As Enoch’s feet touched the bald stone of Sirion’s peak, the shroud of fog swirled, and a white-winged, broad-shouldered angel emerged. Enoch lurched into Gabriel.

Gabriel steadied Enoch and chuckled, but his smile was thin and tight. “Meet Michael,” he said.

Michael nodded, his blonde hair dripping with mist. Enoch tried to smile, but the angel’s silver armor and the set of his jaw were unnerving.

Gabriel held out the scroll to Michael, who waved it away. “I’ve been told,” said Michael. His nostrils flared, and he gazed in the direction of the grove as though he could see through the fog.

“We’re to allow Enoch to deliver his message first,” said Gabriel.

“That’s wise?” asked Michael.

Gabriel shrugged. “The Watchers sent him with their petition. He returns with the response.”

“You’ll keep him safe, then?”

“I’ll try.”

Michael snorted and headed down the slope. Enoch’s legs felt as stiff and heavy as logs. He gripped Gabriel’s rock-firm arm and made himself walk. Michael slowed to allow them to catch up.

The fog thinned as they descended, and at last Enoch spied familiar landmarks: the slant of twin cypresses to the east, the overhang of the rock formation to the west. Then through the trees ahead, he saw the secluded grove, its altar flanked by Uriel and Raphael, still holding their swords. On the far side of the grove, Azazel inspected his blade, while his two supporters paced behind him. Semjaza, leaning against a broad trunk, wiped his brow on his sleeve. Ezekeel and Arakiba sat on a boulder nearby, eying the others uneasily.

Azazel and his two followers stilled when Gabriel and Michael ushered Enoch into the grove. Ezekeel and Arakiba rose, alert. Semjaza stepped forward and handed Enoch his walking stick. Enoch read the question in his eyes but looked away, which was answer enough. As he hobbled to the center of the grove, he saw Gabriel slip the scroll to Raphiel.

Branches bobbed in the sighing breeze, a forest creature skittered through the underbrush, a crow squawked a warning cry and flapped away through the trees. The Watchers stood silent, balancing on the thin line between their past and their future.

Enoch felt as if he had swallowed a wad of wool. He took a deep breath and let his mind return to the floor of fire and the brilliant throne. He heard again the Great One’s message, and he repeated it. With every word, the Watchers grew more agitated. Before Enoch had finished, Azazel was red-faced, shouting, shaking his fist and his sword. Enoch raised his voice to be heard: You shall have no peace! As the words left his mouth, his feet left solid ground, and the grove erupted in fighting.

Gabriel swept Enoch into the woods, set him down among the trees, and darted back to the grove, drawing his sword. But Michael had already subdued Azazel’s two supporters. They lay groaning on the ground beside Azazel, who struggled to no avail as Uriel bound him. Raphael crouched in a menacing stance before Semjaza, Ezekeel, and Arakiba, who had dropped their blades at his feet.

Sword in hand, Gabriel scooped up the scroll, which lay beside the altar. He read it aloud, clearly and without malice. “Bind Azazel and cast him into the darkness to await judgment. Except for Semjaza, all former Watchers must choose: Forfeit your wings and become fully human, or join your children, the giants of the land, who are under siege from the forces of heaven.”

“And I?” asked Semjaza.

Michael glared at him. “We give you a head start. You’re appointed leader of your giants.”

The color drained from Semjaza’s face. “The evil spirits.”

Gabriel tossed the scroll to Semjaza. “You’re their captain now.”

Michael’s white wings whipped out as he pointed his sword at Semjaza. “Go!” he yelled.

Semjaza ran.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE. Photo: The Fall of the Rebel Angels, Pieter Breugel the Elder, 1562, courtesy Angels, Dover Publications.

Gabriel pointed to the archway that led to the garden where Enoch had last heard the Voice. One angel stood guard. “The portal stands open,” said Gabriel.

Enoch nodded his thanks. As he headed for the garden, he chuckled at his spry gait and the giddy desire to trot, skip, leap. With effort he governed his impulses and strode as calmly as he could. But before he reached the entrance, the angel guard extended her silver wings and blocked the way. She motioned to a covered walk that led to a stairway. Enoch turned to Gabriel for confirmation.

Gabriel’s dark eyes widened as he stepped to Enoch’s side. “Are you certain, Hanael?”

“I am.” The angel smiled and lowered her silver wings. “You may escort your friend.”

“Yes. Well . . .” Gabriel smoothed his black hair. “An unexpected privilege.” He dusted off Enoch’s cloak and straightened its shoulders.

Enoch searched Gabriel’s face, which held a tentative smile.

“We’re to approach the throne room,” said Gabriel.

Enoch ran his hand through his own hair. “Enter the throne room? Of the Holy Great One?”

“I didn’t say enter. I said approach.” Gabriel took Enoch’s arm and guided him down the covered walk. “Although who knows?” Gabriel mused. “I didn’t expect to get this far.”

At the top of the stairs they crossed a tiled courtyard, which fronted a palatial building. Angels with fiery wings guarded its flaming doors. The angels parted to allow Gabriel and Enoch to enter.

Enoch trembled as he and Gabriel stepped through the blaze onto a floor of fire. High above, lightning streaked across the paths of a thousand stars, and ahead, beyond an open archway, stood a crystal throne. Streams of flaming fire flowed from beneath the throne, Cherubim stood on each side, and upon it sat the Great One with robes glowing brighter than the sun, whiter than snow. Enoch’s eyes watered at the brilliance, and he looked away.

The familiar Voice spoke. “Come, Enoch, and hear my word.”

Gabriel ushered Enoch forward. They stepped to the archway, but there Gabriel halted. He knelt and tugged Enoch down. Enoch went to his knees, staring at the blazing floor. He blinked sweat out of his eyes.

“Fear not, Enoch,” said the Great One. “I know why you’ve come. Return to the former Watchers of heaven and tell them: ‘You should intercede for men, and not men for you. I am Mercy. But you accuse and condemn. I am Love. But you turn love into lust. I am Life. But you foment death. Therefore death you shall see. The giants of your lineage are evil. When they die – which they soon will – their evil spirits shall be barred from the heavens. Be warned: as they oppressed and destroyed in the flesh, so they shall oppress and destroy as spirits.’”

Enoch heard footsteps, but did not look up, nor did Gabriel. Bare feet appeared on the flaming floor before them, and an angel spoke. “A scroll for you, Gabriel. You will know what to do when you return Enoch to the grove.”

The feet retreated. Gabriel rose and lifted Enoch to his feet. “Thank you, Holy One,” said Gabriel. He bowed. Enoch bowed as well, and they turned to leave.

“Enoch,” called the Voice.

Enoch turned to the brilliant blaze and immediately closed his eyes against the brightness.

“Tell my Watchers: ‘You shall have no peace.’”

“Yes, Lord.” Enoch bowed again. Then he strode back to the stairs with Gabriel. The stairwell seemed dim now compared to the light that had engulfed him moments before. But worse, the hope in his heart had dimmed. ‘You shall have no peace.’ Though the prophecy was meant for the Watchers and their offspring, Enoch held no illusions. Their turmoil would spill into the world. Peace everywhere would be fragile.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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

Thirty Watchers had come, more than Enoch had expected. After hearing his message from the Holy Great One, the group had milled into three factions. Azazel, his brown and gray mottled wings fully extended, gathered the largest number beside a blackened snag of a tree to Enoch’s left, where they boiled with anger. Semjaza, arms folded and jaw clenched, stood at Enoch’s right with Arakiba and Ezekeel, as shamefaced as scolded children. Eight others, as wary as the donkeys, paced the charred ground.

Ezekeel’s face had paled to match his white-blonde hair. He gripped the side of the cart. “Did I hear right? We’re nevermore to enter the heavens?” His smooth voice choked, and he cleared his throat. “Is that not excessive?”

“Of course it is,” Azazel barked. He glared down his sharp nose at Semjaza. “You’re our captain. The blame obviously lies at your feet. At any point you could have warned us about this.”

“Who suggested this in the first place?” hissed Semjaza.

“A suggestion is just a suggestion,” said Azazel. “We all make suggestions from time to time.” His group nodded. “We count on you to assess the dangers and direct us like a captain should.”

Semjaza rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“So –” Azazel raised one eyebrow. “How do you intend to deal with this affront, Captain?”

“We’ll send a petition to the Great One,” said Semjaza.

Beady-eyed Armaros pushed to the front of Azazel’s group. “Who will take the petition? I tried to return to the heavens two days ago. Kokabiel tried. Rameel tried. Every path is barred and guarded.”

“Enoch can take the petition.” Semjaza placed a hand on Enoch’s shoulder.

Azazel reddened. “You think a mere man can find audience when Watchers cannot?”

Enoch stiffened. He wanted to argue with Azazel but couldn’t. “He’s right. I can’t say I’ll be received.”

“I ask only that you try,” said Semjaza.

Enoch looked toward the Sirion peak. He could at least go to his usual grove. Farther than that, he couldn’t say. He sighed, flipped open his pouch, and dug out his writing box. “What is your petition?” he asked. As he moistened the ink powder, the angels’ squabbling began anew.

- to be continued -

© Karyn Henley, 2012, all rights reserved, based on The Book of Enoch, 220 BCE – 100 CE, photo courtesy morguefile.com

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

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

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.

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

Hearty laughter rang from the tent. A woman pushed out through the heavy flap, grinning at a pendant swinging from her fist. She glanced at Semjaza. “News?” Her eyebrows arched.

“Not yet.” He paused at the entrance and looked back, trying to pick out the smoke rising from his own tent. The midwives had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome during the birthing. He tried to explain that, as a Watcher, he had witnessed many births and deserved to be at his wife’s side, but they had glared their answer. And their anger. Watchers’ babies, though exquisitely beautiful, were so large that both women and babies often died in childbirth.

Inside the assembly tent, voices rose like a wave and spashed into laughter. Semjaza raised the flap and ducked into the haze-filled warmth. On one side of the room women huddled around tables, discussing the display of colored tinctures for eyelids and cooing over bracelets of costly stones. On the other side Azazel held both a glinting, short sword and the attention of the men. Semjaza clenched his jaw. The usually solemn tent had turned into a bazaar.

Azazel glanced at Semjaza and grinned. “A shield!” He handed the broad polished disk to one of the men. “And a breastplate.” He slipped on the metal vest.

“To protect from the blades?” asked a hunter, as men pushed forward to inspect Azazel’s armory.

“You’ll be invulnerable,” promised Azazel, who had taught his camp metalworking, creating jewelry, forging swords.

Old Enoch shouldered out of the crowd, his countenance as dark as storm-threatening clouds. “Battle,” he muttered, stabbing the dirt floor with his staff. “What if we don’t want battle?” Beckoning to Semjaza, he headed out of the tent.

Semjaza lifted the flap for Enoch, then followed him into the cold. Ezekeel stood nearby with a youth, their faces to the sky as they discussed how cloud shapes foretold weather. Semjaza nodded with approval. As Captain of the Watchers he had insisted that the angels share their knowledge to benefit the people they had chosen as their own. He himself had revealed enchantments and the use of herbs. Baraqijal and Kokabel explained astronomy. Araquel taught the signs of the earth, Shamsiel the ways of the sun, Sariel the course of the moon. And Azazel? Semjaza snorted. Were swords a benefit?

When they reached Enoch’s tent, the old man said, “We’ll wait together.”

Semjaza held open the tent flap and followed Enoch inside, where a servant stirred the fire in the brazier in the center of the room. A safe distance away, baskets of scrolls lined the shadowed back wall. Enoch wrote more than any scribe Semjaza had ever seen. The old man had explained that humans, keenly aware of the fleeting nature of life on earth, felt compelled to keep a permanent record. Moreover, to the earthbound mind, possessing – thus keeping track of possessions – carried great weight.

As Enoch eased down to a cushion near the brazier, the tent flap opened and Enoch’s gray-haired wife Naamah leaned in. “Enoch, you have a grandson.”

Semjaza, halfway between sitting and standing, gaped in wonder. “A son. And my wife?”

“She lives.”

Semjaza hesitated.

Enoch waved him out. “Go to your wife.”

Naamah bobbed out, and Semjaza joined her. “She lives,” repeated Naamah, trudging ahead. “But she’ll not likely want any more children. Not by you anyway.”

- to be continued -

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

Unseen by humans, Semjaza paced around the neatly spaced tents while Ramiel and Kokabel wandered the river trail ahead. At Semjaza’s urging, all Watchers had agreed to retain their ethereal forms until Enoch, the local patriarch, returned from his jaunt into the mountains. The old man ruled this camp and five others nearby. Well aware of the challenges of leadership, Semjaza respected the patriarch’s position and needed the old man’s trust not only to preserve the peace between humans and Watchers, but also because it was Enoch’s youngest daughter that he desired for a wife.

Semjaza paused under a blossoming almond tree and gazed north at the snow-hooded mountains. The old father had been gone six days. What was taking him so long? In spite of the warm breeze, a chill twisted through Semjaza. Had Enoch climbed as high as the treeline? Had he discovered the grove where the Watchers assembled? Semjaza snorted. Even if the man found the place and saw the marks in the peeled trunk, he wouldn’t guess the Watchers’ plan. And if he did, so what? Who wouldn’t want to wed his daughter to an angel?

Semjaza turned to resume his pacing and almost swept into Ramiel and Kokabel coming from the other direction. They glowed with eager energy.

Ramiel leaned into Semjaza. “The women return from the river chattering like a flock of birds.”

“They heard news from the southern camp,” said Kokabel. “Azazel showed himself. Baraqijal and Ezeqeel, too.”

“Curses.” Semjaza ran a hand through his thick hair. The curse was on him if he didn’t follow through. “Why today?” He saw his answer in the eyes of the two who stood before him. Now that Azazel and the others had made their move, Ramiel and Kokabel couldn’t be expected to restrain themselves much less the Watchers under their command.

Semjaza nodded. “Notify your angels. If they’ve not taken on flesh, they may do so at their will.”

Kokabel and Ramiel brightened and left so quickly they vanished before they were a stone’s throw away.

Semjaza stepped back to the almond tree and watched the dark-haired maiden step down the path toward her tent. She lugged a dripping water jar on her shoulder but walked lightly and hummed a carefree tune. At the entrance to the tent, she paused and stared his direction. Though he knew she couldn’t see him, he smiled. He had chosen well. She had sensed his presence several times before. So had the old man.

In spite of his irritation at Azazel, a sense of relief flowed over him. The waiting was over. Almost. He calmed himself and breathed deeply, slowing and dimming his energy to receive the weight of a human body. The maiden ducked into the tent, and in the distance, the old man appeared, descending the foothills.

- to be continued -

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