Chapter 14: Where to Place the Unsustainable Light?
While the woman standing in front of them appeared to be a whole new person, Rosenfeld managed to take in the fact that it was still Shirley Cohen standing in front of them. She had changed dramatically, but it was still her. It was still the young woman from the high security ward.
“You are a dark angel?” Rosenfeld asked, in his usual stoic tone. He was amazed that his voice remained so emotionless, even now, when he felt as if he were falling head-over-heels in love with the being standing in front of him.
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“Γιατί με θέλετε στο, Ira Rosenfeld? Γιατί εάν εγώ?” She was speaking Greek. (“Why do you want me to, Ira Rosenfeld? Why should I?”)
“Weil offensichtlich Sie mich Ihnen glauben wünschen,” Rosenfeld shot back in German. (“Because you obviously want me to believe you.”)
“For those who believe, no clarification is required. For those who do not, no answer would be sufficient!”
Rosenfeld paused. There was no way this creature was plucking the answers from his head, as Shirley had done with the questions he had wanted to ask during his last visit, which felt as if it had happened moments ago.
She appeared to think, though her face always held the same, stony expression. Soon, she nodded and tilted her head backward, so her chin was almost parallel with the ceiling. Both arms seemed to be pulled backward, and she stood this way, on the tip of her toes, for a moment or two before an icy wind began to run around their ankles.
And then she levitated.
“Tittittittittittitt … sweeteetsweeteet … towheetoweee-toweee …”
“What is that supposed to be?” Rosenfeld asked, confused.
“I am communicating with my feathered friends …” Shirley’s voice trailed off. “Specifically, I’m speaking with a grouse, a catbird, and a titmouse.”
“I suppose you can speak to lower life forms?” Rosenfeld asked facetiously.
“You are under the false impression that humans are the highest life form on this planet, but you are quite mistaken; only humans reside in the fallen state, not the rest of God’s creation.”
She hovered over them for over ten minutes, doing nothing other than that. As the two men stood there in awe, she turned her head to face the small, round glass in the door on the far wall of the cell. The glass began to shake and convulse violently, as if it were being pushed and pulled by many pairs of invisible hands.
Rosenfeld and Gavorkian dove to the floor, hoping the guard heard the noise. Rosenfeld’s eyes wandered up fearfully to the demonic specter hovering above his hunched-over figure. No interruptions, he realized—he had asked for no interruptions. No fucking interruptions! . They were alone, totally and utterly alone, unless … He had seen a film with Rachel once, about demonic possession. He hadn’t thought it very good, but there was one thing he remembered. If only he could believe … wait. Possession? But I don’t believe … do I?
He took a deep breath and belted out the words he thought, hoped, prayed, and maybe even believed would work.
“Our father, who art in heaven.”
She stopped laughing.
“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
She settled on the bed, eyes closed.
“Give us this day our daily bread, and …” And what?
She sensed his weakness; he had forgotten it. He couldn’t even remember the next word. He was about to stand when he heard Shirley continue, “ … Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
He finished the prayer with her and surprised himself by genuflecting afterward. While Shirley remained quiet and meditative upon her bed, Rosenfeld, the nonbeliever, had to get out of the room immediately. He grabbed Gavorkian’s arm, and they moved to flee the padded cell.
“Rosenfeld, I am not possessed by a demon.” Shirley spoke simply, quietly. “I stole the light of Lucifer and carry it within me. I must find a fitting place to rid myself of it.”
Rosenfeld turned and looked Shirley in the face. “How do you expect me to believe that?”
“I know it sounds insane, and I myself am seeking a moment of clarity—seeking one lucid moment of sanity, or solace. I cannot calm my mind, I am in utter turmoil; every receptor of my brain is in overdrive. Too much knowledge … too much energy … my organic composition cannot sustain this much longer.” Shirley pleaded, “You must help me.”
Rosenfeld could not fathom Shirley’s predicament. He was a self-proclaimed atheist, and this would take divine intervention. He motioned toward Gavorkian.
“Maybe you can help her?”
Gavorkian had no answer. “Well, I’ll have to read up on a few things. I’m not sure where to begin, but perhaps something can be done to help this troubled young angel.”
Shirley could only sustain this light for so long. The overload made her flee her physical body, and she experienced out-of-body interludes, or night flights, to relieve herself from her physical predicament. From a cloud, she watched the wind: no order, just eternal formations incessantly changing. The beauty of the ever-changing skyscape was … euphoric, she thought, losing herself within the swirl as she flew above the creamy expanse. If she could only get to heaven, she could release Lucifer’s light … she would follow the calls of the catbird as he offered her his form. She sensed the pack and flew faster to get a glimpse.
Suddenly, she felt a shattering shock. Pain ripped violently through her delicate catbird body. Blood dripped relentlessly down her feathers, drenching them in crimson.
Her bones ground together, scraping within her wings. She had heard the grouse, the titmouse, the catbird beckon to her, telling her where to go to be healed. She had almost made it, had followed the calls … heard the howl of the great medicine man …
The clouds, so magnificent, did nothing to hinder her spiraling descent from the skies above. Out of control and falling fast, Shirley felt the fear of God touch her heart for the first time in her whole existence.
A thought occurred to her as she went into free fall: had she been pushed?
As the wind shrieked though the tatters of her broken wings, she closed her eyes and awaited the inevitable impact.
Slamming into the earth with terrible force, she felt excruciating agony blast through her fractured form. She quivered and screeched out her suffering, yet no one responded to her cries for help.
Eventually, she was well enough to slowly walk away, leaving a trail of yellow and red feathers in her wake. She walked among the living, looking for help. Still hurting, she reached for the way back to the heavenly skies, to her only peaceful existence; her ruined wings would never take her home. Despair crept like a thief into her heart; her expectations were gone, her vision mortally wounded. As she had once been broken of body, she was now broken of spirit. Her head hanging low with dejection and self-pity, the fair maiden almost didn’t hear the stranger approach.
“You are lost?” the stranger asked her, but perhaps it wasn’t such a question. He was that tall, blond-haired man. A strange aura surrounded him—a taste of something hidden. She looked at him through her tears; she saw that he was familiar, yet couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There was definitely a connection. He was the handsome, blond-haired man of her dreams … but could she trust him?
“I’ve lost my way, and I’m trying to get back home,” she slowly shared with him, half expecting him to laugh and walk away in derision.
But all he said was, “I’m already aware of that.” She looked into his eyes as he went on: “I will help you on your journey.”
“I have this light,” Shirley explained. “The only place to keep it was in my stomach, so I swallowed it, and now, I am seeking a place to let it out. Then I will be free …”
Crying tears of joy, she wondered whether this angel, was sent to her in her time of nee
d to be her guide on the journey home. She reached out to touch her shining knight.
Pure agony screamed through her, jolting the catbird back from her … Maitreya? The blackened flesh of her hand matched the flesh on his arm where she had touched him. What had happened? Her heart sank; somehow it knew the hidden truth that she did not: something was very wrong.
His visage shimmered and changed in front of Shirley’s disbelieving eyes. The great serpent stood in its place; his dark eyes glowed, and wicked horns crowned his brow. But that diabolical face contorted in torture, the creature rubbing his cloven hoof over the smoking flesh. He had been charred by the touch of this fair maiden, just as she had been hurt. He looked at the wisps of smoke curling from her burned fingers, injured by contact with the serpent himself.
The horror in her heart overrode her hurt hand; she felt betrayed yet again. “Creator of purgatory, what would you know about the way home? What else would I expect from someone such as you but a corruption of goodness, deceptions, lies, and temptation? What else would I expect from a monster who leads the children of men astray?” She spoke coldly—angry now, with righteous wrath.
The horned serpent stood as he had before. “You are right about heaven; I do not know the way. I have not been there for a very long time.” His voice remained calm—with a tone that seemed disingenuous. “Shirley … as much as you do not trust me, I am still willing to help you find a place for that light that you hold within you. Angel …”
He whispered this last word before a long, drawn out pause. He then continued: “I am a creature of hell no more. I now walk among men. I saw the evil of my being mirrored in humanity, and I was repulsed by what lay within me. I look to find a higher path, rather than the path of the tempter. In helping you, maybe you can help me; I journey also. I wish to go home; the path shall be different—and, I fear, more tumultuous.”
How could she trust him—Lucifer? But what other choice did she have? The light within her was destroying her physical composition, but somehow she felt revitalized about her quest. “Very well, Uktena. I will believe you—trust you. Although my logic and common sense tell me not to, my heart tells me to give you a chance.”
The serpent nodded, silently thankful. “The way to release my … er … I mean the light … I have been here, upon this world, for a long time. I have seen many things here. You are just learning. Maybe you should allow the light to guide you.”
This gave Shirley pause. “I’m not sure if I can find a way to release this light. I’m looking for a place where the light could be used for the welfare of all mankind. Maybe you could show me what this light has already done?”
With a slightly theatrical look to the skies, the demon sarcastically proclaimed, “Angel, you do not make it easy for me. But I suppose nothing easy is ever of value, and salvation through sacrifice is the ultimate goal. I may not have divine inspiration as to where you should release this light, but I can hazard a few guesses. I will show you what my light has already done.”
He led her to a place of great greed and wealth, where men sought control and power over the earth. The stock exchange on Wall Street was a hive of frantic activity. Mounds of ticker tape told the story of their so-called futures. Barely audible above the chaos of gaining and losing, the serpent spoke: “The mortal dream of such power and the control it brings. They are afraid of the chaos of their lives, and this control makes them safe and secure. Is this a good place to release the light? No, it is an unsustainable light! But I grant this power and glory to them, because they worship me. But I pity them—their light is dying.
“Sure, you could leave the light here, but it would be ill-used. In truth, they would love such control; they seek their peace in it. But they are the ones controlled. At the mercy of the whim of their false god—that would be me—they sold their souls. Now I do not want them. I gave them power, control, and wealth beyond their wildest dreams, and in return, they worshipped me … but it is a lesser light: a flash-bang, then gone. The sad truth is, they keep coming back here through their so-called divine bloodline—life after life through me, through the dark night. Sure, I gave them that knowledge, too, and that lesser light … but their time is through.”
Shirley was shocked by the serpent’s candor.
At their next stop, they witnessed a place of glamour, beauty, fame, adoration, and fortune. They stood upon the Walk of Fame at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre; a parade of Hollywood’s elite exhibited their vanity, blinding the hawks and buzzards who surrounded them to watch and salivate. Reporters and paparazzi swarmed around the stars, snapping roll after roll of film as the music played. The commentary went on as Uktena spoke. “Look at these actors and actresses, the idols of millions. They have beauty in face and form, and the mortal dreams of such love and admiration given to them as such objects of splendor. Exquisite, are they not? They flaunt their beautiful bodies, and they want the world to bow down to them and worship them in adoration and praise.
“But then they grow old, and their beauty fades … and they become ordinary. It is to the false god of vanity—which would be me—to which they pray. But this light is the lesser light; it is not sustainable. They call themselves stars and create a walk of fame … but their stars do not shine in the heavens. They might fantasize that they do, but they too have sold their souls just to shine for their ten minutes of fame in the lesser light … pathetic, fallen creatures, chasing the beast, the unsustainable light …”
Shirley agreed, “You sound more like the grim reaper.”
The Keen-Eyed One flicked his split tongue in contemplation. “Come with me, Shirley.” He led her to a place of filth, misery, despair, and resignation. They came upon a dirty tenement in the middle of the ghetto, where the dejected residents plodded grimly, broken dregs of society living in dire poverty, suffering to slowly live out their downtrodden lives. In contrast with the prior two places, this one was deadly quiet. And to match the difference in surroundings, instead of speaking of this place as paradise lost, the serpent stood mute.
Confused, the fair maiden asked her guide, “Why did you bring me here? This is the result of your light too, isn’t it?
But all he offered in his defense was, “Shh. Shush. Listen.”
Curious, the light-bearer did so. In the seemly unending silence, she heard something unexpected and melodious: a group of children singing a joyful song. Curiosity led her onward, and she laid her almost unbelieving eyes on children singing in what remained of a burned-out building in the middle of the slum. They were singing, harmonizing, and the sound was greater than that of any angelic choir.
As Shirley continued to gaze upon this incredible sight, the demon’s voice drifted out softly to her. “Them. They are the reason I led you here. Look at their surroundings; everything—the place, the people—radiates wretched defeat. Yet there is still hope.” The serpent’s voice held a strange note—a note of reverence and awe. “They are shining stars in the void of the little hell that they live in. I come here often; sometimes, I feel they are the very last hope of this world. Listen to them sing; they have found happiness in the terrible throes of sadness. They do what any caged bird would do: they sing. This is where hope springs eternal; this is the eternal light—the sustainable light. This truly is what God sends to darkened stars to make them gleam,” he admitted, his voice tinged with jealousy.
She could hear the tears in his voice. She knew of his despair, of the likely futility of him ever leaving the earth.
“There is no place to rest this light—not here,” Shirley surmised. “This lesser light has brought nothing but misery. This lesser light is a curse—the ruin and bane of mankind.”
The serpent smiled at his own slyness; he smiled at the audacity of hope. “So where do you think the light should shine?” quizzed the ever-slippery serpent.
Shirley had an idea, but she said nothing. She needed to get out of her padded cell as soon as possible.
How thou hast fallen—
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Lucifer, you ought to feel ashamed.
The morning star no longer in the game,
I see you now, the fallen one in chains,
still pointing that accusing finger to lay blame.
An old hand now, who, through the years, has learned
his job to point in the direction—why not that?
Your legion’s weak, their scheming soon discerned:
their selfishness, their vanity, their doubt.
Temptation, the trick you used to play—
you peer from hell to higher realms and sigh.
Carrots, strings, and axes put away,
your stern facade slips. You wipe tears from your “eye”
and grasp in your hand man’s lone unsettled debt:
twice bitten, the core you won’t forget.