The Devil
A winged god of fire began his descent past the horizon. The pavilion ahead let out a shuddering gasp, the gathered crowd weary with the strain the scorching ball of fire bore them. Atop a stone stage, overlooking a grand Amphitheatre, the judges lorded above the masses; small figures arranged in a wide arch surrounding the game board of the court floor. At the furthest left end of the high podium sat a priest, draped in humble robes, flat cap, and rope necktie. His mouth sat in a flat line that betrayed neither wisdom nor submission. To his right sat the priestess, the lesser members of the clergy, and finally the glorious Empress. Upon the right wing gathered the lesser lords, the small kings of trade from across the deserts, mountains, coasts, and rivers. They wore suffering smirks and disdainful frowns along with their clean and decadent garments. The grand power of court endowed their position, and their faces betrayed a shared contempt for the poor and ignoble citizens.
At the center of the dias, behind the robed and awesome Emperor, stood a tower of unfathomable size, its peak marking where clouds rested on more merciful days. The judges could feel its unmoving presence at their back, a vessel which burned with the fury of a hellish summer. Disgust and anger festered within the Emperor like the decaying innards of a dog murdered by the sun. A putrid heat radiated off the tower, coating the pavilion and the granite dais. The trade kings scrunched noses and pursed lips in disdain.
The monolith stone beat the reflection of the sun into the elliptical pavilion. The receding power of a unforgettable past hung above the pitiful present with a lingering scorn. Somewhere, far behind the obelisk, storming thunder rumbled as heaven cast down its brilliant sons. A dark angel, thrown from the clouds above, descended with crashing thunder.
Summer months festered an inbred hostility towards fellow men, and the weak pleas and small prejudices the court had heard in the sweltering afternoon were given a roaring voice by an angry July. A deafening rumble had blown in on a furious spring wind, clouding eyes with the raining sand of bitter mortality.
The day’s final case was brought before the dais just as delirium began to dance. In the center of that mad amphitheater, flanked by a burning mob and facing a panel of vipers, a lawyer in humble dignity spoke a slow and insidious madness. It seemed at first like a river was flowing from his mouth, a cool respite of simple figures and clear truth. Reports were massing of men entering the grand empire, the numbers had grown fast. The brewing storm cast out more blasphemous sons. Years later the words “refugees” and “immigrants” would be recalled, but as the storm clouds cast down more fallen angels, a single utterance of “invaders” poured into mouths and ears like molten tar.
The black and white of that lawyer’s tailored robes muddled into a grayish blob as the sky clouded. As his words were repeated into the sun’s punishment they sang a sinister song, liquid fuel for burning tempers, the kindle for a building madness. They sang of an enemy, an evil to be punished. When the word was spoken that a foreign man had defiled a young girl, delirium again whispered throughout the crowd. Fathers grasped their wives and daughters with whitening knuckles; faces flushed with terrific rage. More tongues began to spit the devil’s song. At some uncertain place in the crowd a chant was being built, and bodies moved in rythmic outrage.
Perhaps in lesser heat, in a gentler shadow, the burning fury would have cleared the underbrush, and the giant growth would have resisted. The mob would raze the fields and only scar the city, yet now, as the dry death of a titan caught alight, the scorching flames brought damnation and hellfire. A bright and glorious past beamed down upon a squalid present; the senseless rituals were no more than pathetic nostalgia. A melody of rage floated atop the rhythmic beating of their fearful hearts. A shadow slipped through the crowd, and dancing bodies following in its wake.
Upon the high and noble pedestal, shadows fell long; twisted and mad figures which flailed and jerked in possession as the lyrics were recited by many more mouths. The trade kings of the baren deserts and the scorched rivers drank from the river of venom. It poured forth and they swallowed their own doom in gulps to coat their cracking lips and wet their parched throats. Delirium animated them, rich kings of a destitute land. When they stood to speak, mania so furiously poured out that the thundering fury of heaven was forgotten for the raging blaze of the mob.
Nerves burning with poison, legs locking in a fervor, the Emperor lurched upwards. He flailed like a marionette, crown rocking atop his throbbing skull, arms thrust upwards by the momentum of his spasm. And yet, as he opened his mouth to speak his judgement, his head turned. A face under a small cap, the radiance of a crowned angel, and a modest, impassable, habit all stared into his wise and mad soul. A gentle brown disc sat in each of their eyes; as mania raged and delirium danced, their hardened faces judged with unquestioning loyalty, total humility, and bottomless disappointment.
Lips opened and closed twice. More eyes were on the king, the devil danced below, and the merchant lords gaped in disbelief. Generals and police waited for their command like starving dogs before dinner. The boy faced the ravenous mob, his voice stammering out like a child who has embarrassed himself.
“S-ss-stop this. Do anything to stop this.”
Eyes burned into that weak noble as he turned away from the setting sun, walking towards the tower that cut through the falling storm clouds. Lightning flashed behind the uncaring pillar. Stumbling forward, he pressed his hand upon the stone, only to quickly pull it away as it blistered red and hot. The fire of the mob swelled as shouting and thunder blended into an uproar. The guards moved through the crowd, but screams never came.
The sun disappeared, the horizon went dark, and the fire burned.
