Can't Remember, Where we Met? (a light teenage romance)

(Christopher Hunter) I was fourteen years old when I met her, it was the summer of 1961, in October I’d be fifteen, and her, she I think was all of 16-years old when we met. I never blamed her for not meeting me at the tree, or calling me thereafter, I didn’t search for her either, she did ask now and then though about me, throughout the years, she ask how I was, if I was alright. I never talked about her to anyone, what for, it was just a summer romance, perhaps a lost summer, and the only one she and I, Nancy Pit and I would enjoy the fruits of youth together with.
Perhaps I was stupid, but a beautiful young man when I met her, Jill set me up, wanted me to meet her; Jill lived across the empty lot from me, I hung around with her brother somewhat, I suppose we were all friends in the neighborhood back then, Jill, Donny, and the other twenty or so young kids, and me, and here comes Nancy, a stranger but Jill wanted us to meet. And I liked her fresh long wavy red hair, some freckles. She was peaceful to be with. We both seemed to be free as birds, but of course, no one is free when they fall in love, or think they are falling in love.
My body, I remember was hard, and my mind had a stone wall around it, it seemed. I was weightlifting, and this one day, I was bringing dirt back and forth from the empty lot to Jill’s father’s house, in a wheelbarrow. And she looked, I mean looked with staring and blazing and desirable eyes at my sweaty body, my muscles glowing as afternoon turned into dusk. She followed me, told me she like what she saw. She looked at me as if I was so much, not a nothing, but much, perhaps much more than what I really was. She had thought I was her age, as we had met and talked for the first month of the summer, then she found out she was two years older than I and left well enough alone.
She was the first girl I suppose I ever dreamed of, one I could become comfortable with anyways.
The summer of 1961, was a hot one in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a growing one for me, we, Nancy and I, went to the drive-in-movies together, her and I and Jill and her boyfriend that is. We even went to Indians Mound (over a nearby hill, and across a walking, wobbling, wooden bridge, old as the Civil War), with the neighborhood gang, and drink. It was during the second month of this summer I and she laid down under the gazing stars, foliage all around us, leaves piled high against thick old trees with thick bark on them, and she lay on top of me, and we rolled about, and I felt myself become excited, thus, I stopped. I never regretted it, I think she did though, but I never exactly understood it, why I did stop.
She could have had any guy in the neighborhood, but her heart was alive for me, so it seemed, she even seemed to need me, and was never ungrateful; she made me feel as if I had some magical power over her, that she was breathless over me.
She often rubbed my back, I liked the touch of her doing so, and those were the last nights, and the last month of the summer, she seemed to pick up that habit.
After we left that last night, the night she and I carved our names into a tree by my grandfather’s house, where I lived, we told each other we’d meet in six years, I knew it was the last night, the door was closed, I didn’t want her to go, but that was impossible, she was leaving, going back to where she came from. Funny, I don’t remember where we met, only why, and that we did, and that Jill introduced us. She’d ask about me in years to come, but I had dreams, many of them, and perhaps she knew that, and she got married, I heard unhappily, but it must of worked out later on for at about 19-years old, I never heard of her again.


10-30-2007

The Death Chant of Azaz'el (Birth of the Devil-goat)

The Death Chant of Azaz’el
(Birth of a Devil-goat)

((A Mytho—by the Creator of the Tiamat Trilogy) (And poetic Horror Epic))






By Poet Laureate,
Dennis L. Siluk

Illustrated by the Author



Copyright©2008
The Death Chant of Azaz’el
(Birth of a Devil-goat)
By Dennis L. Siluk

Illustrated by the Author



Dedicated to:







Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma
(of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Poet Laureate of San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú (2005); and the
Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))

Also awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment


















Contents



Part I

Chapter One: The Birth
Chapter Two: The Light
Chapter Three: The harm


Part II

Chapter Four: Azaz’el’s Thoughts (The Sixth Day)
Chapter Five: Twilight (the Fourteenth Day)


Part III

Chapter Six: The Bear Demon (21st Day)
Interlude
Life with a Surrogate Mother
Chapter Seven: the Young Year
Chapter Eight: The Sting-tailed Mantic ores


Part IV

Chapter Nine: Buer the Savage Eater
Chapter Ten: The Offering


Part V

Chapter Eleven
Concluding Chapter


Remarks by the Author
(And Commentary on the Story)










Part I




Chapter One: the Birth
It was in a little lot of farm land outside of Cairo, Egypt, 1998 that this happening, took place that a voice of a demon, and a figure of a devil peered through the skin of a goat, upon its birth, the old man shuddered at its appearance, his niece, who farmed the land with him, remained still, paused impressively as the birth took place, the old man demanded she kill the freak quickly if not instantly, crying, “Kill, kill, kill the freak…!” You could hear in the tiny head of the creature, its voice humming a death song for the old man, a chant, as it lay in an open shed, next to a large bull; a few cars drove by, a hundred-yards from the open shed—it was early, the sun just appearing lightening up the closed shack next to the shed where the two individuals lived. The old man’s hands stretched up to heaven, and he cried “Allah…!” and he fell to his knees, his niece still in amazement at this extraordinary birth, in this intriguing but not much more than a dirt farm batch.
For the rest of the brief five minutes, they witnessed from this little farm, as they remained in silent, the birth of a devil-goat, so the old man called it inside their minds, in lack of a better name.

Fatima was an orphan taken in by her uncle several years prior, her mother had died earlier because of her delicate health, she died on top of a Cairo bridge, that crossed the Nile River, under a cardboard box she had used for shelter, there Fatima remained until her uncle, Solomon, found her, and took the child to the rented out piece of land he now plowed and planted and harvested. The lonely stony plot spreading to the highway produced vegetable, and for the most part, the owner charged little for it, feeling it better to keep the price reduced and someone, thus, having someone to watch the land, and kill two birds with one stone. It was really just a large patch of land, being farmed, not a farm in the sense of a large piece of land.

The road wound past several small farms, the edge of the lot, crossed the road it was all plateau here, and the great pyramids were not far away, a beautiful sight for the tourist driving by, should he not look at the dirt farm on the other side and be disenchanted, and in front of the lot, was an old hinged fence, long was the fence in front of the roadway, and tall was grass along side of it. The old man’s face twitched with his dull and dim dark eyes as he stared at the creation of this suddenly new birth of a creature, a voice that sounded like the beating of an old deep and rustic metal drum came from its frame. It leaped up and onto its hind hoofs, Solomon was saying at the time: “See I told you to kill it…!” (Just how to kill it he d not mentioned.)
She left him presently, stepped a few feet closer to the creature, “You’ll have a chance to live,” she mumbled as she looked down upon the creature, the old man clutched fisted now.
The harsh throbbing voice, faint as it was, could somehow understood Fatima, it spoke in a foreign voice, foreign to any other language ever produced on earth, yet she could understand. She had many questions in her mind: such as, where did it come from, how did it get here, what exactly was it? She didn’t ask those questions out loud, she just thought them.
(I can answer all these questions for you though, but she would never know it for herself, not exactly anyway. It was a tragic thing that took place, casual as it seemed in the sense, one day a persons life is as it always was, and then an abrupt change takes place, but after a moments time, it all seems somewhat normal again, hence, the breath of life entering a young goat, life from another species, horrible looking, shockingly creating a goat like demon, is not casual, but it seemingly became so in time, in a short period of time for Fatima anyhow. It came from a place called: “The Prison House for Angels”, these angels were fallen angels. You’ve never heard of it you say, well, if not, don’t be incongruous, for there is and was a place called that, it was beyond Orion, created by God, long before the earth was created. It was needed more than ever back then, for when the angels rebelled, where would the damned go, God spread out a village for the damned in the dark hidden parts of the universe. Here no one could hear the faint, ghostly cries of the voices behind the invisible wall, like lions in cages they were. All floating in space and quivering in the darkness, dying in their silence from the rest of the universe, this was their abode, showered with streaks of crimson fires far beyond their reach. And then, Azaz’el was released, to be brought down to earth’s hell, for what reason I do no know. And somehow he escaped and now he was being reborn in this goat, secretly you could say, for who beyond God Himself would realize such a birth was taking place, surprisingly on the very planet the two angelic beings were to bringing Azaz’el, but of course to the lower chambers of the earth.)

Terror had swamped Solomon, yes that is what the goat-devil saw in his eyes, as it stretched out its new body to several feet; now a hoofed beast, with three horns, naked with wet hair from foot to crown. Solomon now showed more poignant terror than anyone could imagine. But the adolescent feared not, actually she started to laugh lugubriously. (The creature lost something in its birth process, something it had when in the “Prison House for Angels,” it lost its matured mind, it was now deformed, defected, reduced to a lower capacity; it knew, but didn’t know—you could say, it heard the voice of the girl, fragmented, and it stared blankly at her, he called out: ‘Mother!’ The creature was a child beast, a devil-goat, so it looked. It may have escaped one destiny, only to find a dreary new one.)
It noticed a faint skeptical smile on the girl, heard her humming softly, “You are right, uncle, I should have killed the creature, but I can’t.” she said.
The uncle tried to brush away her crazy talk, her new obsessed caring for the creature, as the creature now was all of eight feet tall, broad at the shoulders, the Uncle horrible tense, standing by that open shad, the bull uneasy, brooding about the hay.





Chapter Two: The Light


Fatima, of Cairo



It was early morning, and light starting to stretch out over the land, the struggling birth was over; the goat’s mother had died giving birth to the creature. And Fatima was now its new mother, or so the creature thought. Fog was disappearing from the roadway, and the old man was dune quivering, all sat back against the woodened wall of the shed, seemingly like ghosts. The foreign language of the creature seemed to adjust to Fatima’s mind, although to the uncle it seemed to be nothing more than grunts and groans. The ghostly death of the mother goat, in the early silence of the morning was no more than a blur now. The old man had buried the goat, in fear if he ate it, or cut it opened, it might trigger a new development, one he didn’t want. Thus, he took the goat behind the shed and buried it. Perhaps that sounds foolish, I know, but I can only tell you how it was, foolish or not. Now flashing lights from the roadway appeared. “Damn it,” the old man said as he walked around the shed, looking at the fog lift, the car lights, “Damn it, you can’t live with this thing, it’s deadly, and it will murder us in the middle of the night.” Then as he became visible to the creature and Fatima, he went blank in the face, as if not to show any signs of complaint, said nothing distinguishable, only mumbles as old men often do. He went over to the two, pushed the dark black huge bull to the side, it moved quickly, then the old man said to Fatima, “You thought you heard a dead mans cry earlier within the birth of this creature, I do believe it was his mind changing, agonizing in the process, it went like a leap, from what it was to a child, look at it, it seems to be bloodthirsty and at the same time, excited over you looking at it, as a child to a mother. It’s a real thing for sure, but who owns it, is a different story.”
(What was going through his mind perhaps was: could he be so lucky as to try to control this freak of nature, and make money off it in the near future—like ‘King Kong’? I mean, was this a chance in a life time, or was this strange creature indeed too dangerous to play such a game with, for the old man said to Fatima: “Strangeness nowadays, people pay to see that!” It was more of a question-statement, but Fatima did not answer, and the creature simply looked at Solomon when he spoke, then looked at Fatima, somehow feeling if she looked decrepit because of his voice or words, he was dead, or soon could be. But she held her facial features, likened to flat. At this point the old man looked confused, an echo went back and forth in his brain; again he stood clutching his fists, almost fearful, but now with more force, and with anger…he shrugged his shoulders, started to walk out of the shed, and with a leap the creature grabbed him by throat, lifted him up above the ground, his feet dangling, Fatima just looked, and looked and looked, and his mouth opened, and its teeth showed and it was hungry, and Fatima looked, and looked and looked again, and the creature’s teeth were sharp like the fangs of a huge dogs, and it seemed like he wanted to swallow a good portion of the old man’s right limp, it was dangling in front of his eyes, and he was hungry, and his limbs were just dangling helplessly, a rip, a quick rip is all it would take, then the creature smiled as it looked at Fatima, as if awaiting for permission to eat, and he’d be fed, and she smiled…!)









Chapter Three: The Harm


Old Salomon



“Let me go,” yelled the old man. But as the Azaz’el looked at Fatima, her face suggested with some bitterness, not to, she had and held a cold look, reprovingly saying ‘no’ and quicker than the sheering of sheep’s wool, the creature had in its mouth a limb, the right arm of the old man, and you could hear the crunching of the bones, and in his throat, which was now lumped with the limp, the creature tried to swallow…it came to look again upon its mother, Fatima, its hair long now on its naked body. He dropped the old man to the ground, her eyes widened, “Why,” cried the old man, “I took you in as a child, why did you not stop the creature, he is some sort of devil beast and animal?” The beast crawled now on its knees, rampaging around the shed like a devil-dog. The old man stayed put, not wanting to get near him Then Fatima assured him, that the creature would not harm him again, that it was a lesson for him, a terrible one yes, but nonetheless a lesson for him not to decide to do her child harm, and the sabertooth creature now clasped her hands, and kissed them.
“Oh Uncle Solomon why? Why do you think such things of Azaz, he is just born and you want to harm him, he came alone into this empty hearted world; this is a warning for you.” She was irritated with him; she glanced at him with a look of pleading almost, yet visibly wilted.
“You mean to tell me,” said the old man, bleeding from his shoulder, “a girl like you is the mother of this creature like man, or devil, and it fails me?”
“Certainly I am,” she said quickly.
“Well, I’ll be—“ said the old man as he began to fall into a bewilderment, drift off to sleep, the pain was too much, and there was no relief, and when he woke up, several hours later, his wound had been attended to, one arm less of courses.


Part II




Chapter Four: Azaz’el’s Thoughts (The Sixth Day)




He had awoke two days later, in the gray cold light of the morning, he felt condemned, his executioner was not far away from him in the shed like house, Fatima was not in the room … he could hear her voice outside talking to the bull…

It was the sixth day; the creature sat his back against the outside shed, a mountain of tall grass around him, the grass slightly wet, his forehead damp, he touches the earth, rumples his shoulders, over lapping his hands (at the same time), one over the other, a few birds sit peeking over the edge of the wooden roof of the shed like house. He would like to cry, but he had never done such a thing, he didn’t know how, and his feelings were more like thoughts, than emotions. He spots a lizard, it runs, and he finds out his reflexes are faster than the lizards, and grabs him by the tail, or what seems to be the extended backend of the foot long creature, drops him into his mouth, like a raindrop falling into a bucket, swallows the lizard whole, it was his breakfast.
Along the roadside, dust is raised in spires. He hears thunder, sees water but is having a hard time reasoning the two out, how do they fit together, he comes to the conclusion, thunder is produced when it is close to water.
He has not looked into a mirror but he knows his face is different than his mothers, I mean his human mother, he has seen in a mud puddle, his face is more like a goat, but goats cannot reason like him, they go to the slaughter, he tells himself, he will not allow that. Yet his mind is not stretched out as far as it should be, but he knows at one time it was, and perhaps in time to come it will again be more knowledgeable.

The old man is feeding the bull now, he, Azaz, can hear him talking to himself, he doesn’t like him all that much, but he is his mother’s, something or another; his arm was more tasty than the lizard he concludes. Fatima is planting something afar by the roadway. He pulls at his face, trying to figure out if he is inside a disguise, “Where is the practical part of me,” he asks himself. The bold grass still is hiding him, his eyes closed, and “Who is this inside of me?” he asks. All rhetorical questions for the most part.




Chapter Five: Twilight (the Fourteenth Day)



Azaz’s attention was caught by a movement in the shadows of the grass, he had not seen twilight before either, it was emerging, day and night were closing in on one another, and forming dusk. Something huge was in the tall grass, bulky. He was fascinated with the movement, not scared, but enthralled. He saw yellow eyes in the shadows of the grass. With a shout of brutal yelps, the thing with excessive agility and with speed, and after a moment, plainly showed himself, big as an ox. Azaz, moving swiftly he leaped toward what he figured would be his first victim. The monster raged with ferocity. In an instant both were fighting, and the black hairy beast with horrible looking eyes, almost next to one another (dry blood on its fury like body from a previous kill) crushed Azaz to his knees, but Azaz simply caught his breath, never got tired, he just didn’t know how to fight, he tried to rip the torso off is legs of this dark beast, and stuff gushed out of it. But still the beast was not exhausted; it picked him up, and cast him aside like a staggering drunkard. Now the beast’s yellowish eyes glittered hellishly, and came back for a second strike. No word had passed between he two warriors, and when Fatima came out of the shed to see what was happening, she merely fainted on the spot, as she looked at the horror taking place. Uncle Solomon gazed from the window, helplessly, but hoping wherever the beast was from, it would kill Azaz, but it couldn’t.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Azaz, to his mother, his voice sounded strange, but he had picked up a vocabulary in just fourteen days, one that matched her language. As she tried to get up, her eyes flared with terror, and she cried, and the wild fluttering of her heart could not stop, and somehow it could be felt by Azaz, and thus, resuming his attack on the beast once he knew his mother was safe, but the frightened, or so Azaz thought so, ran away.
“Are you hurt?” she exclaimed quickly to Azaz.
“Don’t worry about these scratches,” he answered, though his wounds privately hurt, the creature like him, had fangs, and it seemed were venomous. She stopped her sobs, and dried her eyes with her forearm. They were hungry and although Azaz was somewhat like a cannibal, he simply muttered “Me too…” looking at Solomon looking out of the window as if he would be a good dinner.
“Was that a devil,” she asked her uncle, as they sat on the porch eating chicken?
“I did not see it all that clear, it was bigger than a jackal, smaller than a giant bear, perhaps this creature of yours has brought up from the bowels of hell, devils to bring him back where he belongs, I hope we do not get infested with them now.”
In stead of answering her Uncle, she clenched her fists as if to say: I will not even let hell have him, he is mine. Her eyes lighted up, “You will not hurt him, right?” she asked her uncle.
The absurdity of the question left him speechless, yet he found the words to say, “How can I hurt him, his muscles are like knotted iron, and his fists like mallets.”



Part III




Chapter Six: The Bear Demon (21st Day)


Belphegor, Demon King


The Bear-demon returned the following week, commanded one of them, from a distance that he, Azaz to relinquish his life to them (inferring it was either now or later, and if it was later there would be a lot of suffering on his part for eons). Should he do so now as he was told or being asked, he would place him in the heartland of the lowerworld and in charge of several legions?
“I am called, who brings me tidings in the skins of bears?” asked Azaz’el.
One of the two great bears answered, “I am Agaliarept, the Henchman of Hell, who asks for thee, and my assistant is Gusoyn, a great guard of the towers over Hades, the great sea of the Netherworld. And we were sent by the King of Demons, no other than Belphegor, whom takes orders from the Ten-winged Archangel, known as Lucifer—thus we must and will deliver you to the lowerworld.”
—Now standing side be side, and Azaz’el standing by the shed all within a swings distance, the two great bear-demon, as they are disguised, stand erect and firm, sternness in their faces, as Azaz grips an axe resting against the side of the abode, raises it and with the swiftness of an eagle a blow with the blade severs through the naked nick of Agaliarept, the blade sinks clean through, and his head falls to the ground, rolls off his shoulder like a egg, as Azaz kicks it from his heal, blood bursts from the cavity of the body of Agaliarept, dark blood, yet the bear figure remains strong on his shanks; Gusoyn, reaches down picks up the head, gives it back to Agaliarept, as it turns about on its own, eyes staring at Azaz. The head then rests on Agaliarept’s forearm, and against his chest.
It would seem to an on looker he was unharmed that only a mishap too place; his gruesome trunk continues to bleed like a waterfalls, and his head mumbles as they part, it twists to see Azaz’s eyelids looking wide and broody at him.

Agaliarept, Satan’s Henchman


Agaliarept’s voice echoed back to Azaz, “See that you get ready, you will go as Hell has demanded, this is a promise, for I charge thee with assault unto your brethren.”
A rude roar came from Azaz’el, as Fatima and Solomon, almost breathless, and hiding beyond the arch of the doorway, halfway in the abode, leave out a sigh of relief, unbelievable liberation from a world they know little about.


Interlude
Life with a Surrogate Mother

(About three months into Fatima’s surrogating, Azaz’el.) Inside the dwelling were two wooden chairs, a chimney where charcoal was burning, there were many cushions on the floor, an old cloak hung on a nail by one of the two windows in the shack. The wooden floor cracked as you walked from on are to the other. Solomon had sat in on of those two chairs seemly and noble for many years, but not any longer, his woes were yet to be mended.
On a small table, was a clay basin to wash up with, a pump outside alongside of the shack.
Solomon always ate double helpings of food at his dinner table, but since Azaz’el had arrived, and grown to a large size, that was for the meantime history. He enjoyed an assortment of fish, but it seemed chicken was cheaper, and so were the vegetables he grew on his farm land.

The table in the center of the shack, stood on trestles, was raised a few inches when Azaz’el sat at it, his knees doing the lifting. They had spoons, forks and knives to eat with, but Fatima had to teach Azaz, as she called him, how to use them.
Azaz especially liked baked bread and spices on his food.
During the meals, Azaz watched Fatima and Solomon pray before they ate, but never did he inquire on this matter, only gave weird head movements.

Surrogating was new for Fatima; she had never been a mother of any kind, although she perhaps tried to at times with the bull in the shed. Azaz came to realize Fatima for as young as she was, she was not his real mother; on the other hand he found she was fairer in face than any woman he had thus far put eyes on, smooth flesh to her skin, and her proportions were better than most others he felt. Her complexion was lovely, and had she not been her surrogate mother, who knows what would have taken place.
On the other side of the coin, was Solomon, he was quite thin, with wrinkled cheeks, his throat was also wrinkled, although a beard covered most of it, and his waist was thin, with a sunken in buttocks.
Solomon had come to think these passing days, it was either bad luck or ones lot in life, for him to have met Azaz’el, but during this period of three months, once, and only once, did Azaz’el say “Good-day,” to Solomon, and in return gracefully Solomon bowed as if to obey, but Azaz took little head in it, he was perhaps fighting his nature, it took a lot for him to say that.





Chapter Seven: the Young Year

Azaz’el (before Earth Time)



The young year—began, thus Azaz remained watchful for the return of the demonic bears, or whatever new disguise they may have grown into, for he yearned for life on earth more everyday, and everyday was special, and everyday his mind matured ten-times faster than a normal mind would, thus remembering bits and pieces of his long incarceration in “The Prison House for Angels.” That is to say, he was now remembering who he was, and what he was, and what he looked like before earth was created, and during and when he was sent to earth to look over ancient man, and from the clouds he did so, but he was one of the Old Ones, that guarded those who took human flesh, and cohabitated with them. His sins were not as guilty as those of his brethren, so he recalled, but nonetheless he was sent to the prison house, and he also remembered his time was up, and was to be brought to the lowerworld, and somewhere in-between, this journey, he found port hole in space, so it seemed, and escaped, and found himself being cast into an animal, and being of no human origin, he was reborn, but disfigured.

During the evenings to late dark, he helped Solomon and Fatima with the small farm work, chores, etcetera, that needed to be done, mending of the fences, feeding and settling of the bull, and so forth and on…he didn’t care to be seen by the public lest he be put into a freak show, and lose his freedom, and consequently be hurtle from, and out of his earthly existence, by what now he considered the enemy, that's why, he wanted to grab the moment, it was, he figured, was his only treasure left for him.
Many nights he got drunk, once he was introduced that is, to the alcoholic spirits of mankind—and as months slipped by quickly, he was merry with even Solomon, whom he had at one time a rather harsh liking for. Perhaps this all counterbalance what he felt would be his ending. And so again I say, the months past to June, the 6th month of the year, and to the 6th day of the month and to the 6th hour, in the PM, and on this day, all hell broke loose.

—On this little lot of land, this farm blemish in the outskirts of Cairo, Egypt, off the side road, the earth became cold, clouds uplifted, producing harsh hail dropping to the ground, making it hard, as a hundred beings demonic beasts, a horde from hell, stomped the ground with blows from their feet, shaking the earth, and the abode, and all the structures on the farm. They came out of the long grass, and bushes, and came out of nowhere, dark it was over the farm, as if twilight had subdued it. Two hundred yellow eyes glistening, approaching. A drought filled the throats of Fatima and Solomon.




Chapter Eight: The Sting-tailed Mantic ores



The Sting-tailed Mantic ores and Gusoyn



Sting-tailed Mantic ores, that is what appeared on the premises of Solomon’s and Fatima’s farm, in demonic form. They had stingers on the ends of their tails, as if to sting the life out of Azaz’el, and bring him willing or unwillingly to the lowerworld.
Azaz’el knew it was war, and the six months he had on earth, ended up being only yesterdays, as this day was to be his reckoning.
All the beasts stood in a horseshoe fashion in front of the shack that the three inhabitants had lived in, Fatima and Solomon, hiding behind the door, and Azaz’el in front of the shack.
There were no more bears, only mantic ores, and Agaliarept, with Belphegor, who were in their natural skins, Agaliarept with human features from his neck to his feet, which were wide with long nails, and his head was more like a horse. Belphegor, was naked as was Agaliarept, but had wings on, Agaliarept did not. He had a long face; both were of a cunning design. Gusoyn, was also present, and had a crazy look on his face, he was jumping up and down, with a kind of dagger in his hand—crazily jumping, the rest were calmly waiting for someone to give an order, the rest being the Sting-tailed Mantic ores, except for Buer the Savage Eater (which I will explain to you, as well as introduce you to him, in the next chapter).
And there outside, right in front of the shack, a feast began, a kind of royal revelry, before the slaughter you might say. Dancing and singing, provoking Azaz to strike the first blow, yet knowing, when he did, it was all over. (Demons are powerful, yet not as powerful as angelic beings, and arch angels, are even more superior, and this occurred to Azaz’el. Also what came to mind, was Lucifer, he, was watching from the gray and dark clouds above, pacing like a hungry lion; would he come to the rescue if indeed Azaz’el could subdue these demon.) There was no way to win; this is what really circled in his mind.

Light laughter began—.
You do know the quest at hand, that is to say, Hell’s quest, and Azaz’el wishing to remain on earth, so I care not to trouble you with the tale of it, save, a miner point, Lucifer was watching from the moon most of the time, up to this evening, now near the clouds he paced, thus, Buer the Savage Eater as he is known, was contemplating to spark the first blow, to get the show on the road, perhaps that is why the King of Demons wished him present. The question at hand also was (and that is perhaps the reason Lucifer kept his distance), why did God allow this to go to this point, when it was ordained Azaz’el be brought to the lowerworld, brought by angelic beings, to a point in space, the winged demon were to take over, but never hand the chance to, for Azaz’el was said to have escaped, or fell into a hole in space. Oh well, we may never know, and as for God, who knows His reasons.



Part IV


Chapter Nine: Buer the Savage Eater






Buer Demonic Savage Eater



Before man was man, and demons were demons, Buer was among a group of souls, that ruled the earth, with other souls and angelic beings, he was the first to go against the will of God, and join Lucifer in rounding up support by his kind (Lucifer being the leader of his kind at this time), and thus, a trader to God, and to his kind to win the favor of Lucifer, which he did, which we can call early man, and thus his kind turned into what now is known as the demonic forces of Hell and Earth, but he was turned into a demon eater a beast of a rat, a savage among savages, and he was waiting to eat Azaz’el if indeed he could grab such a moment.


Buer the Savage Eater (so he was know to be), stepped out of the crowed of demonic forces now surrounding Solomon’s farm, he was—if anything—unpredictable and shrewd. He was all demonic, and wanted to be of a high command in hell, among demons, “Why should you rule seven legends in hell, when I have myself been waiting for such a promotion (for hell does have its hierarchy). He was in rat form, it was his real form. He had a wide mouth, dripping slim constantly from it; long thin, limps, and a skeleton tight skinned body, that showed his ribs. He was vicious, if anything if he could, he would eat or bully demons, but to this angelic being, could he do such, he thought so. He had been perhaps in hell too long, not knowing the powers of angelic beings, but he was about to find out (for even Agaliarept, Satan’s Henchman brought assistance when he sought out Azaz’el, thus, trying to talk, and perhaps subdue him that way, not really wanting an out and out battle with him, and hoping he did not realize his strength.

Thick was the saber teeth of the rat like Buer, Agaliarept went to stop Buer saying, “We are not breed like him, do not overextend yourself.”
But Buer just laughed, “He is nothing but a goat, and a tall thin goat at that, and I shall shred him like I have to so many in the pits of hell…” and he leaped on Azaz’el, and his fangs dug deep into his armpits of what he referred to as the devil-goat, and his body folded up like a cocoon, then he fell to his knees; all the demonic warriors unlocked their eyelids, felt Buer was for the moment their hero, he was beating an angelic being (unheard of, and never seen before), but Agaliarept just shook his head, he knew better.
“What is your name rat?” asked Azaz’el “I have never seen eyes like yours, a cold blue flame dances in them, I shall remove them in a moment.” And he stood up, as Buer got into some kind of a stance to attack.
“I am one of the Old Ones, have you forgot?” Said Azaz’el to Buer; now the horde of demonic beasts turned their alliance, to bewilderment, and watched and waited the command to attack, for it had to come from either the King of Demons, or Lucifer Himself, not even Agaliarept had that power. Buer was simply out of place.
Buer had primitive passions you could say, violence, traditional for hell, warlike; battle was Buer’s custom and contest to life. Primitive and gusty was his temper also, but courage, he may have had, although inferior to Azaz’el, perhaps he could scare him to death or to submission he figured. He did not know him in the old days; as did not do Semyas or Lucifer— nor did legend follow him as did it for Lucifer.
Azaz’el was no fool, and with a crimson haze of fury, and a glare of battle ready, vengeance filled his every muscle. He tried to warn the rat beast, as he called him; in the old days he would not have done so. Swift and brief he would make this.
Arrogant eyes roved contemptuously over the frame of Azaz’el, with unbearable scorn. With an act of instinctiveness, he attacked Azaz’el again, and with bestial rage Azaz’el sprang up and rushed at Buer, both colliding, both roaring, breast to breast, the rat reckless, Azaz’el, with full strength, bringing upon this creature clutches of a being stronger than he had ever endured. This he, Buer, came to realize quickly, for the impact of his efforts were nothing to Azaz’el, and his crushing embrace, broke all the ribs in Buer’s body, and he lay on the ground no longer an antagonist. Still with clenched fists, Azaz’el mauled his way back to the rat beast, several demons tried to hold him back, but could not, and thus, Azaz’el snapped the spine of Buer before he stopped his attack. Lucifer was laughing overhead, and Semyas was gushing with smiles, it was his old friend at his best. Buer tried to get up, with a sagging broken jaw, but fell back down, blood spreading out over the ground.





Chapter Ten: The Offering




Lucifer
The Ten-winged Beast


On a pyre Semyas the Seer and astrologer of the ancient renegade angles was on hand to nail Azaz’el (for only another angelic being could hold another such supernatural being in place), thus, he drove nails through his palms to the rock, the flat part of the alter and through, and into the granite, nailed him at all points, through all four limbs, as the Ten-winged Beast, flew to and from the gate to the pyre then over the shack, over a large treetop then high above all that, as the surrender was taking place. He was like a camel in heat, as if he was trying to get his high or getting his high at that moment, but wanting to be safe, or perhaps too arrogant to join the rest of the horde in their appointed task.
Then he, Semyas kissed the hand of Azaz’el, after that he laid a kerchief over his eyes, as if he was subdued and could do nothing, and at this point it looked so. He was a brother to him at one time (that was the kiss); both had walked the earth and were among the leaders of two-hundred other angelic renegades. But there was no mercy in Semyas’ eyes, for he had been buried under tons of rocks for millenniums. Now, seemingly he had either escaped, or was set free, he didn’t say, and I don’t know, but he was assigned this duty by none other than the Beast, and the kiss and the subduing blinding of the eyes was part of the ritual.
(Ah, one could hear the crickets in the back ground, the wings of the Beast flopping back and forth as he flew by, the sound of the gate’s metal clasps moving back and forth, the wind picking up.)

I intend now to tell you what took place on that pyre, though it may seem strange to the story, but it was as it was.
In everyway, Azaz’el could not escape, the forces were too strong, the winds from the wings of the Beast, and Semyas’ nails were made out of some evil force from another sphere, and the demonic forces behind and around the pyre, added to the physical if not mental forces at hand, all restraining.
It is fare to say, I do believe, endless thoughts invaded his being, Azaz’el’s brain. He was acknowledged as a gift to hell, from the “Prison House of Angels.” And why was he working so hard to defy all the shadowy evils above and below the earth? Perhaps a question everyone was asking, even Solomon and Fatima, save the Beast and his demonic and angelic forces were dumfounded to say the least.
“Here is a fragment of your creed, brethren,” said Semyas, “say it after me!” he commanded in a harsh voice: “That ever from the fire, evil’s all of my velour, be it gained that to Hell, and all spheres of the Beast I shall be courteous, that I give up all piety of thought, friendliness, chastity and chivalry, and change thy heart for deception, and perfect evil…I shall be close as the demonic forces need me, I shall lead in Hell, that being: without mercy, indifference to human life…”
Semyas carved into his chest a pentangle, and imprinted within that the given name of Satan, ‘Lucifer’; next, he was set free, arrayed by all those around him (that was the kiss), good tidings, then Semyas commanded he kill Fatima and Solomon, to show his new devotion; to eat their flesh, as he had done before; to prove to the High Prince of Darkness, his honorable heart.


Part V

Chapter Eleven

Concluding Chapter


So what took place that evening, on the 6th month, 6th day of the month, at the 6th hour, was this: Azaz’el was to be considered the host of the demons, to be a leader in hell, to have several legends at his fingertips. And he was to kill, eat the flesh of his mother, Fatima, to show his honorable heart to the horde, and Lucifer, whom was watching from the edge now, the edge of the top of a tree, and his mind was of this same anticipation.
As he walked toward Fatima, he stopped in front of Solomon, her uncle, feeling he would have the answer (an answer) to a sudden question he was seeking, and he whispered something in his ear, and Solomon whispered something back. And they both stood looking at one another oddly. Fatima confused, and standing by the archway of her door, fearfully tense was as confused as any of the onlookers. Then out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Azaz said to Fatima, “Climb on my back mother!”
Fatima, unprepared, gladly did, as did Solomon. Next, Azaz’el did another odd thing, like a prince, proudly, and tauntingly, he started walking down the pathway to the front gate of the farm, through the horde of demons; just like that, with almost a luminous hue around him, when he walked to the gate, haughtily strode, many of the demon fierce looking fell on the field, onto and over one another. They all looked dumbfounded at this happening, confused, what he up to.
At the gate he lowered his huge back, his face was grim, with all the power in his limbs aloft he heaved the two on his back over it, and over the gate so both Fatima and Solomon could roll off, and over his head, and both did, and he told them to stand near the roadway, that this field of land was fated for the moment; and as the horde grabbed him, to take him to the lower world, they could not pull his soul from his body, it was what they were after. They shredded his body like macaroni. And there he died, and the only thing that could be seen was a white mist coming from his inner being, and carried upward by one female angelic being.


The Angel Lailis


“What did he whisper to you?” asked Fatima to Solomon.
“He asked me if there ever was a demonic creature, or angelic being ever forgiven by God? And if so whom? And I said to him, there was perhaps two to my understanding, Gilgamesh of Sumer was a giant and demigod, who on his death bed, accepted the one and only true God, he had found his faith I do believe by listening to Noah. And there was a man called Christopher, whom had the seed of those lost angelic renegades, as Azaz’el has, so I told him, and he was saved, after helping Christ across the river. That is when he turned to you and asked you to get on his back, like St. Christopher would have done, and did do, and thus, he walked us down and through the demonic path, Lucifer and his horde created, but for some reason, perhaps God, shifted their minds for a moment, to save us, and it seems, to save him, even though he was executed, but then, so was Christopher.”





Said Fatima, in a light hearted but confused way, “I don’t quite see it that way.”
“Well,” added Solomon, “We got work to do in the morning, some hoeing and some weeding and…oh well, you know.”
And the two walked back to their shack, the demonic forces had disappeared, and the body of a goat lay on the ground, where once was, Azaz’el.


End of the Story




Remarks by the Author
(And Commentary on the Story)

By legend and lore, and perhaps some research we can add, there were two giants in humanities history, that I might conclude God, gave insight to, and they took this insight and used it to turn their reasoning, if not life about; one being, of Gilgamesh of Sumer, the other, Saint Christopher (of Catholicism). Both giants of their day, Gilgamesh, being from the time of the Great Flood, Also in some ancient writings one can find “The Prison House for Angels,” so the ideas in this short tale you have just read, “The Birth of the Devil-goat”, are not all the creation of the author, he has taken the liberty to enmesh fragments of history into his suspense, if not horror story, I would prefer to call it high suspense, with unbelievable reality.
The author also believes in historical data one can find, that giants walked this earth. That originally they were the offspring of angelic renegades, who cohabited with earthly flesh (called The Watchers), as was the King of Atlantis, of this breed likewise, that in time, most of these giants were killed of in pre-flood wars, among themselves, the angelic renegades were sentenced by the arch angel Ura’el to other punishments and incarcerations. Those who did survive carried the genetic material of this past history, as it was weaned out mostly, throughout history.
The question may come up: was Gilgamesh saved? This author believes he did in time chose the one god concept, and worshiped the Almighty as did Job of the Old Testament, for on his deathbed he referenced to the One God; and it has been in inferred, he met Noah, and had talked to him, prior to the flood. The history of Gilgamesh was written out on stone, dating 2700 BC, or perhaps 500-years after the flood. As was the Iliad written about 800 BC, or 400-years after the destruction of Troy, but the anonymous Homer. Perhaps all word of mouth by bards, but nonetheless, history. On the other hand, St. Christopher, likewise, had the genetic material breed within him, this hybrid type I mean, and through good deeds, and a faithful heart turned his nature around. This story is of a similar nature, it came to me in a dream, I wrote it out (Part One, the first day) at my apartment in Huancayo, Peru; the second day, all the other chapters came to light, two at the café, Koki’s in Huancayo, and during the afternoon on the second day, going into the conclusion, it came to me, laying back in my bed trying to take a nap, it occurred to me I wanted a new ending, a befitting one for this deep seeded story, and now you have it.

St. Christopher, dates back to about 250 AD, considered the patron saint of travelers, for 1700-years the Christian world believed this saint existed, and then in 1969, they said they couldn’t prove he did. The real fact being, I believe, is that they found his genetic background to be unworthy of sainthood. It is like saying Adam and Eve did not exist, after the Christian world has accepted him for 2000-years, because they think Eve was from the Australopithecine ape family in Africa, whom lived during the Pleistocene epoch over a million years ago.
The question may arise: who then was, and what was Goliath, whom David, king of the Jews killed back around 950 BC. Perhaps from the same breed, or stock, I don’t know, but he was one who did not care to follow the same paths as Christopher and Gilgamesh.
Christopher was originally named Reprobus, according to legend, and somewhere along his life line, vowed to serve Jesus Christ; thus, he became a candidate in helping folks cross a river. Other legends say, a child came to him, asked to cross the river, and it was no other than, Christ. At that point, he was baptized. In Eastern Orthodox views we see Christopher with a dogs head. Legend says he was also a great warrior and cannibal. He was executed for his faith, and his body brought back to Alexandria. There is actually a lot of information for a man now said never to have existed.



DR (10-24 & 26-2007)

News Release: Dennis Siluk's Radio Program "Poetry Moment"

Mr. Dennis Siluk, well know Poet in Peru, Minnesota as well as Europe, especially Germany, has started a radio poetry program, in Huancayo, Peru (in the Mantaro Valley)at the University, FM 89.5, called "Poetry Moment,' on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He reads his poetry from several of his 36-books, in English and his wife reads them in Spanish. The program started four weeks ago from today, 10-25-2007, and will continue for the time being, on between 12:20 and 12:30 PM. Positive comments have come from the media, as well as taxi drivers, school officials, students at the Universities, and as far away as Australia, from Radio Poetry Australia, poets and Editors as well. He reads the poems, and makes comments on them, and his wife Rosa the main host, leaves the listner with a thought at the end of the program, telling the folks listening, not to use drugs and alcohol, and usually quotes a bible verse. To some folks of Huancayo, Peru, this is a fresh cup of coffee, you might say.

Rock me to Sleep (A Poem on Death and Suicide,with Commentary)

Rock me to Sleep
(A poem on Death and Suicide, with commentary)


Suicide is an invitation for death, there are many reasons for it, a fatalistic attitude is good enough for suicide, or rejection of life per se, claiming death is nothing more than a charming quietness thereafter (therefore, a wishful desire; how foolish you may say. On the other hand fear of death can be an awful thing, death in this way of thinking, is a way for lives that are preoccupied with fear, and filled with attempts to win God’s favor and avoid His anger: this way of thinking paralyzes one with fear of death, just the opposite). In any case, many people lean towards the tendency to go to the opposite extreme and find death, wake it up. So I shall give you a poem, one with a poignant final word for, or on death, one that a suicide would use, called ‘Rock me to Sleep’.

We need not give heed to boldness, denial or fear, one need only find Christ, for death is certain, and will come sooner or later anyhow, but during the interim, we may simple remember as death is certain, so is heaven, and there we can bath in our victory, for there in heaven are no powers that can separate us from the love of Christ. And now here is the sad, but true thinking poem, a suicide might ponder on, but first a quote from the Bible; Philippians 1: 23, 24—“I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you (me) that I remain in the body.”


Death oh Death, please rock me to sleep
Where the quiet realm rests for people like me
No worries, no evils, no fear or rise
Out of my breast!…
Lower the coffin, ring the Chapel Bells
Let them tell, of my sorry life
And my scornful quest;
And if death shall not find me
I shall wake it up…to take my life.
For there is no other remedy,
There is no contented light.
So Death, Death, please rock me to sleep,
Where the quiet realm rests for people like me!...


Note: No: 2012 (Oct 10, 2007)

Two Poems on Life (By D.L. Siluk)

Two Poems on Life

Surprised by Morning

There is an unknown dilemma that is by us…;
day has come, and evening has arrived on time.
As for the evening, shades of darkness fell,
so I noticed looking through the glass windows.

I sat quietly back in my white plastic chair
on the Platform, and wrote this poem,
thinking and looking:
“How did it all come about?”
“How will morning be?”

At last I found myself in bed,
the waters of my mind, rose and fell;
then I wakeup, surprised, somewhat,
morning had arrived (it was here).


Note: No: 2008, October 2, 2007, written on the Platform, in Huancayo, Peru, 2.55 PM


“Upon His Death”
(An Elegy, before Death)

Now close his eyes—please, for all his breath has gone.
For, they will not open up here, on Earth again!

For years, life has fed upon his ivory bones
That with his breath gave in (to death) all at once.

Deep inside our minds, we decay, suffer on…!
Until our minds, bodies and souls say: it’s enough.

Now let him be, and his body let us bless
That came to earth, at birth, and goes to heaven to rest.



Short Commentary: Death comes sometimes slowly, or so it seems— (or can be) for us folks watching this happen to our loved ones; perhaps it is harder on us doing the watching, than those doing the dying (?)
We often try to get the last photographs, our facts in order; tell and listen to the last jokes, stories and simple conversations we will forever share, and preserve them deep into our memories. Yes, all these gathered images we truly loved of that individual—and we wait; and until we die like them we simply endure. It’s all called life!... No: 2004 (9-28-2007)

Depression, Suicide, Drugs and Alcohol (In Huancayo, Peru)

Depression, Suicide, Drugs and Alcohol (A short Commentary)


(Written: Oct 3, 2007)

I was reading the papers this last week (from Huancayo, Peru), saw a lot of suicides in them (and I wasn’t surprise to find the results), and people asking “Why this, and that?” Looking for reasons for the ongoing massive suicides in Huancayo (the highest rates for suicides in Peru); and everyone looking in the wrong place, it is the dilemma of depression we are looking at (suicide enhanced by alcohol, in any form).

First of all, there are various reasons for depression and suicide (depression can be a disorder, or a chemical imbalance within us, second, it can be simply sadness, and I’ll talk about that in a moment), but when you drink alcohol, in any form (to include beer) you are getting a double dose of depression. Alcohol is a “Depressant” a drug, this is something no producer of alcohol will admit, or tell you—lest you stop drinking, and God forbid, they lose their profit.

After two beers it becomes a catalyst for depression, like it or not. And if you have any problems at home (or perhaps `poverty, or old age is playing a part in it), or perhaps a loss, like a death in the family, or job, or house, or any loss, alcohol will enhance the state of depression you are already in, and thus, if you have suicide tendencies, the chances are with alcohol you will follow through on them.

In closing, everyone wants the problem to go away, without treatment, change in one’s lifestyle, or effort, just fade into oblivion; and those producing alcohol, want all the rights with no responsibility to continue the way they have, producing, advertising, and buying, and paying those to hide the problem from the public, matter of fact, they get rewards from public officials—how unseeingly can we be. Until we get serious over this issue or problem or call it a situation, it will continue to kill our loved ones.

By License Dennis L. Siluk (Dr. h.c.)