Rattle

Rattle

The voice in his head screamed and echoed, “Shame will follow, all of your days!”

He realized it had with every passage, every journey. Every battle, again and again for two millennia. The plague followed him across time.

The spear glistened with blood from the thrust into the man tied to the wooden beam in front of him. To the left and right, he had broken the other prisoners' legs, upper and lower, with the side of his battle sword, all to hasten their death. To drive them to meet Hades.

The coppery smell of the blood was familiar from battle. Every long march to some land beyond the horizon brought death to those friend and foe. Peasants to rulers, either accept the demands of Rome or suffer.

As the lance pulled from the man's side, he felt something sweep over his body, from deep in his bones to his calloused skin. He looked around, unsure of what was happening. His skin stretched, and his back straightened. His aching ankle, re-injured this morning, glowed as if on fire itself. Old scars faded. The gray hair on his temples turned dark brown as it had in his youth.

Longinus felt his bones turn to stone. Sweat covered his brow; the sensation, nothing like he had ever felt, even in his hair, felt charged. He thought suddenly, he had purpose, a future.

He felt young again. His compatriot stared at him, thinking he had found some opium, so common in the Legion. He bristled at the thought it wasn’t shared as he turned and strode down the hill, armor loosened in the heat, clanging along, announcing each step.

When Longinus felt the sensations pass, he again reeled in the heat, which was almost unbearable. He chafed under the armor, and he longed for a bath. He smelled foul under the chest plate. For a time, thoughts returned to the cooler coast of Britannia, though the winters were more brutal than in Rome, with all the customs and ranks that seemed to watch his every move.

The Legions were different away from the capital,

Professional soldiers accepted death, for that was their business. Kill or die but do as you are ordered without question. They had no choice.

He had no feelings about this duty. As soon as these few were dead, he was to report back to the Centurion and, when relieved, find comforts in the camp.

Leave the bodies, warning that punishment will be swift and justice harsh.

He stepped back, watching the slow death of the three. People came to pray, keeners collected and wailed at the deaths. The center one drew the most lament. The soldier moved the crowd back to confirm the death. He poked the point of his sword in the bottom of each man's feet, proving that life had passed.

The dead man in the center had a purple cloak wrapped around his waist, now stained with blood. He felt the cloth, found an expensive weave, and decided it was worth taking. He thought the man on the beam no longer needed it.

Again, the crowd complained about the treatment and were warned not to touch the bodies by a decree from the emperor: “Do not anoint! Do not salvage these criminals!”

In time, he returned to the barracks, leaving the convicted hanging by their spiked hands and broken limbs.

____2____

But in the now, he heard it untold times as death settled. Friends died, family, strangers. He saw the signs as they passed through the gateway. Some, a pleading look, others acceptance, and a few welcomed the final passage.

But he knew the sound, “The death rattle.”

Doctors have given it a name: “Terminal Respiratory Secretions.” Abbreviated on a patient's chart as “TRS,” it refers to moments before death. All so clinical, so removed from the value of life. A notation on a chart.

In their effort to define processes, give names to organs and functions, they miss what is happening. Much greater than a simple sound with a technical term.

He knew differently. He had been through death's doorway for millennia. He thought of himself as dead. Living on borrowed time, waiting for the other boot, signaling that his visit was over.

He knew the sound was different. It was not a rattle at all. It was a growl at the devil, a threat to Satan, a warning to Lucifer: Do not come for my soul, for I have lived the good life. I have accepted my savior as the one true God, and I pledge my body and mind to his kingdom.

I was merciful, just, and kind. I followed the path to righteousness. I helped when I could and ignored fate when necessary.

There were times when I backslid, and I fell from the path. I slipped into the painful path of sin.

He asked for forgiveness and repented. He salvaged his soul with acts of kindness, even when he was tormented with the sufferings of living, and yet he turned the other cheek and forgave them their trespass.

He lived the good life and now prayed for the protection of the Lord God Almighty.

He growled at the devil, spit and sneer at his existence.

_____3____

Again, I escort my dying friend through the doorway, the gate to the hereafter. My friend has become me, and I have become him. We are one. Saint Michael the Archangel stands beside me, sword in hand, ready for battle.

As the smoke pales, the lightning streaks from the ground to the sky, announcing the serpent’s arrival. The earth trembles underfoot, foliage is consumed in fire surrounding us. The air reeks of decay and putrefaction, assaulting the sinus, lips curled in repellence.

Fire dances from Satan's fingertips, his breath fetid, curling from his snarl, stealing the life everywhere his gaze settles.

Michael shouts to engage Lucifer, steps before me, raises his sword, glances over his shoulder, and winks at me. A smile is on his face, for he loves to engage, to test his mettle.

I hear him purr, like a cat, as he readies himself. He girds his loins, to battle he shouts; To fight! I can feel the mirth in his roar; The unbridled joy of combat in his very existence.

Michael wears the armor of a Legionnaire of Rome, bright silver greaves embossed with golden lions, claws drawn, paws in the air, ready to strike. The bright red kilt has silver battle panels hanging from the belt, each a reminder of untold victories.

His close combat dagger, in its sheath, was swinging from his wide leather, gold-studded belt. His cape of flowing purple silk flared behind him as if in a strong wind.

The light dances off his golden hair, falling over his shoulders. The breastplate covering his muscled chest is form-fitting, as if he were dipped in shining silver. The epaulets on his shoulders are flat oval-shaped ermine fur with green tassels. His helmet, complete with cheek guards, is crested on the top with red-dyed horsehair standing up.

The lights dance over his form, sweat glistening over muscled arms and shoulders.

Overall, it seems like every part is alive, as they are ready for a fight. Each defined muscle bunching, and flexing, dancing under the tanned skin.

The devil glows red, his skin crackles as he moves, stepping first left then right, sizing up his enemy. Looking for an opening, a flaw in the defense.

The trident in his right claw dances menacingly through the air, circling in figure eights in front of him, never leaving his position unguarded. The shield in his left hand, is alive with faces in agony. Each one was more pitiful, tortured, in pain. The low steady wail, the tears of the fallen, dripping from the surface. The edge of the oval, woven with snakes, writhing around each other, finding purchase on each other. Alive as they weave through, in and out of the nostrils and mouths of the faces on the shield.

Satan's horns rotate from the sides of his enormous head, ready to gore. He snarls, looking at me, then Michael. Sputum sprays from his mouth, starting fires as it contacts the dirt. He snarls ancient Aramaic. I do not understand, but I see the hackles rise in the Archangel, his eyes close to hooded, the shoulder muscles bunch ready to strike. Michael’s calf and thigh muscles tense and bunch, prepared to pounce.

The antichrist steps forward, left hoof first, as Michael parries to the right, his sword held at port, anticipating the thrust of the trident. The devil pushes the fork close to Michael's unguarded loins, and Michael swings the blade in a short arc, severing one pointed tip.

Lucifer changes shape before us into a half-man, half-bull with four legs under, along with two arms holding the weapons; he rears up on his hind legs and kicks at Michael with both front hooves, black fur glistening. Flames erupt from its nostrils as it stabs at Michael’s torso. Every parry deflected by the Archangel's sword.

I recognize the Minotaur figure now in a fighting stance with Michael as they circle each other, looking for an opening. The half-man, half-beast stomps his hooves in the dirt, making the earth tremble. The upper part, the almost-human part, drips with sweat. The tail whips menacingly back and forth.

The beast backs away from Michael and kicks with both hind hooves. I see that they are razor sharp, filed down as the sharpest knife.

A look from Michael the Archangel tells me to back away. As I retreat, the beast kicks. Those hooves would have surely gutted me and claimed victory.

In that moment, I can sense that he favors a wound on his right flank. An old suppurating wound. He twists his body around on his rear legs to protect the spot. Michael senses the movement and sweeps to the right to find the weakness. He sees the fresh blood on the ground and realizes that the antichrist carries a wound. Michael steps left, then feints right to draw out the devil.

But the devil is prepared to battle; these two have fought repeatedly over the millennia. Always in a fight for right versus wrong, good over evil, sometimes at the will of the Almighty, others at the pleading of a single soul.

Finally, Michael speaks, a low, stinging poem, unsung for ages. He repeats God’s proclamation, “I condemn you, and the third that follow, I cast you out of Heaven to the bowels of the Almighty’s kingdom forever.”

The words enrage the fallen angel, and fire shoots from each nostril as he charges directly at the Archangel. Michael waits until the last possible second when Lucifer is upon him, then steps to the right, drawing the short dagger, and lances the hind quarter of the beast. Immediately, Lucifer shapeshifts into a clawed-footed dragon, swinging his studded tail into Michael’s midsection, knocking him to the ground. I scream at the Archangel, and the beast charges at me with lightning speed. I run as my cowardice reigns. The beast follows until struck again by Michael's blade across his back.

Only then, in the ethereal, do I see his minions amassed, surrounding us. Though they are all armed, I cannot tell if they came to witness or assist. With pike and shield, others carry chain ball mace. Spears, swords, and axes, the implements from battles long ago.

With a low hum, I see these followers of Satan, the third of heaven's angels, his minions, advance step by step, all as one. One mind, one thought, the hive actions.

I turn back to Michael to see him going blow for blow in swordplay with the beast, who now resembles his original form of hate. The muscles under his velvet-looking skin bulge and stretch with every effort.

I wonder how Michael can win; his opponent, the devil, towers over him —by a full five hands— more muscled and powerful.

Sparks fly from each strike and repulse; the trident stabs menacingly at Michael's head, glancing off his silver headband. I hear a great belly laugh at the strike and then hear the demon Lucifer scream as Michael thrusts the sword into his loins.

The beast now limps but remains in the fight, swinging the trident into the Archangel's breastplate. Michael stumbles backward from the blow, looking like he may fall.

I ran back and shouted, “The angels thrown from heaven with Satan, his followers have surrounded us!” He smiles with a row of perfect white teeth and says, “Let them come. I await.”

The battle between these near super beings goes on for minutes, thrust and parry, strike, shout, forward and back, circling. I see the ground red and sticky with Lucifer's blood, the steam rising, the acrid copper smell, sickening.

Michael makes one final move, feigning injury, and he drops the left hand holding the dagger. Satan, steps in to kill, and Michael plunges his battle sword into the side of the beast.

Satan stumbles backward, holding the wound. He stares at Michael and sneers, saying, “Again, we will meet.” With that, he leaps into the air as smoke surrounds him, a crash of blind lightning, and he is gone.

I looked after the cloud of smoke and then looked around for his followers. They all disappeared, leaving only Michael and me.

He sheaths his sword and recovers the dagger, then looks at me strangely, a question in his eyes. As his breaths slow, he stares, and the more uneasy I become.

Finally, he says, you are not supposed to be here. It is not your time.

____4_____

Before I can blink, I'm standing on the bridge between life and death. My friend lies on the gurney, now dead. His life has ended, yet I witnessed the battle for his soul. Michael fought for the righteous man; he won the battle as God intended.

I wonder at the outcome. Would Lord God have allowed the man, my friend's soul, to perish in hell with the serpent, Lucifer?

Was there a time in my friend’s life when he did not deserve salvation? Suddenly, there is a flash of pain behind my eyes, so much that I am crippled to my knees. A voice inside my head screams in thundering Baritone, “How dare you question the will of the almighty?”

I am speechless in pain that I border on the unconscious, and I tip onto the floor, holding my head. Pain like I have never experienced. Just as it reaches a crescendo, it disappears. Behind the dissipation, I hear a laugh. I recognize the voice. It is Michael the archangel speaking. He says flatly, “Here ends the lesson.”

In time, I recovered and stood. I remember crossing that doorway and wondering when I would stay on the other side. Would my time be a battle, or would I be swept into the canyons of hell, forever suffering the misery of the foul, the mortal sinners of the earth?

The thought scares me, and I drop to my knees and pray. Not a formal prayer, but a plea that I will be spared the eternal damnation of hell. I will devote my life to helping mankind follow the path. Live righteous before God.

As I leave the hospital, I am exhausted. Every cell in my body is taxed to its limit. When I finally sleep, it is the sleep of the unconscious, without dreams, without movement, barely breathing.

Until the next escort, I persevere. I am ready to stand. To hear the last rattle, the growl at the devil. The Rattle…