Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

The Garden shivered, a noticeable tremor passing through the lush vegetation as the woman’s words reached the sentient jungle surroundings.

She heard the sound of coughing, and turned to see the muddy form of Jon, climbing out of a deep pool of muck, roots snaking across the ground allowing him to pull himself free.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly joyous, but that joy was short-lived as there came an explosion from somewhere above them, and something dropped to the Garden floor, still burning.

“Sweet Jesus,” Izzy said as she watched the angel slowly stand, his body burning as if doused with gasoline.

“Remy,” Jon called out as he stood, dripping thick mud.

But Izzy wasn’t quite sure it was Remy he was calling to.

The angel stood there, flaming sword in hand, a sneer of contempt upon his burning face.

“Jon, you might not want to get too close,” she warned.

The Son of Adam stopped short as the angel’s gaze fell upon him.

“Remy?” the man asked again.

The angel’s fire seemed to burn brighter, and for a moment Izzy feared for the man’s life, but the angel’s expression suddenly softened, and the fire around his body extinguished.

“Yeah,” Remy said.

“She didn’t want to hurt us,” Izzy explained, as she pulled her hands free of the twining roots and joined her friends. “Eden’s sick. . . . Something very bad is growing inside her, something evil. . . .”

Remy looked at her, and for a moment she sensed that he might have been replaced again by something far colder, and more angelic.

“Then I suggest we help her,” he said, holding out his burning sword. “And cut this cancer from her womb.”

The sword burned in Remy’s hand.

The heat of the weapon radiated internally, amplifying the rage of the Seraphim, drawing it out like an infection from a wound.

Remy held on to his control, but didn’t know if he had the strength to continue. Wrapped within the constricting embrace of the thorny vines, he had let his defenses down, allowing the Seraphim to emerge without restraint.

There had been something horribly liberating about the experience, and yet terrifying. To think of the Seraphim—to think of this being of divine power filled with rage—unleashed upon this holy place . . . it scared his human side.

But their options were few, for he knew that he didn’t have the power to face the Shaitan without the unbridled fury of the Seraphim.

He could feel the scions of Adam and Eve staring at him. They were looking to him for guidance, unaware of the struggle going on inside him. It was taking everything he could muster to hold on to the leash. . . .

“What now?” Jon wanted to know, nervously looking about him. The jungle was moving, writhing as if in pain.

“We find the nest of the Shaitan, and kill them before they can be born,” Remy answered as the Seraphim howled for blood, testing his resolve at every turn.

“Then we’d better find them fast,” Izzy said. She was leaning against a nearby tree, her complexion wan—sickly. “I’m not feeling so good since hooking up to the Garden,” she explained. “Think I might be sharing how Eden is feeling . . . and it isn’t good. I don’t know how much time we have left.”

The flaming sword began to vibrate in Remy’s hand, and as if the blade had a life of its own, its tip suddenly pointed toward the earth.

Jon jumped back as Remy struggled with the unwieldy weapon.

“What’s happening?” he asked, afraid.

“I don’t know,” Remy answered, fighting the blade. The pull was incredible, his muscles straining to keep the sword from stabbing the ground.

“Let it do what it wants,” Izzy hollered. “It has a connection to this place. . . . I think it might be trying to help.”

Remy did, allowing the burning blade to drop, stabbing into the soil of Eden with a sibilant hiss. Images from the Garden began traveling through the sword and into his mind.

And what he saw filled him with horror.

The Tree of Knowledge, withered and dying, the ground beneath it churning with unholy life—as Malachi and the Shaitan looked on.

It was more than he could stand, and the Seraphim raged, charging forward to wrest away control.

Let me out , the divine power demanded.

And Remy knew he had no choice.

He let the Seraphim come.

The angel Remiel considered the humans before him.

And, finding them of no importance to the coming conflict, he stretched his golden wings and leapt into the sky.

There was evil to be vanquished.

Blood to be spilled.

Battles to be won.

All in the name of Heaven, and the Lord God.

The Tree was nearly dead.

“Master, what is wrong?” Taranushi asked with concern.

It’s been drained , Malachi thought, as he placed a hand against the dark, dry bark. The fetal Shaitan have feasted upon the knowledge of the Almighty.

They should never have been capable of such a task. They were never supposed to do something such as this.

They were not designed to do something like this.

All that knowledge , the elder thought, eyes turned to the soil around the base of the Tree. The ground bubbled as the Shaitan stirred.

And he began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.

He looked up as the fearsome form of Taranushi approached. Malachi recalled the ferocity of this first Shaitan, the violent acts he had mercilessly performed throughout the ages in Malachi’s name.

The knowledge of God contained within such a vessel . . . perhaps it wasn’t the best of his ideas.

He revisited his vision of a future plagued by a war that would bring about the end of all things. He saw the Shaitan in this vision, believing at one time that they were fighting under his command, but now . . .

“What is wrong?” Taransuhi asked again.

“Nothing,” Malachi lied. He looked to the writhing ground again and felt nothing but disgust.

“They’re not ready,” he stated flatly, turning his gaze back to his servant. “It is not yet time for them.”

Taranushi’s expression was one of confusion. “I do not understand. I can feel my brothers and sisters . . . desperate . . . wanting . . . ready to be born . . . unleashed into the world.”

Eden trembled angrily beneath them, and Malachi lost his footing, stumbling to one side. Taranushi caught his arm and their eyes locked.

“Finish what you have started with me,” the Shaitan pleaded. “I no longer wish to be alone.”

Malachi could hear the desperation in his creation’s voice, and considered what it would be like to be the only one of your kind. God had created him first, mere seconds before Lucifer, and he remembered that feeling.

The intimacy between creator and creation. It was something that could never be forgotten. Fleeting, but so powerful.

If only the Lord had stopped there, what a reality they could have shaped.

“Sometimes alone is best,” Malachi said, pulling his arm away, already considering alternatives to his future. A future that did not include the Shaitan. “There’s a cave nearby that I used for my work,” he began. “We’ll go there before we leave Eden and—”

“No,” Taranushi roared.

The symbols on his pale skin began to flow, like the warning of a snake’s hiss just before the strike.

Malachi reared back, startled—but not surprised by the creature’s insolence.

“You will do as I say,” he ordered, exerting his will over his creation.

The markings upon the Shaitan’s skin slowed, and the creature backed down beneath his gaze.

“Remember that there are even worse fates than being alone,” Malachi warned, a sudden niggling thought entering his mind as he looked upon the powerful beast. Am I strong enough to defeat the Shaitan?