The knowledge alarmed me, for Stephomi had said that angels and demons didn’t like us — we few who could see them — but nonetheless, when there was something that they wanted, they might come and ask things of us. I knew that I needed to be protected against such an event. If an angel asked something of me, I knew I would gladly comply; but I vowed that I would not follow in Stephomi’s footsteps and acquiesce to any demonic request that might be put to me — even if the decision cost me my life. I meant it, too. A person has to have something of heroism in them to be prepared to die for what they think is right, don’t they? I can be proud of my convictions. It’s more than Stephomi is willing to do. Not that I can really blame him. I realise that there can’t be many of us who have such an inner selflessness.
In order to prepare myself, I reluctantly took out my many books on demonology once more and read up on the fallen angels, from the Watchers to Lucifer himself and his seven Princes of Darkness. I read of Beezlebub, so called ‘Lord of the Flies’ because of the insect swarms that lingered around his bloodstained altar. I read of Belphegor — the champion of lust — and Moloch, who demanded the sacrificing of children in his honour. And so the list went on: Mephistopheles, Belial, Samael, Asmodeus, Mastema, Nisroch… each demon with their own despicable tale of sin and wickedness. I learned as much about each of them as I could so that I might recognise them if they came to me.
I studied the repulsive paintings in the antique Italian book, noting with distaste the lunatic expressions on the faces of these demons. But there was one painting in particular that disturbed me more than all the others. It was a picture of Mephistopheles by an unknown artist. The book explained that the painting had been discovered in Italy in the 1500s and the precise age of the picture was difficult to estimate. What so unnerved me about it was the distinct lack of any madness in the demon’s intelligent gaze. His thin, twisted form was undoubtedly that of a demon, but something of the angel hung about him still. The large, bedraggled wings that were curved round him like a bat had not quite lost all their white feathers. He was perched on the edge of a mountain, his feet gripping the boulder like claws as he stared down hungrily at the world spread beneath him.
It was thought that Lucifer had bitterly missed God and longed horribly for Heaven for many centuries after falling from grace. But not Mephistopheles, who had promptly followed Satan from the Heavenly realms, revelling in his newfound freedom without even the slightest twinge of doubt or regret or uncertainty.
I thought back to the way Mephisto had so cleverly turned Faust’s thirst for knowledge and self-improvement against him, and felt disgusted by the demon and his methods — to twist something good and admirable in such a way that, in the end, it completely undoes the man who once entertained notions of nobility and integrity.
I closed the book then and moved on to another, finding of all the demons it was Mephistopheles I feared meeting the most. With the other demons, even Lucifer himself, I felt that as long as I was firm in my adherence to Christianity and Godly values, they would not be able to touch me. But with Mephistopheles, it was those Godly values themselves that turned into weapons in his masterly hands to be used against the helpless men who became so inextricably entwined in his grasp.
The other thing that disturbed me was the idea that some demons are the ‘dark twins’ of angels. Two brothers on opposite sides of the bloody War. I dislike anything that connects angels with such vile creatures. Of all the angels, I like Michael the best. Head angel after Lucifer’s fall, Michael is often portrayed with sword and armour and is said to have led the heavenly army against the rebel angels and is destined to do so again in the battle that will take place at the end of time. It’s also said that Michael fought Satan for Moses’ body after his death. So I suppose Stephomi was right — angels do fight, after all. With such an infestation of demons, what other choice do they have?
The Cherubim, second highest choir of angels, were said to have been formed from the tears that Michael shed over human sins. It would seem indeed that he is a powerful force to be reckoned with, and his existence comforts me in the wake of hours spent reading of powerful, reckless devils.
I am glad that I started this journal. It is a focus; it grounds me in some sense of reality, of stability. It is an anchor for my soul, not allowing me to become too detached. I sometimes worry that all my research into angels and their fallen brothers serves only to further distance me from those around me; to further sever the already tenuous link I have to this world and bring me closer to theirs.
12th October
Last night I dreamed I was in Salem in 1692, on trial for witchcraft. The public gallery was full. There was malevolence… everywhere. Pummelling me in waves from every person in the courtroom. And ill children sitting on a bench together with their parents, too frightened to look at me. The judge walked in and everyone stood up. The muttering died down into silence as the judge addressed me.
‘Gabriel Antaeus, you stand before the court accused of witchcraft. How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty,’ I said.
The judge stared at that, as if my answer astounded him, and an excited murmur went round the court.
‘But you have already admitted to talking to Satan.’
‘No, no, I haven’t,’ I protested. ‘I’ve never even seen him! It was Mephistopheles! He tricked me! He tricked me into talking to him!’
‘So you admit to talking to demons?’
‘Yes, but I never-’
‘And what about these poor children?’ the judge asked, gesturing to the ones sitting on the front bench. ‘Isn’t it true that you cast a spell over them to cause their illness?’
‘No! That wasn’t me, it was Moloch! Look, where is Zadkiel Stephomi? He will speak for me.’
Even as I spoke I saw Moloch standing beside the kids, touching them with his unnaturally long black fingers, leaning closer towards them to mutter words of sickness in their ears.
‘For God’s sake, get those children out of here!’ I cried.
‘How dare you threaten the children in a court of law!’ the Judge roared, rising from his seat.
‘I’m not! I’m not threatening them!’ I shouted back desperately, raising my voice over the outrage of the public in the gallery. ‘It’s not me! It’s Moloch, I can see him right there! He’s cursing them! He’s the one making them ill! Find Zadkiel Stephomi, I tell you, he’ll speak for me!’
‘Silence,’ the Judge thundered, bringing his mallet down on the anvil until the noise in the room subsided. Then he looked directly at me once again. ‘Everyone here knows that a witch is incapable of reciting the Lord’s Prayer,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘If you truly mean the children no harm, if you truly are not a witch… then you will be able to recite it before us now. If you can do so, you will walk free. If not, you will be burned at the stake for witchcraft and communication with the Devil.’
I gazed at the judge, hardly able to believe my ears. ‘If I recite the prayer, I walk free?’
‘That is correct.’
Relief swept over me. I knew the prayer, of course, knew it perfectly by heart. I took a deep breath and began, ‘“ Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name… ”’ I got that far before I faltered at the sight of Mephistopheles, standing next to the judge and grinning at me. Unlike Moloch, Mephistopheles looked almost like a man, but I knew him instantly for what he was.
‘Isn’t this madness, Gabriel?’ he asked softly. ‘Nineteen men and women in the grave already because of this hysteria. These hypocrites are about to burn you at the stake. You do realise that, don’t you?’