Lazarus and Medicci had long abandoned the solid and secure, yet upturned and rotting remains of
Eden. Instead, they embraced a more precarious place, in the form of featureless seas and ceaseless ether. And from their vantage point, high in the heavens, the twilight world might have appeared as a massive stillscape - its vast and shadowy face, easily seen, as to be frozen in stone. On their every horizon, an outwardly sprawling floor of smoked glass adjoined an equally expansive, star-studded ceiling, where heaven and earth blended into a linear and seamless region of blackness. For, even as far as a raven's eye might see, no trace of land remained. Still, they journeyed onward, pressing evermore deeply into the dim,
Lion's Abyss of ocean; and nothing moved, save the steady strokes of Time, marked only by the rhythmical wafting of an Eljo's extremities.
'
Swoosh – Swoosh – Swoosh...' Beneath a sturdy and steady set of wings, Lazarus maintained his long and gradual ascent, climbing even higher into the ebon heavens. And when he had ascended to such a great height, conceivably, even to shame the once-waxed wings of Icarus, he moved to level his course within choppy, southerly winds. Yet, a sudden updraft drew him quickly higher, and for a moment, nearly sideways. Straightaway, he found himself within a colossal column of seaward wind – 'twas a monstrous, moving, air mass and a rolling
river of sky, since formed by a seasonal flow of frigid air that spilled forth from the Franciscan mountain ranges and, which raced toward the warmer, upward convections of the distant Tiberian Sea. With a screaming stream of wind at his backside, Lazarus quickened his wing strokes to an unexpected and exceptional acceleration. Indeed, from a forward and stationary view of his speedy approach and sudden passing, his visage might have seemed as but a smeared and shadowy image as he roared toward northern Corsica's coastal border. Medicci hastened his own pace to match that of Lazarus' instantly perceptible and ostensibly incredible swiftness.
'
Shooom!' Altogether, the stars moved; as an unabated Time rolled over the ocean.
Yet, as the swift currents of a tightly bound river eventually ebb, when spilling into the river's wider mouth, so did the quick stream of continental air also subside as it poured over the whole ocean. Nevertheless, Lazarus had already gained significant ground, and ventured far out to sea – the massive river of air had relentlessly propelled him forward, for two-thirds of an eve, before succumbing to dissipating forces. Thus, Lazarus had largely penetrated the Gulf of Leon, even to sail deeply into an outwardly, out-of-the-way world of infinite waters, where no fowl had ever flown. And the closest living thing, which could have even remotely conceived of the notion of
'land', might have been Medicci's hellish and floating
head-things; as they now hovered in the ocean's inky and crushing depths, only a few feet above the seafloor, for to feast on fleshy refuse.
As the prevailing winds waned, Lazarus' atypical advance also slowed; so he settled into a new beat and paced his wings with the long and deliberate strokes of unassisted flight. Beneath his every lift and press of muscle and bone, his broad back methodically rolled and bowed like that of a heaving and ocean-seasoned oarsman. And even his mind was akin to that of a practiced rower, as his thoughts lay far removed from the strain and pain of physical repetition. Lazarus now considered the many possible consequences of his decision to fetch
the friar, even as he now, fully entertained his present, precarious predicament, which made its self, glaringly obvious to his senses. He could not help but to see the reflection of moonshine on the surface of the sea; and he knew that, where the moon dawns, the sun also rises – sunshine would soon take the same place, as the next reflection on the ocean's face. Unlike the flooded backwoods and bottomlands of Ahmad Alsyranqi's fish house, where he might have happened upon a spot of shade that would have afforded him, if even but a moment of dire reflection; the ocean was wide open, uncluttered, and undeniably unforgiving. 'Twas
evident to him, that when he departed the safety of the
Jewel of Eden, in his relentless endeavor to fulfill a dying friar's will, he chose to expose all of himself as but a naked and nomadic, Christian Eljo, which conceivably begged to be struck down by a bias and callous world.
However, what he could not readily see; was this: Because of his very nature, and with his extraordinary origins and proven altruism, he had truly become something
new, under the sun. Indeed, this rare combination of characteristics, coexisting in earthly form, should have screamed for many heavenly
wheels of eyes to take notice of the odd lot of circumstances, which lay within and without, and up and down, the singular path of Lazarus, and his wayward, ghostly companion. Hitherto, however, 'twas not the case, as the dim skies remained unchanged, save for the chance flicker of a falling star.
Lazarus mulled over the many grave and endless risks that accompanied a prolonged voyage over a vast and open ocean. And he remained painfully aware that he had long since passed the point of his turning back. He knew that, even if he
did desire to turn face-about and fly back to France, he would find no blessed seaward wind at his backside, but instead, a headwind from hell, and one of which he could not even fathom a means to overpower. In a word, with both ways weighed, France was further – Corsica was closer.
He flew onward, toward Corsica, even as a diaphanous blanket of haze unfurled against the moon and stars. The air suddenly warmed, but then cooled, just as quickly. At length, gusty crosswinds barreled in from the east and; at his high-flying altitude, they assailed him as erratic blasts of icy air. He was everywhere – rising and dipping, tipping and turning – weaving his way through chaotic currents. Eventually flight-fatigued and, with his wings
now rigid from frigid winds, Lazarus rolled himself into a steep pitch; and after a sustained and speedy descent, he broke his dive with a slowing glide, to settle into a more manageable and flight-worthy sky of calmer and warmer air. His strength returned; numbness subsided, and he caught a second wind. Again, he settled into an oarsman's rhythm, cutting
a straight and narrow path across the heavens. Time turned onward; and Lazarus tuned his attention inward, dismissing the plaguing sensations of tedium, tension, and windburn that now seemed to permeate every part of his weathered wings. And in his mind, he revisited the monstrous safe-haven of Mountain Mouth and its sprawling labyrinth of adjoining caverns, all of which, no light of day had ever tainted. His thoughts traveled far from him – largely away from the monotony of the journey.
From his altitude, and beneath a misty moon, Lazarus could faintly discern the ocean swells, which he knew to be, much larger than they appeared. Lazarus glanced beneath his right wing and spotted Medicci, who glided effortlessly through the air, and traveled slightly behind and beside Lazarus. And over the incessant whirr of wind that naturally accompanies open flight, Medicci called out to Lazarus, whilst pointing eastward; "
Hark, I say; a monstrous tempest comes this way!"
Lazarus looked to his left. A pitch sky marked the eastern horizon, its utter blackness, broken only occasionally, by the faint and spotted flickers of light that flashed within it. And in its indubitably unsubtle sublimities, the storm's heavenly display of hastily changing shades might have seemed truly alluring; but its ominous groans, and sudden wind gusts, also attested to its unmistakable and menacing nature. A fine mist settled over Lazarus; and with the winds now, perceptibly and unusually warm, he welcomed the faint precipitation and its cooling effect upon his skin. He stiffened his wings, yet retained his same rhythm.
"We should hasten our pace – leave the beast at our heels," Medicci advised with a notable air of concern.
Despite the growing fatigue and discomfort in his wings, Lazarus remained upbeat. He whimsically replied, "Not to fret; you shan't get wet, m'lord. 'Tis, but a bit of rain,
which we can weather."
"'Tis much more, even for
you," the ghost rebuked.
The tempest's looming gloom snuffed the stars, and only a hint of moonlight remained in otherwise overcast skies. In the waning illumination, Lazarus could no longer discern the
ocean swells, and even the moon's reflection had since faded from the once shimmering face of the sea. Yet Lazarus' attention lay fixed on the forward horizon. By his reckoning of time and distance, together with the unusual speed of his sea journey, Lazarus certainly expected to see, even a hint of land – somewhere. However, only a sprawling waterscape lay before him, even as the encroaching storm front continued its speedy, westerly advance. The storm presented itself as a tall and massive wall-cloud. The many bellies of its leaden plumes flared with ceaseless, greenish glows, and the incessant moaning of its intermingling thunders droned over the whole ocean. The fine mist gathered into light rain, whilst the once-irregular wind gusts surrendered themselves to a stiff and steady, easterly breeze. Lazarus locked his jaw and leaned into the new wind, as a whirling spray of blowing rain, spiraled in his wake. He sensed the added drag of his wet wings and soaked clothes, and fresh pains further burdened his back and shoulders.
Medicci moved evenly alongside Lazarus and, over the whir of wind and rain, loudly insisted, "Make undo haste; lest the tempest cloud our way!"
"I see no Corsican shore," Lazarus barked. "Have we not flown the full distance? Do you see land?"
"None," Medicci rejoined, "We must move
quickly!"
Lazarus shook a stern and sodden head. "And I shall
tire, as quickly! There is no land for to rest!"
At length, when the last hues of lunar light dwindled, 'twas as though, an immense pall of the deepest darkness had swallowed the whole world. Nonetheless, the Eljo and his ghostly companion could clearly see through the outwardly unbounded shroud of obscurity, even to discern the topmost edge of the front. High overhead, the dense crest of the storm resembled a massive, black, double-headed wedge that deliberately moved to divide the heavens into three parts – the slow-moving and seafaring beast cleaved the skies with its own, perpendicular path. And within its voluminous and illuminating interiors, bright and flowing bolts of light interweaved one another as well-defined and ever-branching veins. The eastern horizon was afire with persistent bursts and serpentine glows. As well, the once rumbling heavens now tolled with a cacophony of explosions and crackling thunders, and; in chorus, the massive blasts might have seemed as if to compete with one another for the sharpest crescendos and most deafening expressions. The steady, easterly breeze turned erratic, morphing into an unpredictable and discordant ensemble of intense turbulence. Then, a hard and cold rain claimed center stage, and drenched Lazarus, chilling him to the core. Still, he never wavered from the shortest course to Corsica, even as he tipped and dipped through treacherous currents. The harsher winds taxed him – they drained his energies as, different pains assailed his extremities. And what was even more, with every seemingly extreme event revealed, both, within and without Lazarus; perhaps the most prevalent matter might have been, that the full brunt of the tempest had not even begun to present itself.
The ghost advanced, slightly ahead of the Eljo, and scolded him, "You shan't outlast the likes of her; she's a
ship-eater, Lazarus!"
"I can fly no faster," Lazarus yelled, through the bellowing wind. "I shall overly tire!"
"'Tis too late for flight; she's now upon us," Medicci exclaimed. "And she'll rip your wings and cast you down, lest you put the burden of her fury,
beneath you!" He thrust an arm, overhead. "Lazarus, you must climb
atop her!"
Lazarus shot an eastward glance, peered deeply into the belly of the beast, and saw its forthcoming ferocity – Medicci was on the mark, for to fret, so. Lazarus pursed his lips and clenched his teeth; yet, his initial perception, of utter frustration, hastily faded with the advent of a more potent emotion; and an outwardly allusive and profound sense of impending loss, now drowned that formerly fleeting feeling. Within his entire essence, the memory of Friar Nicholas' earthy boots seemed to prevail, even as he doubled himself over, in a move to remove his most cherished, earthly possessions. Without skipping a wing-beat, he shed both of his burdensome, waterlogged boots and sacrificed them to the boundless, black abyss, beneath him. And, with naked feet and a greatly lightened load, the Eljo drew a deep breath, and hardened a pair of newly upturned wings for his eventual, and wholly essential, ascension into the heavens.
Now, thoroughly annoyed by the assiduous storm, which called for the complete and immediate surrender of his leather soles, Lazarus quickly tapped into new reserves, lunging skyward, flying directly for the storm's horned-like head, and toward the double-pronged wedge of its lofty crest.
Heave; Press; Draw...Heave; Press; Draw... Like a careful mountain climber, scaling the face of a great precipice and, whose limbs remained keenly aware of every rocky crevice and outcropping – or even a frantic fish, swimming steeply upstream, with thrusting fins that worked to minimize all aqueous resistance – Lazarus pressed himself into the heavens whilst allotting an acute attention to the intricate workings of his wings. He counterbalanced their tilt, lift, and lilt, swiftly and repeatedly, against every marked tide of countering winds that moved to diminish his upward, aerial advance. Nevertheless, the heavy shower turned into an outright downpour; and Lazarus lowered his head, for to shield his face from the pouring rain, even as his hunched and unnatural posture placed terrific strains upon the connective fibers betwixt his neck and shoulders. Still higher and higher, he climbed, through the torrent of black rain, intense flashes, and horrendous crashes that marked his every side. Driving crosswinds and massive downdrafts slung him every-which-way; he swerved and veered, struggling to maintain an upwardly direct course. Indeed, Lazarus' lengthy ascension was deliberate and demanding; and his forward progression might have resembled the pathetic pace of a persistent pedestrian who strode against the incline of a muddy hill and, where every, fully drawn step, earned, but a smidgen of the expected distance. The Eljo quickly depleted much of his reserves and found his self, heavily winded and immensely fatigued. Even more, the cold air had since numbed a large part of his senses, and he could no longer localize his strains and pains – collectively, they seemed to converge into a cohesive and omnipotent 'screech', which permeated his entire person. And in the white light of his blinding suffering, Lazarus' thoughts escaped to a single childhood memory, where he recalled himself, sitting in the abbey's Baston Crypt with his father, in the quiet shadows of candlelight glows, and whispering recitals of passage, from the biblical trials of Job. The memory was fleeting, however; as his mind hastily condemned all suggested likeness of his own life, to that of Job's. '
After all,' he gathered, '
he was nothing like the good and godly Job; he was merely a devious and evil Eljo, who had tricked the abbey friars with a face cowl, fled his ordained destiny, and failed to sacrifice himself for, to serve as a sacred, stone fixture, atop God's cathedral.' And Lazarus likewise surmised that the very storm, which he now faced, was conceivably, the very Face of God, which came to stop a fleeing Eljo from freely roaming the world – and, of course, he was certainly no match for the
Wrath of God. Lazarus stopped climbing. He leveled off, gasping for breaths in the pounding rain, whilst hardly countering the crosswinds that flung him about.
No!" Medicci lunged forth and commanded an overwhelming presence in Lazarus' face. "You must
persist, a might more; you're nearly atop her, Lazarus!"
Lazarus shook a heavy head and panted, "'Tis too much...shall hold...
here."
"And
here, you shall
die," Medicci screamed. "Her crest is just above us; we are nearly clear of her!
Climb higher; damn you!"
Perhaps there was a lingering flame left within Lazarus, which remained unfed by the fuels of frustration, desire, or determination. And his new moves might have been born out of sheer desperation; or they may have stemmed from an awesome fervor to survive. Even more, they could have simply been reactionary, with him being completely unaware of the moment, and doggedly responding to barked and trusted orders, which called for his direct action. Whatever the catalyst, Lazarus protested with a hoarse howl as he ripped the drenched and fluttering shirt from off his chest, and slung its added wind-drag into the darkness. And in the same, unbroken motion, he thrust his face toward the pouring heavens and plowed upward. In an almost mechanical roll of repetitive moves, he established an outwardly unrefined rhythm, where his heavy breaths marked every wafting of his pale wings. He blew like a galloping steed, gasping in the thin and frigid air.
"
Umph-awe...Umph-awe...Umph-awe..."; his breaths became outbursts of cyclically vented steam, which steadily fogged with his deliberate heaves and strokes. At length, the rains calmed and the winds eased as he verged upon, and penetrated the massive, black sky-wedge. The storm's haze parted itself to reveal a truly glistening moon; and even the stars gleamed sharply with shimmering glows. Lazarus had lastly climbed atop the tempest, and placed her roiling fury squarely beneath him.
A robust and southerly breeze bathed Lazarus, adding lift to his wings and warming them as well. The steady blow of wind allowed him to ride its current in much the same manner as, would a stiff-winged and highflying bird-of-prey. With minimal exertion required for flight, he gathered his strength and wit, both of which, the storm had since taxed in his arduous ascension. And as he soared atop the great tempest's ceiling, Lazarus marveled over the outwardly astounding skyscape that sprawled before him. Beneath a bright moon, the endless, flat clouds resembled a white and misty, panoramic landscape, which all but begged, for to be stridden upon – 'twas indeed, a heavenly scene of seemed serenity. Its picturesque presentation of outwardly untainted tranquility belied the raging fury beneath its pale skin, and; if not for the many patches of flashing light that randomly lit its surface, and the immutable and pervasive rumblings of thunder, Lazarus could have imagined that he had truly flown to heaven. Suddenly, the southerly winds died and a deathly stillness hung in the air.
"A heavenly view of the belly of hell, if you will," Medicci bellowed. "Ready your wings, Lazarus!"
Lazarus looked in Medicci's direction, and found the ghost to be peering upward and behind them, toward the northern skies. He followed Medicci's gaze, and looked over his shoulder to discover a second, much higher storm, which now barreled in on his heels. "Dear God," he gasped; and immediately, he felt as though, every drop of hope had bled from his being. Lazarus lowered his head, placed prayer-folded hands over his nose and mouth, and considered his latest and gravest predicament.
Far below him, numerous umberish flashes radiated throughout the umbrages of the tempest's hazy ceiling; and high above him, a massive, black nimbus incessantly pulsed with innumerable beacons, of the deepest, emerald green – Lazarus found himself trapped betwixt two distinctly different and converging sea squalls. The lower tempest lumbered eastward, crossing practically perpendicular to Lazarus' path, yet the much higher mistral-head pursued a more southeasterly course, toward the shores of Western Corsica, and hastily moving in the identical direction of Lazarus' intended line of flight.
"Climb higher," Medicci shouted, "Move ahead, and
above the new storm – that we needn't fly
through it!"
"'Tis too late," Lazarus cried. "The winds have stilled; they shall soon turn, even before I reach –
A frigid wall of bice and gale-force winds slammed into Lazarus' backside, hurling him forward and sending him, nearly head-over-heels. He quickly recovered; however, in the terrific turbulence that now engulfed him, Lazarus desperately sought to maintain his balance. He threw the weight of his arms and legs outward, and flew with a completely sprawling posture. His newly assumed position triggered a terrible drag and significantly slowed his advance, yet the added balance of the unnatural stance saved him from tumbling wildly through the powerful gale.
"The winds have turned...too great...has me, firmly pinned!" Lazarus exclaimed in clearly strained intonations. And if the destructive winds were not enough for Lazarus to attest to the approaching gale's ferocity, he could certainly discern the devastating effects of its profound ferociousness, in the extreme and sublime, and nearly divine events which now unfolded before and beneath him. He witnessed, the once smooth ceiling clouds of the lower tempest, bowing upward and curling away from him to form immeasurable swirling spindles, which might have altogether resembled, the raised hairs on the back of a startled dog. And whilst the gale violated its crest, the tempest passionately churned, its disturbed surface now heaving and leaning like swollen seas. Enormous rifts formed throughout its topside, exposing its lower, lightening clouds – 'twas as if a fantastic and gigantic, unseen claw had deliberately raked deep ruts through its head. The ravaging gale, which now trapped Lazarus, was a dense sky-monster that hastily mounted the lesser tempest, corrupted its face, and moved to devour its form. Truly, the gale was greatly more than a ferocious storm – 'twas a
predator of storms, a highflying
Charybdis, and a firmamental
tempest-eater.
Medicci sped forth, to hover just above and in front of Lazarus. He commanded his full attention before shouting, "You must climb, as before, Lazarus! Breach this new storm!"
Lazarus reacted with a stark glare of disapproval.
Medicci thrust an arm in the air and gave him a coarse directive: "
Upward and
onward, Lazarus!"
"I am no floating ghost who might
dismiss the winds upon my every whim, Medicci," Lazarus decried. "And I cannot fly,
forever – or, to
Heaven, even! I am but flesh and bone; and regrettably, I am incredibly moved by my lasting pains of strains!" High overhead, the fat, black forehead of the ravenous gale hastily overtook Lazarus, swallowed the whole moon at once, and left him in the heavy shadows of its outwardly solid and bulging,
Buddhaesque belly.
'S-S-SH-SH-PH-PH!' Abruptly, the skies parted to release towering walls of freezing rain; and perchance, only Noah might have known how the heavens could have held the voluminous and superincumbent mass of such a great deluge, so high above the earth, before inundating it with sweeping sheets, and whirling curtains of water. Lazarus now treaded through a celestial and torrential flood. And forthwith, the
Neptune's Gale descended upon the lower tempest and wholly consumed her space; and the once empty and ethereal boundaries that separated the two heavenly bodies, had completely collapsed. Fully, the two monstrous fronts converged into a single, marvelous, and roiling form, which commanded monumental dimensions of skies and seas – 'twas so massive in size and scale that conceivably, if only by degrees, the entire earth listed and quivered beneath its Herculean ferment. And as the two storms fused, they prolifically spawned betwixt them, countless interconnecting columns of cyclonic winds, which were like whirling pillars that abruptly erupted, all about Lazarus. Certainly, the many whirlwinds may have gone unnoticed, when viewed through a man's naked and natural eye; however, through a probing Eljo's gaze, Lazarus could readily perceive their wraithlike presentations as whirling shafts of wind and rain – and much more, even. Within the very cores of the many scattered vortexes, Lazarus gathered the pulsing luminescence of a practically imperceptible and deeply green radiance. And through a fixed and fast eye – a primal and predatory eye that was wholly designed to slow Time for its own, more meticulous witnessing of quickly happening events – Lazarus discerned that the pillars' pulses, in fact, emanated from glowing stacks of discrete, light rings, which hastily descended through the cylindrical confines of the whirling columns. He saw them fall toward the earth, swell in radiance, and combine themselves into brilliant bursts of energy. In turn, these distinct discharges united with the pulsing surges from other columns to form blinding bolts of light that coursed wildly through the skies. Unbeknownst to Lazarus, he was pinned within the chaotic and deadly nursery of the combined storms, which bore the very seeds of their collective lightening.
Instantly, the downpour intensified; and rain filled the skies so thickly, that the Eljo might have fared better, had he morphed into a flying fish. Incredible strains marked every upstroke of his wings, making it nearly impossible for to keep himself aloft. "Leave me, Medicci," Lazarus bellowed through the pummeling wall of water. "You must find land, at once!"
"Can you not climb?"
"I can only
drown – go,
now!"
"I am not
all-seeing," Medicci replied. "I am merely, me!I cannot leave you, lest I loose your
whereabouts!"
"
You shall find my whereabouts in the sea, soon enough," Lazarus exclaimed.
Medicci veered close to him, and called into his ear; "If I depart, then you must give me your word that you shall hold your same, unwavering course! It shall be a feat, even to find you –
"My only course is,
down – now,
go!"
"Keep
steady – hold
fast, Lazarus," The ghost cried, his voice falling away as he plunged into the storm's iridescent and hellish depths, and quickly vanished.
With Medicci's departure, the heavens turned dreadful, as every drop of rain froze into a bead of ice; and altogether, they poured over Lazarus like an avalanche of spilling sand...or falling pebbles...or dropping rocks. Mere wings of flesh and bone were no match for a phenomenal storm of stones. And, although Lazarus lumbered forward, holding true his course, his was a descending course, since the gale's hailstorm steadily pressed Lazarus downward, and slowly swallowed him into the self-same bowels of its stormy and flashing fury.In but a short space, he descended into a deadly slice of sky, where electrical charges rode the swift ice currents of whirling winds; and where deafening explosions jarred every red and white fiber of his being. For Lazarus, the lightning became so completely blinding that its sudden brilliance appeared as, but flashes of blackness; and its subsequent thunders resembled, almost inaudible thuds, interposed betwixt a shrilling and lingering ringing, within his inner ears.
Dear God; I cannot...Medicc
Twice, Lazarus flipped within the ferocious winds before collecting his aerial balance in a limb-splayed posture. His frozen wings burned, their membranous flesh partly torn and bleeding.Even so, he sensed more pressing and lasting troubles, which outwardly called for his utmost attention, as his wing joints and tendons were now bruised and strained – cramping, even. The falling ice continued to pummel him as he plowed forth.
"
Umph-awe...Umph-awe...Umph-awe..." he groaned. Lazarus' plaguing pains hastily mounted; his sight dimmed, and his mental convergence wholly blurred. Again, he flipped, and rolled thrice sideways before recovering. New and acute tissue wounds seemed to scream throughout the entire muscular runs of his back; and he became nauseous and vomited – Lazarus was all but finished. He searched the lower storm through tearful eyes. Below him, and even beneath the storm's phosphoric ether, he knew that a solid surface of either land or sea lay; and whichever it was, he would soon find himself, face-to-face with
it.
The Eljo crossed his forearms and shielded his face from a forthcoming blast of wind and hail. Then he tucked his wings and rolled into an outwardly gut-wrenching dive – his angle of descent was all but as steep as a freefalling stone. He bolted toward the earth, whilst turning like a top, even as he dived into the direction of Medicci's disappearance. His soaked hair fluttered wildly, tugging at his scalp; his wet pant legs whipped and popped, blistering his ankles. The abrasive hail might have felt like sweeping shards of airborne glass, driven by the blast of a massive sandstorm. Lazarus' tendons and tissues creaked and bowed as he leaned headlong into a roaring and seemingly driven wind – a lethal wind, bent on prying apart his wings, twisting his neck, and shredding him into a disconnected mess of a million, wind-strewn parts. And in that defining moment of newfound, horrendous pain, Lazarus realized that he had made a grave mistake – whilst embarking on such a precipitous and hazardous dive, he had failed to take into consideration, the multiplicative effects of, the flipping and countering elements of such a furious and combined storm-front.
Barely, did Lazarus have the strength to keep his wings bound tightly. And his wings were certainly too weak and numb to counter the subsequent force and drag, which would accompany their gradual and laborious unfurling. As he blazed downward like a falling star, his mind raced with options and consequences, even as he remained acutely aware of the fact that, once he moved to open his wings for to slow himself, he would have to obey the wind's force and follow through with their opening. Inasmuch, with Lazarus' wings only partly unfurled, the wind would have a sturdy hold on them in its attempt to steer them further open; and if he attempted to retract them again, and go against the storm's demonstrative power, then his do so would set the stage for and outwardly impossible, anatomical feat of strength. As it was, Lazarus hardly had the reserves to keep the tempest
out of his wings – and
therein, laid his dilemma. If he let himself go, perhaps in a fatal moment of overwhelming fatigue, and surrendered the whole of his wingspan to the wind, especially in the midst of an unexpected updraft of flipping and countering gusts, then he would surly slow himself; however, the wind would win, but not before twisting his wings unnaturally backward and breaking their every bone. In the end, he would still be falling, yet, with him now thoroughly destroyed and, undoubtedly unconscious from the added agony of the extreme event.
Lazarus drew a heavy breath, thrust his arms and legs outward, and surrendered all of his self to the besetting evils of the beastly storm. Straight away, his new move proved somewhat successful, as he slowed himself with the added drag; however, he now whirled 'round like a spinning pinwheel, with limbs splayed and, him still, swiftly falling. Indeed,
whilst Lazarus careened through a sky of hail, he could do nothing more for to slow himself, save to risk the use of his now weary and nearly useless wings – a wise or foolish doing that may celeritously save him, or slay him in the same. As it would happen, for good or worse, or by miracle or curse, the core of the matter remained such, that his precise timing would indubitably dictate his fate.
Nevertheless, Lazarus safeguarded his wings and, in his freefall, he begun to spin 'round and 'round, circling evermore quickly until; at length, his life's essence pooled within his head, arms, and legs. Thusly, whilst he whirled about like a celestial wheel, Lazarus' fluttering heart fell, starved for blood. His wide-eyed, bloodshot, and glassy gaze was all but a seasoned drunkard's stare, looking everywhere and nowhere in the same. In that seemingly dizzying spell of gyratory descent, Lazarus' mind drifted queerly, as might, would that of a mortally wounded man – a mystified and dying man, since intoxicated by an ostensibly, palliative and dissociated, sense of self. Altogether, his mind moved to an alternate awareness, almost absent of bodily feeling – a warped wakefulness, invariably induced by the throes of a body's impending and outwardly inevitable end. And like a miniscule spec of spinning ash, settling far from the ferocity of a distant forest fire, Lazarus was akin to a rolling drop of rain that became lost in the vastness of a massive and assailing sea storm.
Lazarus' swift motion of rotation resembled the maniacal hand of a mechanical timekeeper that presented passing days in simply seconds, and even months, in mere moments. Round and round he spun, even as
Time might have turned, as fluid as a slow-flowing liquid. In his basal brain, and deeply from within its rudimentary self, Lazarus could readily discern Time's omnipotent and lasting presence; 'twas even, as if he could feel the curved surface of its now, newly predictable and largely bubble-like shape. And betwixt the flashes of lightening and their thunderous crashes, Time appeared to project a cascade of flickering recollections from its convex face, all of which, concurrently moved through his mind's eye. In the bright white of it, he witnessed whole seasons of memories, and saw all of his life, at once – 'twas more vividly and differently presented than perhaps, through any former and more fleeting form of mental memoir. As such, his entire life's collection of reminiscences, which once seemed as but dryly conveyed, cerebral regurgitations of past happenings, now seemed more like clouded, skewed, and distressing hallucinations. What was more, his freshly twisted recollections now came with new and troubling emotions – feelings of fretfulness, frustration, and confusion, which might oft occur when the brain is unable to relate, or reconcile its latest sensations against its prior experiences. Analogously stated, if a relatively infinitesimal or myopic mind was abruptly exposed to the quintessence of particularly appalling art forms, or even striking exhibitions of, grotesque expressions and uncanny concepts, then it may likewise experience a lesser but similar mix of abysmal passions that now plagued Lazarus' brain. And as the Eljo fell from the heavens, whilst spinning wildly through the raging gale, 'twas as though, he madly witnessed every twisted brushstroke and unbridled chiseling that shaped and draped his genuinely grotesque and fantastical existence:
cathedral, father, crypt and catacombs ~ friars, squires, soldiers and death ~ cave, swine, sunlight and death ~ chains, pit, prisoners and warlords ~
wine, women, war and death ~ swine giant, wasteland, fisherman and death ~ black river, white gulls, black ocean and graveyard ~ glowing ghost, ghost-ship, droning skies, incessant seas-
CRASH! A massive shaft of lightening plunged directly alongside Lazarus as it smote the ocean in a sudden explosion of steam. The immense pillar of hellfire sliced the skies with an omni-piercing light, and its colossal compression and consequent vacuum instantly and simultaneously slammed Lazarus in contra-lateral directions. Patently, he was no match for the very
Staff of God, as his injuries were immediate, extensive, and grave. Searing heat directly scorched his flesh; successive counter-concussions thoroughly bruised his body, distending and collapsing his lungs with a straight blast and rapid void of ether; yet, perhaps his more serious and staid state of being stemmed from the proximal, electrical envelope of striking lightening, which nearly nullified all of his anatomical abilities. He was completely stricken; his mind, confined to a state of catalepsy – his now epileptic brain suffered a sudden and absolute suspension of all sensation and volition. Lazarus was unconscious, and still in speedy freefall, whilst winds tore at his tucked wings.
Down, he fell, lifeless and tumbling, as an arching trail of steam coiled behind him. Blood-streaked wings popped open, slung backward, and fluttered fiercely in place. His speed slowed, his spinning ceased, and he now fell erratically, his winding path of descent perhaps resembling that of a tipping and dipping kite with its lifeline cut. And even with a roaring ocean of air to assail his brow, he was without wind – not only was Lazarus not breathing, but his heart also sputtered and stalled from the icy, blue blood that promptly pooled into it. Still, he fell, rolling and veering through the hissing hail; and like the steady row of unsecured, storm-ridden sails atop a distressed ship, the writhing spans of flesh within his wings repeatedly popped with a perpetual whirr. Down and down, he plummeted
through the flashing and crashing, nimbus mess, falling headlong, toward Poseidon-sized ocean waves, and to an almost assured, watery grave.
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Lazarus' lifeless form cleared the lowest clouds. End-over-end, his body turned and tumbled through blowing sheets of hail and rain. And all about him, the incessant glow of sporadic lightening illuminated the soaring, ocean swells, even as vicious crosswinds clipped their countless, churning crests with lateral sprays of seawater. Lazarus blazed toward the ocean's surface and; maybe, if he could have seen its colossal swells, he might have gathered their rolling bodies to resemble the heaving backs of, a herd of a million slowly swimming and semi-submerged sea monsters. Had Lazarus been sentient of his surroundings, he might have spotted the far formation in the eastern horizon. The remote, whitish rise did not heave and fall at all, as did the nearer, greenish, sea swells – its sprawling and unmoving contour remained peaked, as perhaps, would the unwavering lay of land. By and large, the distant and fixed form might have portrayed itself beneath the flashing heavens as a plausible coastline of white-rocked cliffs, which flickered like a frenzied beacon, betwixt an inky sky and sea.
Yet, maybe a marvelous and tranquil darkness had since imprisoned him from within, as Lazarus noticed
nothing. 'Twas perhaps a blessing, that he was now lost in self-obscurity, at such a gravely vital moment in his life, and not be made to witness every dreadfully painful and dragging second of his very demise. After all, when one is quickly living and dying in the same, then perhaps, only the obliviousness of utter darkness is able to afford him, the magnificence of
'Nothingness', with its outwardly tremendous and untremulous intensity of Tranquility. Indeed, even as an unconscious Lazarus fell quickly from the skies, he might have sported a quaint smirk of seemed satisfaction, like that of a fresh corpse.
Lazarus, now wholly unaware, failed to witness a second, more severe and wraithlike surge of slanted lightening. The
magnormous column of bluish brilliance cleaved the heavens, lanced the ocean's depths, and all but obliterated the bodies of several swollen sea swells that, only moments before, heaved heavily, directly beneath him. Likewise, Lazarus did not look upon the massive and perhaps, divinely driven aftereffects of the discharge; as the sea exploded into a monstrous geyser of tightly whirling water that unnaturally spun upward, enveloped him, and hastily hindered his fall. Nor did he notice the origin of the brilliant bolt, which blazed from out of the southwestern heavens. Its proximal skies lay filled with lavender flashes that might have revealed, if only faintly in its firmament, the silhouetted visage of a gigantic knight, with fully drawn and seaward-slanting sword. In all, Lazarus sensed nothing, even as the unnatural funnel of water slowly unwound, in level dissipation, and gracefully lowered his lifeless body into the sea. At length, the ends of his ebon hair disappeared beneath a steamy ocean surface that now rolled and ebbed with the bloated and floating bellies of perhaps a billion lifeless fish, since slain by a brilliant and slanting strike of light. Abruptly, the black sea swallowed him up.
Downward, he drifted, rocking to-and-fro in the ocean's turbid undertows. Lazarus descended like a flat and sinking river rock that sought its final resting place atop a murky river's bed. Even deeper, he sank, passing through deathly quiet undercurrents, and leaving a whirling trail of rising bubbles in his wake. In the ever-growing and frigid depths, his pale wings washed over him like submerged sheets and ghostly-flowing cloth. Still downward, he spiraled into the sea's darkening depths, finally to become, but a formless feature in its brackish blackness. And although he lay lifeless – trapped within himself – he was well aware that he had submerged into the ocean, and was sinking to his death. His mind cried out to an unresponsive body – a body, which burned in pain; yet neither his body, nor his mind, could overcome the traumatic disconnects of a dying self.
[More Chapter 20 To Come...]
