this time, and in his last moments, put his
holy soul in peril. He wanted to protest, to get this man away from him, but
found he had not the strength even to speak. He could only weakly watch as
Padre Julian looked around the room. Then, with a small smile, Padre Julian
took a pillow and pushed it down over Torquemada's face. A futile weak
struggle, which lasted less than a minute, and Torquemada breathed his last.
When Tomas de Torquemada breathed again, heaving and almost retching in
agony, he found himself in an unknown dim room. His body felt cold, but the
room itself seemed ablaze with light, and he closed his eyes against it. He
heard an unearthly sound, a woman's mocking laughter, and, overcome by
curiosity as to what this afterlife he'd dreamed about and hoped for was, he
opened his eyes and saw-the devil. "My God, my God!" he cried out. "It's
Satan, and I'm in hell! It's eternal torment for me!" he sobbed.
The devil came closer to his bed. Satan was a woman. Her eyes were green,
her hair red, and her smile mocking. "I am not Satan. I am stronger than he
is. I am the Mother of All, the Mother of Life and especially, the Mother of
Death. And you are not in hell-not yet," she said, almost with a giggle.
"I'm ." he couldn't comprehend this, where he was, who this woman was, why
she exuded such power, why she caused him such dread. Even though she seemed
to be wreathed in flames, there was a coldness about her that chilled him to
the bone. He took deep gasping breaths and said a prayer, which made her
laugh even more. Finally he spat out, "Am I dead?"
"No. You are alive, although at some point you may wish to be
dead-especially if you do not obey me."
"Obey you?" he asked weakly. "How can I? I obey God-"
"You're not with God, and I doubt that that time will ever come. No, I
believe you have killed too many in His name, and enjoyed it a little too
much, to ever come into His presence."
"But . I confessed my sins . I was shriven . I-"
"I don't care about such useless rituals," she replied, with a snap of her
fingers. "I am Lilitu, and I am greater than all those things. I am your new
mistress. What's more, Tomas, I believe I always was your mistress-you just
weren't aware of it. Until now."
An eerie coldness spread throughout his body. "Li-Lilitu? But you are not
real! You're a legend. You-"
"You fool," she said good-naturedly. "You will believe in me because I want
you to. A man with such a talent for causing suffering, fear, and death and
who gets such joy from it too, can be very useful to me and my cause."
"But no! I didn't . You aren't . what I did was for Spain, for God, for his
Holy Church!" he denied desperately.
At this she laughed again. "Do you really believe that? I want you to
remember, Tomas de Torquemada. Remember what it meant to you. The torture.
The pain. The fires. The deaths." She leaned over his bed until he could
feel her hot breath on his cheek. Instead of disgusting him, it thrilled
him.
"Yes!" she said, whispering triumphantly. "I know who you really are," she
said, "and now you will too." She looked deeply into his eyes, and they
turned into two pools of fire. And amidst those flames he saw visions of
the many who had died in the hogueras-bonfires, in the holy fires reserved
for heretics, unbelievers, blasphemers, and traitors. He saw them 'all' die,
saw them in their last agonizing moments, screaming, praying, blaspheming,
begging, burning, burning at the stake in autos da fe all over Spain and
even in the Spanish colonies in Mexico, Lima and Cartagena, where he'd never
traveled. He saw them all, men, women, children, and every single one dying
in front of him, in his vision of fire and pain, until only charred remains
were left. At first he was
horrified at the litany, at the sheer numbers, at the suffering . but they
were heathens, they deserved to die. He'd believed it then, and he still
believed it. And somewhere after the first few hundred, Tomas de Torquemada
came to a realization. He enjoyed it. God help him, he did enjoy it. He
enjoyed watching them burn. No-he loved it. He gloried in it-not just
because they were heretics, but because they were burning, and burning by
his, Torquemada's, command. By his word.
The realization stunned him, but he had no time to think about it, because
suddenly he, too, was burning. On fire, he was on fire! He looked down in
horror at his bedclothes, which were smoldering, and realized that he was
dressed in a sleeping gown, and that it was on fire! "Aaaah! Aaaaah!" he
screamed, trying to writhe in agony, to try to put the fire out, but finding
he was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to escape this terrible torture.
"Aaaaah!" he screamed again.
Through the agony Torquemada heard Lilitu's voice, saying, "Burn, my
servant. Burn like you burned so many, so that you know their pain, so that
you understand in your own body what you've done to others. And when you're
cleansed, when you're purified, then you will become truly mine!"
========
Church of San Nicolas
Madrid, Spain
March 26, 2013
The heart of the church was a huge, mostly empty room with a stone floor. In
it, a fat man sat on a simple wooden stool, contemplating a chessboard. A
smattering of white pieces, including a handful of pawns, and a single
bishop, had been removed from play. So had a few black pawns, but that was
all. White had castled and was concentrating on establishing a strong
defense, while black was on the offensive but seemed oddly disorganized, and
one of its knights was in imminent danger.
"It seems like a resignable position."
Inquisitor Torquemada had already felt the Immortal's buzz and dismissed it,
knowing it was his servant arriving. Now he looked up from the board, a
beatific smile on his face. "Ah, Ken. It is good to see you here, my son.
You are well? The trip was not too arduous?"
Ken nodded in assent to all of his host's inquiries. "Your hospitality, Your
Eminence, is as always impeccable." He eased his long frame down onto the
stool opposite Torquemada. Ken was bony and angular, with a face that
denoted perpetual resignation like a hound that has just seen the fox vanish
once and for all. His cola black hair and young features made him seem no
older than thirty. He was one of the main competitors to take Torquemada's
place one day among the Headless Children.
Torquemada wore a simple priest's robe, and sandals that flapped against the
floor as he tapped his foot, contemplating his next move. "Unfortunately,
Darius, my opponent in this game, has been dead for years. Mother and I took
care of that." He looked up with an expression of mock concern. "And you
seat yourself in his place! Truly, my son, I thought you were on my side in
this matter."
Ken rose and bowed. "Forgive me. I shall, of course, come over to your side
immediately, and beg your humble apologies for my treachery." He answered in
the same manner, following the jest.
Torquemada chuckled, a thick, sloppy sound. "No, no. Sit. I just find that
too many of the young ones these days have a dreadful tendency to get
wrapped up in chess metaphors. It's lazy thinking. Anyway, this particular
game is going to remain as it is. I like to spend my time wondering: what
would Darius' next move have been?"
Ken nodded. "Wasn't Darius the old priest who used to live as a monk in
Paris? The warlord who abandoned the warlike days?"
"The very same. A gentle soul in his final days. However, he was foolish
enough to cross Lilitu's path, even though he had served her in the past,"
Torquemada commented frowning as he looked at the chessboard.
Ken still did not sit, but leaned over and picked up the black queen. "Mmm.
Considering the chessboard, I'm not surprised the privileged few who see it
are whipped into a tizzy by it. Mother?" he said, indicating the piece he
held.
Torquemada reached out his pudgy hand out for it. "Of course. The set itself
was a gift from her. A marvelous masterpiece, do you not agree?"
"Yes, I do."
Torquemada gave a delighted laugh. "Your courtesy is greatly appreciated."
He looked at the chess piece, and then replaced it on the board. "You would
like to know why you are here, yes? The pleasure of your company is, while
something I do not get nearly enough of, not sufficient to cause me to
summon you."
Ken kept a poker face. "I trust not for confession, then?"
"We should make time for that soon, my son. I have faith that you will
perform the task I've set out for you without flaws, and of course, see to
your own safety as well. However, I have more faith in other things. God is
merciful, but only if we avail ourselves to that mercy. We Immortals are
damned for a reason within God's scheme of things, but that does not excuse
or prevent us from obeying those of God's laws that He has left to us."
Ken shifted uncomfortably. "Such as?"
"The Endgame is at hand," Torquemada replied. In the distance, bells were
tolling. "Lilitu just killed Felucca in the Vatican and others around the
world. And now she is calling me. God chose her as His avenger. The Endgame
is at hand"
"Are you sure?"
"I had a revelation. In my dreams, the Mother of our Lord Jesus Christ
appeared to me, and she commanded me to go to her. And I must obey."
"But you don't trust Mother," Ken said almost in a whisper. "She burned
you."
"That's exactly why I must go. Although I fear her, although I've seen in
her hellish eyes the flames of eternal damnation burning my soul, although
I've felt the heat of her gaze, I must stay with her until the end of time
in order to take my rightful place as the Holy messenger of our Lord Jesus
Christ. Only at her side will I be able to create the Inquisition anew. As
you see, I have my reasons. I want you to take care of everything while I'm
gone," Torquemada finished with an air of finality.
Ken nodded somberly. "As you wish."
========
Village of Nishi on Taketomi Island, part of Okinawa, Japan
March 26, 2013
Twenty-five year old Ueshiba Miyu was confused.
She'd never seen her Sensei, Master Hosokawa Hiroshi, retreat before, and it
confused her. When the redheaded woman had appeared out of a rare morning
mist in front of the Hosokawa compound, Sensei, apparently surprised, had
put down his glass of Awamori and stepped outside to meet the woman. Miyu
didn't hear what was said, but a moment later he had come back into the
house, taken Miyu by the hand, and both of them had walked-quickly walked-to
the Jinja, the Shinto shrine set apart at the edge of the village. She had
to run to keep up with his rapid pace, past coral limestone buildings with
red-orange tiled roofs, many with a traditional Seesa, a lion, on the roof
keeping guard. Miyu hadn't even had time to put on her sandals, and her bare
feet scuffed on the white sandy paths. Sensei was in such a hurry; he didn't
pause to greet the elderly man, a tailor in the village, who bowed to them
as they almost ran down the white street.
Once they were inside the sacred grove in front of the Jinja, Sensei slowed
down. They went down the tree-lined path that led to the entrance to the
shrine, and when they entered it Miyu noticed two white robed priests
kneeling in front of the Heikaku, the stand with colorful paper cloth
strips, which represented Kami, the Shinto deity.
Sensei gave her a few coins. "Go to the altar," he whispered absentmindedly,
still looking back over his shoulder at the door. Who was he expecting? Miyu
wondered. If he'd come to Holy Ground, perhaps an enemy. But surely not that
redheaded woman, who had been mysterious enough-looking, to be sure, but
only a woman, and an alien, a barbarian gaijin, at that. What could Sensei
possibly have to fear from-ah, Miyu thought, perhaps the woman was an
Immortal! That had to be the answer. Of course.
The year before, Sensei and Miyu's grandfather had sat her down and
explained to her about Immortals; now Miyu knew Immortals hunted each other,
and fought duels, and that Hosokawa was an Immortal. So was someone else
she'd recently heard from, a woman Miyu had come to love deeply-Elena Duran.
The Argentine had called just a few days ago and had a long conversation
with Miyu's grandfather, the current head of the Ueshiba family of Aikidoka,
and then with Master Hosokawa. Finally Miyu had spoken to her, and the first
thing the young woman had asked Elena Duran had been, "Are you an Immortal?"
After a long pause on the telephone line, Elena had answered, "Hai, yes.
But-"
"You promised faithfully to call me. You gave me your word. Why have you
ignored me all these years, Duran-sama?" Miyu had asked next, feeling
betrayed, wanting to say more but not quite daring and surprised at the
depth of her own pain.
The sorrow in Duran-sama's voice had made Miyu immediately regret her
outburst. "I was in a convent. That's like a temple, for women. I was hiding
from ... from my own pain. So many people I loved had died. I spoke to no
one, not for two years. I ..."
Here Duran-sama's voice had completely broken, and Miyu had started to cry.
"Please forgive me! I had no right to accuse you-!"
"Please, Miyu. I love you. I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
Right after that conversation, Sensei, without any explanation, had brought
Miyu here, to this isolated island of Okinawa. Now Miyu wondered if Elena's
phone call had had anything to do with their sudden departure. Was it
possible that they had run from this Immortal and were hiding on Holy
Ground? Her master, the great Japanese samurai, running and hiding from-from
'anybody'?! Miyu could not bring herself to believe-
"Miyu," Sensei said sternly, interrupting the young woman's thoughts.
Dutifully, Miyu went to the altar and sounded the bell. She threw the coins,
clapped her hands, and bowed several times to alert Kami that a worshipper
was present. That was as far as she got when she was alerted to a new
presence in the Jinja. Coldness seemed to creep through the long, low room
and grip Miyu,
making her shiver. She turned back to see the same redheaded woman at the
door. Dressed in thin skinned-garments, her face and arms had strange
tattoos covering them.
Between Miyu and the door, standing stiff and proud, was Hosokawa Hiroshi, a
samurai since the nineteenth century, a student of the legendary Miyamoto
Musashi, and the bravest, noblest man Miyu knew or would ever meet, she was
sure. His presence alone, his stance against the intruder, made Miyu swell
with pride. They were safe from harm.
"Be gone, devil!" he ordered the apparition with a wave of his left hand,
leaving his right hand, Miyu noticed, inside the voluminous sleeves of his
kimono, free to draw his katana if necessary. "You may not enter this holy
place."
The woman Immortal-she 'had' to be Immortal-laughed gaily but Miyu found
nothing amusing in the cold sound coming from her throat. Miyu was again
surprised when the woman answered Sensei in flawless Japanese. "You call me
devil? Impudent child, I am Lilitu. You know nothing of what I am, but let
me inform you, Hiroshi: I am the Mother of time, and I have the right to be
anywhere in the world I choose."
She was calling him a child? And using Hiroshi, his first name? How did she
dare? How old was this Immortal? Miyu wondered, more curious than
frightened. She could never recall being frightened of anyone or anything
while in the presence of the samurai. Surely he'd kill this Lilitu woman,
but not on Holy Ground. That was the golden rule-never kill on Holy Ground.
"I know enough about you to realize you don't belong here," Hosokawa
answered calmly.
But Miyu had known this man for ten years, and reading his expression and
body language had saved her from many a punishment, extra duties and
exercises. Studying him from behind, she could see the tension in his
shoulder blades, although Miyu doubted that the woman could see it. The
young Japanese woman had never seen her master fight another Immortal,
although she doubted he would permit her to be present.
"If you've come here to challenge me," Sensei was saying in a softer voice,
"let us leave Holy Ground. There is a quiet place-"
"What place could be more quiet than a beautiful Shinto temple?" Lilitu
said, smiling in a way that made Miyu shudder. Lilitu didn't miss it; her
eyes on Miyu, the redheaded demon intoned, "Holy Ground is no protection for
our kind, Hiroshi. And it won't save the little girl, either. Have you told
her who she is? No, I see that you have not." With those words, she walked
inside the shrine.
For the first time Miyu was afraid, although she couldn't see Sensei's face.
The woman was undoubtedly a demon-it was visible in those blazing green eyes
that with a single, mocking glance had burned into Miyu's eyes painfully, as
if hot pokers had blinded her. Miyu cried out and covered her eyes.
Standing his ground, Sensei said, "Elena warned me about you. But I cannot
believe that even the most evil among us would dare attack on Holy Ground."
His voice was so soft that Miyu wasn't sure what she'd heard. Out of the
corner of her eyes the girl noticed that the two Shinto priests were now
paying careful attention to the conversation by the door.
Lilitu laughed and advanced, saying, "You should have listened to that
Mapuche whore. For once, she knows what she's talking about. I am the new
Goddess, and hell is coming with me. Before you die, I want you to know that
the little bitch you tried so desperately to protect, the one you've spent
so many years training, will die as well. It was all a waste, Hiroshi. With
both your deaths, bushido, the way of the warrior, will die in Japan, and
your lifelong dreams along with it." She threw her head back and laughed
nastily, seemingly most amused by this concept. Her laughter filled the
small shrine and echoed in Miyu's bones; she shrank from it. "You should
have sent her away from you, not kept her with you. Your pride has killed
you both," Lilitu stated.
Obviously startled, Hosokawa took his arms out of his sleeves. "No! You
cannot do this! Stop!" he ordered, in a voice that Miyu would not have dared
disobey. But the demon simply moved her hand toward the warrior. Whatever
she had done, Sensei stiffened suddenly, then called out over his shoulder,
without turning, "Run, Miyu! Get away, now!"
But before Miyu could even obey what would be her master's last command, the
demon met the girl's eyes once more, and in those ancient and evil green
eyes Miyu suddenly understood two things. One, that the reason her
grandfather and Elena Duran and Sensei had taken such interest in her was
that she, Miyu, was somehow fated to become an Immortal, an Immortal, like
them! And two, that she would never survive to become an Immortal. Miyu's
death was in those startling green eyes. The witch's malevolent gaze
immobilized her, making her feet feel like the deep roots of an ancient
bonsai.
"She has nowhere to go, Hiroshi. Soon this whole island will sink into the
sea," the evil demon prophesied, and Miyu, frozen in terror, had no doubt
that it would happen. But before that, something equally terrible happened.
Grunting with the effort, Sensei took out his katana and attacked faster
than Miyu's eyes could follow. The blade caught the light from the sky in
bands of yellow and gold.
But Lilitu didn't duck out of the way. Instead, she took a quick step back
and extended her left arm, palm out. The blade smacked neatly into her hand,
slicing through her palm and out the other side. Lilitu smiled, but made no
show that the impact affected her. Thick blood dripped down her hand onto
the ground, but her hand did not fall off as it should have.
"Care to try again?" she said, as the hole in her palm knit itself shut.
Sensei snarled a curse and attacked again.
Lilitu laughed, taunting him. She circled right. Then a tendril of shadow
shot out from her hand and wrapped around Sensei's foot, pulling him, hard,
to the ground.
Miyu was too well trained to scream with fear, but seeing the darkness
scared her down to her bones. Wanting to help, she drew her own practice
katana. As she did so, the demon merely gazed at her, and Miyu found the
muscles in her arms failing her completely, and the sword, now heavier than
she could lift, fell to the ground. Further, the young woman found herself
unable to move. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw the priests run out
of the temple, but Miyu had an idea that they would not escape, and nothing
would save any of them.
Turning back to the Samurai, Lilitu smiled and made a come-hither gesture.
In response, the tentacle of darkness started dragging the Japanese warrior
toward her. Then Lilitu called more darkness to attack Sensei.
"See you in hell, child," she said, not particularly caring if he heard or
not. She blew him a kiss, and, to Miyu's horror, another shadow tendril
joined the others. The third tendril wrapped around Sensei's chest and
hauled him upright. The others still held his ankles, pinning him against
the ground. The samurai struggled, but to no avail.
Lilitu strode purposefully to where her prisoner waited. Sensei's gaze
narrowed just a little-he had turned in his attack, and Miyu could now see
his face. As she expected, even helpless as he was, he showed no fear. "I
may not be able to defeat you, but 'someone' is going to destroy you," he
whispered.
Lilitu shook her head. "I don't think so." Then her nails sank into the
Samurai's neck. An instant later, the head was detached from the body.
"No!" Miyu screamed, wanting, wishing she could rush to Sensei's side, but
still unable to move even the slightest muscle. Frozen, unbelieving, Miyu
could not believe that the man she had obeyed and loved all these years was
gone so quickly, and that now Hosokawa's head lay on the ground beside his
kimono-clad body, blood pouring out from both, creating a rapidly-spreading
dark red lake in the center of the shrine floor.
Smiling, Lilitu knelt down and dipped two fingers into the blood, then
painted her face with them. At that moment, rays of energy flew out of
Sensei's body, while behind Lilitu, a whirlwind of darkness opened and she
entered the dimness, disappearing.
Once the demon was gone, Miyu could move again. Sobbing uncontrollably, she
sank to her knees into the bloody patch of ground, not knowing whether to
cradle her beloved master's head or his body. He couldn't be dead! He
couldn't be! Keening in such pain she could hardly catch her breath, she
barely noticed the ground shaking underneath her, but the floor began to
buckle and the walls to tremble, and she noticed that. Only then did the
cries and screams from outside finally penetrate, and she glanced out the
still-open double doors of the shrine and toward the beach. What she saw
there made her stand, blood dripping from the knees of her kimono down and
from her hands. When Sensei had died, Miyu had wanted to die with him. But
then when Lilitu had vanished in such an unearthly way, Miyu had thought for
a wild moment that the evil one would not make good her promise to kill her,
Miyu. But then she remembered the demon Immortal had also promised that the
entire island would sink into the sea.
Miyu swallowed, wishing suddenly she could see her mother one more time. The
shaking ground made her stumble, and the roar of the very visible
approaching tsunami, at least fifty meters tall and by now only three
kilometers offshore, filled her head with the last sound she would ever
hear. As the giant wave, traveling hundreds of kilometers an hour, hit the
shore of the tiny island, Ueshiba Miyu, student of Hosokawa Hiroshi, dried
her tears. Determined to die as a bushi, as a warrior, and to make Sensei
proud, she knelt by her fallen master, bowed her head, and prayed.
========