Enoch braced himself on the waist high stone altar in the mountain grove, dropped his gnarled staff to the ground behind him, and knelt. From the fold in his belt, he removed a scroll, which he unrolled and held to the late afternoon light that sifted through the branches. Sheepskin scroll. Black ink. Simple words. A plea for forgiveness. Nothing to reveal the prideful anger smoldering behind Azazel’s eyes when he reluctantly assented to Semjaza’s wording.
Swords hissed from their scabbards.
Enoch stumbled to his feet to face three angels who stood on the far side of the altar. One, with ruddy-streaked brown hair and gold-tinted wings, bore a silver sword that glinted in the lowering light. Another, with scarlet wings and a tunic of woven copper, held a sword that glowed like molten metal. Gabriel, with his black hair and midnight-purple wings, stood between the two, unarmed.
Enoch froze. Had he offended the heavens? Then he realized that the angels’ daunting glares had locked onto something behind him. He turned to see six Watchers step into the clearing. Semjaza led with Ezekeel and Arakiba. Azazel and two of his supporters followed. Only Azazel had drawn a sword. Enoch glanced back and forth between Semjaza’s group and Gabriel’s and quickly decided he was not fool enough to stand between angels holding swords. He hobbled aside without his staff.
Semjaza inclined his head to each of the three in turn. “Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel. Peace to you.”
“Peace?” hissed scarlet-winged Uriel. His sword brightened.
Gabriel scanned the Watchers. “Did Enoch not convey the wishes of the Great One?”
“He did.” Semjaza picked up Enoch’s walking stick calmly, but Enoch knew he was anything but calm. “We asked Enoch to convey our response,” said Semjaza.
“And he is agreeable?” Gabriel turned to Enoch, his dark eyebrows arched.
“I am,” said Enoch, “if it’s allowed.”
“Shall we find out?” Gabriel extended his hand to Enoch. Semjaza held out Enoch’s walking stick, but Gabriel waved it away. “He won’t need it.”
Azazel strutted forward, returning his sword to its scabbard. “We’ll wait here,” he said.
Gabriel shrugged. “So will Uriel and Raphael.” The two did not lower their swords.
Enoch had never felt the grove so full of tension, as if one spark would engulf it in flames. He gladly took Gabriel’s pulsing hand, and they headed up the mountain, Enoch’s old, tired legs reviving with every step.
- to be continued -
© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE. Photo courtesy morguefile.com
