Nov 08, 2004 23:12
Part VIII:
Ethan was frowning into another book. Hour after hour was spent in this exact spot. Deep in the stacks of the library, at a rosewood table by the stained glass window. The window was in deep need of a cleaning. If the sun ever managed to shine strong enough that it broke the layers of dust, it cast dark colors dancing across the table. It was a dramatic spot to it in. Something inside Ethan felt this was right. He wanted his discovery to be dramatic. He wanted to read a line in a book that someone had over looked; he wanted to be the one to find something. And when that moment came, the sun would rip through the dust: He would be able to see the dust particles floating all around him, choking the life out of the air in the cavernous room; deep, cruel colors painting a scene across the large table covered in ancient books in foreign tongues; and he would stand, victorious in solitude. The moment entirely and only his until Ethan wanted to share his worldly secret with the world. And for a short period of time, he would know something that no one else would know. No childish secret, no hidden feelings or emotional lesson that the whole world possessed in some form. A secret that was his, and only his. Perhaps only the stacks of this library would ever know.
No.
He refocused on the words before him. Latin, all of them. Over and over again, repeating the same things he had read in many other books. All leather bound and hand written. Priceless treasures from ages past. Just thinking about the hours the monks spent in perfecting the words and the images on the page sent shivers down his spine. Perhaps bent in the same untherapeutic posture, perhaps with the same fading light, perhaps with the same thoughts in mind. In some other age, this one page of animal skin and ink was the life's work of one monk. Something he prided more than life. The thought depressed Ethan. Something to be proud of. He had nothing to be proud of.
Here he had spent mindless hours staring at foreign texts. He made out what he could; through his process Ethan felt he could speak Latin with another human being. Wasted hours. Reading about God and Heavens and anything else man manifested as reasoning for his place on Earth. Ethan could feel his angry frustrating building inside. Manifested ideas to explain things that were scientifically explainable. Yet, here he was. Captivated by the images and concepts and ideas written by driven men. Ridiculous ideas, like sacrifice. A higher being demanding your first born child's blood? The idea of a Hell where you would spend eternal damnation for living like humans were? People striving for perfection that was impossible and blaming a non-existent thingfor it.
Ethan hit his closed hand against the table top. It echoed deeply into the cavernous empty stacks. He was the only human. Always was. No one else seemed to care. Why did he? Just so he could graduate with another Latin word tacked to his name? Was it worth it? He stared through the wood mindlessly, as if that would provide him with some answer. There were no definite answers. Just humans. Just what was inside you.
The sun broke free, shining cruel colors across the table. Navy blues and royal purples danced with blood red, painting the table the image above. With a heavy head, Ethan looked to the stained glass. Michael. St. Michael, Archangel and Guardian Overload of the Angelic Host, the Elemental Kingdom and Humanity. His title was longer than any Ethan could ever strive for. It didn't matter how many years he spent staring at untranslatable texts in dead languages.
Ethan leaned his chair backwards and sighed. He could feel the facts roll off his brain like water: Michael: "who is like God". Appropriate for the Angel who received the glory of defeating Satan. His name was the war-cry of the good angels, the good hosts, the servants of the Lord. He was their prince. He rescued the souls of the faithful from the enemy at the hour of death. He was the champion of God's people-- the Chosen Ones. Michael was to call the souls of men to judgment at the end of days. His name rang famous, and yet only appeared four times in the Scripture. In Daniel 10:13, Daniel 12, the Catholic Epistle of St. Jude, and in Apocalypse 12:7. Apocalypse...
Ethan closed his eyes. "And there was a great battle in heaven, Michael and his angels faught with the dragon."
Angels. Funny word. St. Gregory said, "nomen est officii, non natur