Scene 8: Tales from the Ancient Book of Enoch

In the celestial garden, Enoch knelt with his eyes closed, basking in the Presence. How long his reverie lasted, he didn’t know. Did time even matter here? He felt suspended in the gracious, beating heart of Reality.

When the Voice spoke, Enoch jolted to his senses. He looked up but saw only white light. Nor had he heard the Voice with his ears. Clear and strong it had flowed into his thoughts. But it existed independent of him. In the wide-ranging realm of his mind, two bodies of thought walked side by side: his and the Other.

The Other repeated, “You’ve come with a request.”

Enoch’s spirit welled with hope, and his thoughts spilled out. “Holy Great One, you created all things and have power over all you made. I’m from the tribes of Mahalalel, descendent of Seth, son of Adam.”

The Other warmed and . . . chuckled? Did the Great One laugh? “I know you, Enoch,” said the Other. “We meet on the mountain, remember?”

“Not this close,” Enoch’s thoughts blurted. He cringed at his insolence and clapped a hand over his mouth, though he had not spoken aloud.

“Granted.” The Other sounded amused. “But I would know you anywhere, Enoch. Voice your request.”

“My tribe received your angels, my Lord, and we’re not ungrateful, for they’ve shown us great wonders and protected us on numerous occasions. But they’ve produced children who are –” Enoch hesitated to accuse the angels outright.

“– giants,” said the Other. “I know.”

“At first we welcomed their offspring, but these children grow unusually tall and strong. They’ve become unruly and destructive, and we felt it best to separate ourselves from them. I know that in all the earth, my complaint is a small thing.”

“It is no small thing,” said the Other. “It affects the entire world. Watchers left the heights, divided their attentions, and neglected their duties. Return to your people, Enoch. Gather the Watchers, and give them this message: ‘You chose to dwell within Time’s bounds, but since you are not Time’s creatures, this choice will bring you no peace. Yet you wished to live as humans, so you shall. You planted great destruction on the earth and will reap the consequences. You will witness the murder of your loved ones and lament the destruction of your children. I will give your honored positions to others who are trustworthy, and you shall nevermore ascend into the heavens.’”

Enoch bit his lip, and his thoughts raced. He had expected holy power to restrain the giants, to diminish them in strength if not stature. He had anticipated an edict to recall the Watchers, not an eternal decree prohibiting their ascent into the heavens. What would happen to them? What of Semjaza? Enoch loved his son-in-law, even though he had brought trouble.

Enoch felt the Other waiting, patient yet pulsing, aware of every thought. At last Enoch spoke aloud. “Surely you’ll not exile all Watchers. They’re not all guilty to the same extent. Semjaza was goaded by Azazel.”

“Semjaza was their leader,” the Other answered. “A leader should not be so easily influenced.”

“Semjaza loved my daughter,” Enoch ventured. “Surely love is no crime. I ask for mercy. At least for Semjaza.” He hastily added, “I’m sure there are others like him.”

The Presence thinned, and Enoch shivered at the sudden chill. “I’ll consider it,” the Other whispered in his ear. “For your sake, I’ll consider it.”

As the Presence lifted, the garden dimmed. Enoch pulled his cloak tight and rose. He took one last, longing look at the grove that reminded him of his youth. Then he turned to leave. Gabriel stood at the door, waiting for him. Enoch nodded, and they strode back across the courtyard toward the fiery entrance. Enoch was eager to see his family again, but he dreaded returning to the weight and age of his limbs.

- to be continued -

© Karyn Henley, 2011, all rights reserved, based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE, photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Scene 7: Tales from the Ancient Book of Enoch

Above the treeline, the three snowcapped summits of Sirion glowed in the moonlight, and the wind blew biting cold. Enoch had never climbed this high and would never have tried if not for Gabriel’s support. The angel’s hand on his arm provided a constant warm flow of strength to his old limbs. With every step Enoch’s spine felt straighter, his heartbeat steadier, his leg muscles firmer.

The gentle pressure of Gabriel’s hand guided Enoch toward a bank of clouds that veiled a ridge and crept like a snake into a ravine. They hiked to the cloud and entered the swirling gray fog at a steady pace. Enoch relied on the angel’s hand on his arm and the  feel of solid ground under his feet. Until he realized his feet had left solid ground. Only Gabriel’s hand kept him from crying out in panic.

At last the fog thinned to mist. Then the mist cleared, and Enoch was walking a blue-black sky filled with thousands of stars, random jags of lightning, and distant, drifting tones of music. Wind flapped his mantle and sent Gabriel’s dark hair streaming back from his angular profile. The angel’s smile reminded Enoch of the pure pleasure that lit the face of a child eagerly heading home at the end of the day.

Wind gathered and thickened at their feet, then lifted and swept them through the sky. They rushed past stars, lightning, ice crystals, islands of mist, and vague shadows. But Enoch only glimpsed these, for his gaze was fixed on the light that grew larger and brighter as they neared. It was a wall, he realized, a wall of crystal surrounded by flames.

Gabriel did not slow on his approach, and Enoch tensed as they surged straight through the flames. They landed, unscathed, in a well-swept flagstone courtyard that fronted a crystal palace and its surrounding towers. A flaming fire licked the palace walls, blazing white hot where it shielded doorways and windows. Angels with a variety of colors of wings busily strode through archways, along colonnades, and across high bridges that connected the towers to the palace.

An angel with pearl-white wings emerged from the fiery palace entrance, acknowledged Gabriel and Enoch with a nod, and stationed himself beside the white hot door with one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Good.” Gabriel released Enoch’s arm. “You’re expected. Go in. I’ll wait here.”

Enoch’s knees felt weak. He turned to Gabriel, intending to ask what he would find inside. Where would he go? What would he be expected to do? But fear had swollen his throat closed.

“Go on,” said Gabriel. “You’ll know what to do.”

Enoch nodded – stupidly, he felt. Summoning all the newfound strength in his legs, he forced himself to walk to the fiery entrance. When he reached the flame it parted, and he strode through into an inner courtyard that was as hot as fire and as cold as ice. Enoch both sweated and shivered as he glanced around.

Crystal mosaics lined the walls. Large slabs of highly polished marble in alternating black and white squares formed the floor. Overhead, three fields divided the open sky. Two were dark, one sprinkled with stars, one sparked with lightning. Between them stretched an expansive heaven as clear as water and traversed in all directions by fiery, flying cherubim.

Enoch turned his gaze to the options that lay before him. Several doors led off the courtyard and into the palace, including a tall, silver-paneled, double doorway guarded by extremely tall angels, who eyed him graciously but did not direct him. Beyond the only door that stood open, he saw a garden not unlike a favorite grove he had explored in his youth. He approached and entered cautiously.

Immediately Enoch knew he was in the right place. The familiar weight of the Presence pressed into him, stronger than he had ever felt it before. He sank to his knees and rested, suspended in awe. His petition swelled within him, but he could not voice it yet. The moment was too rich, too full. Here was his Source. His Hope. His Home. His Life. He wanted the Presence not only around him, but in him. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

- to be continued -

© Karyn Henley, 2011, all rights reserved, based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE, photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Scene 6: Tales from the Ancient Book of Enoch

Atop the bald mountain the scarlet-winged figure crouched so still he seemed carved of stone. The setting sun brightened his copper chain mail and ruddy hair. He tightened his grip on a longbow as his dark green eyes scanned the smoke rising from the plains below, then locked onto a dark smudge on the horizon. Most angels could see distant objects so clearly they appeared to be only an arm’s length away, but Uriel’s sight was sharper than most.

A gold-winged angel in gilded armor settled behind him, holding a silver spear as a staff. Red streaks wove through his brown hair, which matched the color of his dark, compassionate eyes. Raphael squinted at the drifting smoke. “They escaped?”

Uriel didn’t move. “Most of them.”

“The old man?”

“He was here in the mountains deep in contemplation and saw the attack too late. He’s headed down the mountain now, but all he can see is smoke. He doesn’t know if anyone survived.”

“I’ll tell him.” Gabriel drifted down, folding his midnight-purple wings against his thick, silver tunic. He swept stray strands of black hair off his sharp featured face, and his gray eyes glinted purple as he peered through the woods below the treeline, sensing the small figure of Enoch scrabbling down the slope.

“He can probably track the survivors,” said Uriel. “Unless the giants find him first.”

“If giants return I’ll intervene.” Michael strode into view, his long blonde hair and white wings glowing in the lowering light. Glints from the sunset sparked off his silver armor. His blue eyes narrowed as he flexed his hand over the pommel of his great sword. He growled, “If I had been there –”

“Where was Semjaza?” snapped Raphael. “And Azazel?”

“Semjaza is away on Watcher business,” said Uriel. “He’s tried to live dual lives, and it’s cost him. Azazel doesn’t even try anymore. He’s now the head of the tribe’s war council.”

Gabriel snorted and headed down the slope. “It’s going to cost them all. More than they know.”

He found the old man huffing and stumbling over roots and rocks in an effort to descend in a straight line instead of following his usual meandering path. Gabriel retained his ethereal form, for Enoch was a Seer and had met with Gabriel before. The angel caught the old man’s arm and steadied him.

Enoch clutched Gabriel’s sleeve, looking up in surprise. Then his lined eyes searched Gabriel’s face, and he whispered, “You’re my answer.”

Gabriel nodded toward the plain. “Many escaped. Your tribe moves south. I’ll take you there.”

Enoch’s grip tightened, and his gaze bored into Gabriel. “You can present our cause to the Great One. Plead for us.”

“Your cries already reach the gates of heaven.” Gabriel glanced up the mountain. “Perhaps you can deliver your petition in person. I can take you as close as the Great One will allow.”

Enoch stared at Gabriel. “I?” He not only gripped the angel’s sleeve, he tugged. “I could get closer?”

“You’ve already come closer than most.” Gabriel grinned as the old man’s eyes sparkled like a child’s. Enoch turned around, leaning heavily on his staff. Gabriel took his other arm, and they headed up the mountain.

- to be continued -

© 2011 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE. Photo courtesy morguefile.com.

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Scene 5: Tales from the Ancient Book of Enoch

Semjaza lugged a basket heaped with dried meats, apples, pears, and figs toward his oversized tent, wondering when his son would stop growing. At least the youth didn’t have wings like his father. Watchers’ children were wingless, which made them easier to watch. As if you could miss a giant. At sixteen Javan towered over him by five hands.

Javan ducked out of the tent and raised his arms in triumph. “Food!” he crowed. “I’m starving.”

Semjaza stared up at his son. Make that six hands. Maybe seven. The tent wasn’t tall enough to hold him. Soon Javan would have to go and dwell in the caverns where other Watchers had sent their towering youth.

Javan followed Semjaza into the tent, snatched the basket, and began stuffing his mouth with fruit.

“Have you no courtesy?” Semjaza dusted his hands.

“None when I’m hungry,” Javan mumbled with his mouth full.

Semjaza’s wife, Zillah, stitched skins together in the sunlight by an open flap at the rear of the tent. “Do you know how many skins it takes to clothe your son?”

“More than the last time I saw him.” Semjaza kissed her on the cheek.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “You’re never here.”

“Where do you think?” He squatted beside her. “I’ve been raiding orchards down south where there are no giants to eat the entire harvest.”

“Shhh. He’ll hear you.”

“He can’t hear me. He’s slurping and smacking.”

“It’s not my fault,” she muttered. “I can’t control a giant.” At a burp from Javan, she scowled.

Javan tossed aside an apple core and headed out of the tent. “I have to go find something to eat,” he called over his shoulder.

“My father wants to see you,” said Zillah. “He can’t control Javan either. The Watchers’ overgrown offspring are old enough to take mates, and they know it. You watch. There will be fights. They’re already bickering with Azazel’s camp.”

Shouts rang outside the tent, along with the sounds of fists hitting flesh. Zillah yanked a strand of red yarn. “What did I tell you?”

Semjaza trudged outside, where Javan brawled with Azazel’s son, Elam. Gangly youth gathered around cheering or jeering. Semjaza wanted to cheer Javan on and send Elam home with a message written in bruises. Instead he barked, “Hold! You’re endangering the camp. Stay your hands!”

“Make us,” garbled Javan, struggling against Elam’s hand clamped at his throat. He grunted and rolled and pinned Elam to the ground.

Semjaza gritted his teeth. He would make them stop. But he’d have to use angelic power – exactly what Javan wanted to see and what Semjaza didn’t want to flaunt.

Javan tugged Elam to his feet and slammed him into a tree trunk.

Semjaza sighed, drew his sword and channeled energy into it. Just enough to daze. But would that be sufficient? Short of death, what would truly make them stop their destruction? Would he someday be forced to kill Elam? Might he someday have to kill his own son?

- to be continued -

© 2011 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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