Rise Of The Nephilim

JUNE 6TH, 6 A.M.

ST. MAGNUS CHURCH

Father Magliano garbled the ancient words on the Christian Codices with laser-focused eyes.

At the break of dawn, at least three hours before the first mid-week morning Mass, he sat at his simple wooden desk in his understated domicile. The room contained only a small bed, a nightstand next to it, and a writing desk. Dull paint peeled from the walls.

Only the dimmed light of his reading lamp lit what was left of the worn parchment Codices of the centuries-old manuscripts.

These manuscripts were said to be the original writings of John, author of Revelation, the last book of the Holy Bible. They were considered by many to be the hallucinations of a madman imprisoned on the island of Patmos, where the Romans had exiled him because of his unwavering belief in Christ. And it was also said that his servant, Prochorus, had transcribed John’s words unto the Codices, then acted as his messenger to seven churches: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamos, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodiceans.

Phillipo had searched the globe for half his life, looking for this one manuscript. He’d begun on the Island of Patmos and continued to the holy sites of Jerusalem, Spain, and Rome.

The priesthood had not even entered his mind until he was in his late thirties. Then it seemed like the obvious thing to do since his chances of ever having a normal life—wife, children, and a home with a white picket fence—seemed somehow out of reach.

No, he was different. The apocalyptic writings from the book of Revelation consumed his mind and his every waking moment. There was room for nothing else.

His journey began strangely. He’d been a budding archeologist right out of graduate school. It’s safe to say that he felt the calling, that it was his predestined mission to search and discover the evidence that would finally lay to rest all doubts of John’s account.

After becoming a priest, nothing could quench Phillipo’s thirst, not even his faith. His appetite became more voracious for what he believed was the truth. He needed the physical evidence:the manuscript.

At age fifty-five, Phillipo went on an archeological expedition to Patmos, Greece. Some called it the “Jerusalem of the Aegean.” He had already been there several times over the years, and each expedition had ended in affecting disappointment.

After nearly one year, and having nearly given up on his calling, Phillipo’s luck had changed during an exploration of what was said to have been the Cave of Revelation, which ran between Chora and Skale, under the base of the Monastery of St. John.

After his discovery, Phillipo, with a security escort assigned to him by the Vatican, brought the delicate Codices back to the Vatican, where official historians spent weeks scrutinizing them for their authenticity.

Finally, his life had served its purpose. He had what he wanted:proof that John of Patmos had really existed, as well as the confirmation of John’s visions for the apocalypse.

Unfortunately, Vatican historians had completely discounted them; they deemed the Codices fraudulent, solely because they were dated 300 AD, centuries after it was said that John lived on the Island of Patmos.

Still, Phillipo believed in his heart that the Codices were authentic and that the historians had been mistaken.

The fact that Phillipo had been the one who’d discovered the Codices, the Vatican government allowed him to be the curator of these fictitious documents.

He studied the Codices with his seventy-year-old eyes through thick glasses, and he handled them gently, wearing clean, white gloves to prevent unnecessary contamination.

His lips quivered as he mouthed the ancient scripture:

. . . Behold a pale horse:and his name was Death and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword . . . and with the beast of the earth . . .

Even after all the years since he’d first read those same words, an ominous feeling still surged through him. And the images that Maxine had described in her dreams haunted him still.

He had not been able to make a clear connection, but he somehow believed that Maxine had an important role to play. What that role was, he didn’t know.

All the signs of the end had begun to show.

The plague of leprosy had returned, working its way through Europe and the United States. It would not be long before it would consume the world.

Disorder ruled the day.

Murder and violence ruled the night.

The world had fallen into madness.

And evil was growing stronger by the second, swelling like an aggressive weed, increasing its reach beneath the earth and appearing out of the ground like a ravenous animal, ready to consume everything surrounding it.

Phillipo felt his eyes get heavy. The power of the written words had begun to weigh on his mind as it always did, almost like a drug—first a spark of excitement and gratification, then the low tiredness that followed.

He wiped the sweat from his wrinkled forehead and loosened his white clerical collar, which, by now, felt more like a ring of metal.

He opened his eyes wider, more focused now, and continued reading. The minutes rolled by, and the words fell clumsily from his lips:

And there was war in heaven:Michael and his Angels fought against the dragon . . . and the dragon was cast out, and was called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world—

“He was cast out into the earth, and his Angels were cast out with him.”

A quiet voice finished off the verse.

Phillipo pushed himself away from the table. He looked around wildly for the person who’d spoken those words. He saw nothing but the four walls, his bed, and his simple possessions.

“Who is there?” he asked, his heart beating dangerously fast. “I ask you; show yourself.” His back pressed against the wall behind him.

Light illuminated the small room, casting highlights of white on his ash-colored hair.

He made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Dear Father, give me strength.”

He felt his heart skip several beats when a golden Angel—tall and fit—stepped out of the light, its wings expanding almost to the width of the small room.

The Angel smiled. “Do not be afraid, Father.”

Phillipo felt his body freeze in place. His lips quivered uncontrollably. In fact, his entire body trembled.

“You’re . . .you’re an Angel,” he managed.

The Angel smiled and stepped closer.

“Yes, Father. This is true. My name is Mathias. I bring you a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes, Father.”

“From whom?” Phillipo asked, his hands trembling.

Mathias smiled again.

“Ah come on, Father. You know exactly from whom, don’t you?”

He nodded in agreement.

“The Codices in your possession tell of the Fallen Angels’ descent to Earth.”

“Yes. But . . . but the Vatican historians said the Codices are not the original . . . that they are fraudulent.”

“But they are wrong, Father.”

Phillipo had suddenly felt a spark of excitement at the thought that he had been right all along. He released himself from the wall and stepped ever so slightly closer to Mathias.

“But the date? They are dated 300 AD—two-hundred years after John was thought to have been on the island of Patmos.

“That was deliberate, Father. To protect the documents from those who sought to destroy Christianity and all records of it.”

“But what if it had been found during John’s time?”

Phillipo had so many questions. And he was finally coming to terms with the glorious sight before him.

“Father, my time is limited. I’ve come to warn you. These Angels, for all these centuries, have been plotting their revenge against humanity, and against our Father.”

“But how is this possible, that they are still alive?”

“They are immortal, Father, and thrive only on the evils of this world. Only love as pure as the love our Father bears in his heart can save you all.”

“But how―”

“It will take one of the Fallen who must love humanity.”

“I don’t understand! You said―”

Mathias began to recede back into the light.

Phillipo forgot his fears and rushed toward him. “Wait! What am I supposed to do? Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

“It may be too late, Father. Prepare for the end.”

“No, wait. Tell me―”

The hard pounding from the other side of his door did nothing to distract his attention from the receding light. His head bobbed and nodded, his eyes danced around wildly under their closed lids.

“Phillipo, Phillipo!” Father Farley, his younger colleague by thirty years―a tall, but rounded man―pounded insistently. “Is everything alright?”

Phillipo’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding faster than normal. He looked around for Mathias, but the room had already returned to its dull state. He tried to reorient himself. He ran his hand through his unruly, wiry hair, and then wiped the sweat from his hands on his black clerical.

He stood up, his heart still pounding as he paced around, mumbling. What just happened? What just happened? What should I do? They already think I’m crazy, the Pope, the Vatican. I need to―!

“Phillipo, I’m going to break this door down!” Another priest, Father Davis―a short, thin man in his mid-fifties―had heard the commotion.

Phillipo heard the two men talking excitedly.

“Father!” Father Davis called.