lunes, 21 de septiembre de 2015

A FATEFUL ACHIEVEMENT


A FATEFUL ACHIEVEMENT
"By the power of Solomon’s cabalistic words «Abracadabra Elohim» which only You and him have the knowledge of, I conjure Thee, Lucifer, Luzbel and Satan to show yourself at once! I demand it thus!"
I must haste, and you must forgive me and excuse my lack of urbanity. I already forebode the viscous creep, the greed, and foretaste of a brutal chase. His pestilent breath filled corridors and the flowers in the inner courtyard have suddenly withered. A different silence corrodes the Abbey. I grieve for the fate of my brotherhood monks much more than the ruin of our treacherous Abbot. But I do not want my grudge to distract me while unspeakable shadows take hold of my spirit. What I feel is not fear, it is something else, deeper, bygone. Darkness, pain, and sorrow are useless words. I should have burnt the book and thus prevent any of the misfortunes. But I see now the futility of such action. For a time after time, through the ages, it returns from where it hides, from the tombs and the monuments to seize the innocent decoders of the Occult, pious exorcists, and fierce necromancers. Woe of those who believe it is possible to control the ancient demons! Woe of those idealists who expect to subdue them by will! Woe betides us all! I have no time to recall how I learned the fluvii transitus, some sorcery´s forbidden alphabet but suffice it to say that for a copyist of my renown, there exist few things still unknown. Still, I recognize I labored at deciphering the spell. However, and as I was pronouncing the invocation, I understood my fateful achievement: an infamous thunder told me that abominable doors were opening like slobbering jaws to demand a sacrifice beyond blood. No need to see it. I am aware I have released a procession of unclean beasts preparing the advent of the One most perfect, most frightening. I do not fear death. I dread the notion of perpetual pain while hoping I will be brave. I do not deserve God's forgiveness. I am defeated by my appetite for revenge. Vanity is not a good counselor. Neither is anger for it is the grimmest of guides. At this time, I declare and for all posterity that this book is not the work of King Solomon for a wise man such as him, would never submit to the writing of such blasphemies. I hear now the claws piercing the refectory door. He is coming. Pray for me. No, better yet, pray for thy souls for He will go after you all.


© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015



(*) This short story has been published in #144 of Revista digital miNature, dossier The Devil



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