A Heart's Crucible

Materialising at gates made of pearls, Joq blinked under what she could only fathom as divine light. She counted twelve entrances, each a flawless giant pearl. A grey-bearded man who matched the saints from the icons in the basilica stood inside the primary open gateway.

Taking a brisk step forward, she focussed on the quest. Deliver the tear, hers, to God in Heaven. Without an appointment! Then she recalled the Soothsayer of Idalion knew of the Peri’s journey. Something lurked in the rear of Joq’s mind; her arrival here was not unexpected.

“Halt, winged maiden,” a hand raised, “unless you want a thousand years in purgatory while we decide your eternal residence; celestial, limbo or the inferno.”

Joq kept marching. She quickened her pace.

“Oh, I’m not dead unless I missed nine hundred and ninety-nine executions in a swoon!”

The dude appeared to be a fisherman.

“My God,” she said.

Joq stayed wary, even if he used a pristine net to catch and release monarch butterflies.

The dude with a scalloped shell broach made the sign of the cross.

He said, “you are, Bar none!”

Joq quelled her impatience before her mind piqued; she sniffed, anticipating fish. But his clothes hinted jasmine and citrus.

“Bar none, yes I’ve heard the phrase. I have a teardrop to save the Peri from a fiend named Ahriman.”

She pointed to the silk pouch.

“This silk belongs to an angel— I’ve grown attached to the pouch. I prefer to keep it. I have no idea where Ahriman’s address is. The place felt abandoned.”

“My dear, step forward; welcome and enter.”

Joq sniffed first; nothing fishy, praise heaven! She paused inside the gate and marvelled at the golden road — a match for her wingtips in her ecstasy of viewing perfection. Yet her heart wished to roam her home. She preferred the expansive but imperfect steppe, the vast sea of bending gilt grass.

“Where do I take this?” she rushed, holding the pouch in her fist.

Her hand to her mouth, she apologised.

“Sorry. I’m Joq. Your name? And please, where do I take the teardrop? And to whom do I return the silk?”

“St Peter, known as Cephas,” he responded, “which means, The Rock. A name remains a name but translates into a different tongue.”

“Yeah,” Joq arched her wings, “what’s the relevance to me?”

“Ah, the delightful Peri of the near-endless steppe. In other tongues than Kazakh, as every human, imp, or Peri would have known before the contempt of God at the Tower of Babel, your name translates as Bar none!”

“Well, I’m not questing again, ever, so let’s leave my name as Joq!”

Peter pointed, “follow the yellow brick road and the seraphim Jeremiel will escort you to God.”

She paced the golden path, and each step repaired her koylek. Finally, refreshed in mind and body, she met Jeremiel. The angel reclined at a stream edge beneath a rainbow. He rose calmly, completed introductions and guided her to God. And Joq felt relieved someone else accepted the responsibility of the teardrop and the silk pouch.

They continued an amble towards an empyrean of the softest yet purest light. Harps played soothing music, and contentment rippled through her body. Gilded fruit dangling from trees aroused her senses.

“Ambrosia,” said Jeremiel.

Joq caught wafts of floral, honey and fruity aromas.

A circle of angels sat on rustic wooden stools in a meadow.

She asked her guide, “Which one is God?”

With an open palm, he said, “The first among equals.”

Joq thought meh, God graced a grey beard and a furrowed brow. Jeremiel, in contrast, presented chatty and looked fatherly. But, she humbled her opinion. The lead guy faced much evil to sort out.

Jeremiel whispered, behind his hand, to Joq.

“The Lord of Hosts hasn’t been this concerned for the earth since the world before the great flood. And boy, did he use a total cleanse, washout solution.”

An almighty boom filled Heaven.

“Curse the burden of free will when evils emerge beyond where the sun sets and the moon rises. The heavenly host will assault Mount Kaf, release the Peri and end Ahriman.”

To seal the decree of Heaven, God uttered his name. A call, astonishing the assembly of angels in attendance because Ahriman calling the name led aeons ago to his expulsion.

So strange, the name, a sound, defying repeat or recall. As the supreme deity of the universe never used the word curse — a warble occurred in the fabric of the entire universe.

Joq let God’s vent blow like a blustery day. Besides, the directive signalled rescue — the fight releasing her friends.

“Peri, ready yourself for battle,” Jeremiel patted her buttery wing.

Joq changed her thinking when she learned the battle against evil required her services.

“Um, Peri, don’t fight.”

The angel returned the pouch to her and, without his usual explanation, stated, “Your contribution is here.”

The seraphim flew out of Heaven’s gates, Jeremiel taking Joq’s hand. She knew why, to portal to their destination, the abandoned realm.

∗ ∗ ∗

A babel of despair spread inside Mount Kaf. Ahriman considered throttling the six Dev.

They proved useless in hunting for a Peri. Instead, they babbled in a secret code known to themselves and only wished to play hide and seek with Ahriman. So he kept booting the pesky mites as far as he could hoof them.

Deranged minds scheme to the if in their hour of desperation. Ninety-nine per cent pondered the Dark Lord; perhaps near enough emerged as acceptable to infiltrate an imperfect human world.

He said, “I’ll hack and slash these sprites in a perverse reverse order.”

After a horn flex, “Dying Ember, cage the redhead and bind the bronze one on the slab!”

He watched the ghoul scan with his finger.

“No bronze, sire!”

“Geez, am I surrounded by fools,” he pointed as his chains rattled towards the high ledges.

Dying Ember caged the redhead and brought the olive-skinned Peri to his Lord.

“Where’s your sword?”

Ahriman snapped his fingers and menaced his chains.

“There, my Lord,” pointed a glowing blue finger to the base of the sapphire slab.

“Damn.”

The Dark Lord saw the nimble callow Dev carrying the steel together towards the back caverns.

“Dying Ember, fetch the sword before I fillet you!”

Then to himself, “Want something done? Do it yourself.”

Ahriman flexed his bare hands to do the job.

He planned to rip off the Peri’s damn wings at the joint and Aztec-style pull out their frickin’ beating hearts. He braced himself with the talons of his legs scoring into the solid sapphire base. Whilst his chains wrapped around the slab for support. With his joint claws, he seized the wing and tugged, drawing on a demonic force.

The bronze Peri screamed in agony! A few ligaments tore, a snap and a vibrating twang; however, her wing held in place.

Ahriman’s chains scoured the side of the filleting slab.

“Screw this! Screw the goddamn Peri! Thirsty Sea, your bloody scythe!”