Devlin was resting on the root of a giant mangrove tree deep in the bayou, leaning against the cool moss that grew on the massive trunk. Mist lay upon the waters all around him, a gently swirling fog propelled by a delicate breeze. The midday sun suffused his sanctuary with a dazzle of light, reflecting off the golden figurine of Christ, nailed to the crucifix dagger he cradled in his hands.
He hadn’t touched the weapon in ages. He grasped the top of the crucifix and separated it from the sheath with a gentle tug, revealing a glint of the polished iron blade hidden inside. As he withdrew it, a Voice came to him. “Bow down to my creation.” Devlin recalled his firm reply. “I will only bow down to you.”
A flood of memories came tumbling out of his endless past, as though it had taken place just moments before...
The Battle for Heaven raged in the skies above. A third of Heaven’s winged angels followed Lucifer into battle, and now they were falling into the Abyss. He lay on his back, his head dangling over the precipice as the archangel Michael’s spear pressed against his throat. The anguished cries of his minions filled the heavens, seeing the Lord of Light pinned by the commander of God’s armies.
“I only bow to my creator,” Lucifer told him.
Michael hesitated. For all his treachery, Lucifer had still been Michael’s commander before he dared to challenge God. Instead of lancing Lucifer’s throat, Michael withdrew his spear and broke the shaft over his knee. He dropped the pieces on Lucifer’s breastplate and turned away, his heart broken.
Lucifer grabbed the spear by its broken shaft and got up on his knees. “Fight me!” he screamed, but his cry was lost in the chaos all around him. The battle was over.
But not the war. Devlin withdrew the dagger completely from its sheath now, and admired it in the dappled bayou sunlight. The blade was fashioned from the very same spear.
Devlin toiled as a slave in the garrison at Jerusalem, fixing the tip of the spear to a hardwood shaft. The Roman soldiers were preparing for a crucifixion detail and needed their weapons. Devlin handed the spear to a young soldier.
Devlin turned the dagger over in his hands, examining the gleaming dark metal. After all these centuries, the iron was still free of rust.
When the young soldier lanced the side of Christ, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the hills and a pelting rain came down. The young man dropped the spear, as thoroughly terrified as the spectators were, and he scrambled away to join his comrades.
Devlin held the wormwood sheath up to the sunlight, examining the golden figurine of Christ. The tiny hands were carefully nailed to the crosspiece.
Some of the mourners ignored the rainstorm, their heads bowed in prayer before their crucified Savior.
Devlin sneered at the memory. How easy it was to sacrifice yourself, to go through the agony knowing all along that you’ll be swept back up to Heaven.
Devlin stepped from the clutch of faithful, dressed in the finery of a Roman patrician. He retrieved the soldier’s spear and walked away toward the eastern hills, a dark smile on his lips.
Devlin smiled, testing the sharpness of the ancient blade against his thumb.
Sitting alone in the desert night before a pillar of fire, Devlin patiently honed the tip of the spear, transforming it into a razor-sharp dagger.
He inserted the tip of the oiled blade into the mouth of the wormwood sheath, inlaid with ivory filigree.
In the shade of a wormwood tree, Devlin carefully formed the sheath with a block plane and a sanding stone.
He slipped the blade back inside, reforming the crucifix. The dagger was hidden now, beneath the golden body of Christ.
Emperor Constantine accepted the crucifix dagger as a tribute from Devlin, a wandering knight who had come on foot from Jerusalem. On Devlin’s tunic was a peculiar rose and cross symbol that would evolve into the insignia of the Rosicrucian Order. It would be another seven hundred years before the secret organization would reveal its existence. Devlin was already their first traitor.
Constantine took him to the first Christian Church of Rome, still under construction. In the Papal chambers, they placed the weapon in an iron vault under the dais for the Papal throne.
Devlin cradled the crucifix in his hands. It felt alive, as if it were a cherished lover come back to him after an eternity, offering dearly remembered pleasures.
“He never loved me,” Devlin thought, and a voice responded at once from deep inside his dark soul. Lucifer’s voice. “But I loved him.”
Devlin scowled in disgust, and said aloud, “Get behind me!” Then he looked up from his reverie, peering into the lazy swirling mists of the bayou. There were no humans for miles around, but he could smell an angel somewhere close by. The cloying, sweet odor was unmistakable.
“Michael,” Devlin hissed, and turned to look.
Michael the Archangel stood on the water nearby, backlit by the winter sun. After all these eons, he still wore the uniform of a general-in-chief, but he no longer had his wings. After the War in Heaven, God decided that angels should no longer have them. They engendered nothing but pride and hubris. Even an angel can fly too close to the sun.
“Once again, you are being foolish,” he said to Devlin. His voice was quiet, but clear in the stillness. Despite the protection of God’s good graces, Michael was keenly aware of the risk he was taking, to visit the most formidable foe that he or the Lord had ever encountered.
Devlin scowled at him. “How dare you pass judgment on me, you treasonous swine.”
“Treason? You crucified His son, and yet He’s forgiven you.”
Devlin got to his feet and stood upon the water as well, glaring at the archangel, the sheathed dagger clutched in his left hand. Devlin knew the truth – when Christ was on the cross, the angels who were left in heaven were ready to wage battle once again. They were incensed that the creatures God created in His own image were sacrificing His only-begotten son. It was only Christ’s forgiveness as he was dying that stayed their hand.
“God’s chosen people crucified His Son,” Devlin told Michael. “I only tempted Him.”
“Murderer!” Michael spat, and Devlin glared at him.
“The killings must stop,” Michael told him.
“You can stop them!” Devlin growled. “Tell me who He came back as!”
Michael said nothing. He knew the consequences, were Devlin to succeed. The order of the universe would be stood on its head and chaos would ensue for all eternity.
Devlin was annoyed. With his free hand, he took a cigarette from his pocket. He blew on the tip to light it, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the smoke toward Michael.
Michael recognized the aroma at once. “The Tree of Knowledge.”
Devlin nodded, and took another satisfying drag.
“You’ve become addicted to the one thing you lack,” Michael said with a knowing smile.
Devlin looked at him sharply. “This is not your affair! None of this is!”
He trailed off, distracted by something over his left shoulder. It was a faint, low humming, a chorus of men’s voices, barely audible above the rustling leaves and the creatures of the bayou.
He turned to the sound, vexed by the intrusion, but he saw nothing. Still, they were close by, lurking somewhere in the mist. They were growing impatient, he thought. No matter. He would deal with them later.
He turned back to Michael, but the Archangel had vanished. Devlin was alone.
He sat back down on the mangrove root and smoked his cigarette, brooding over the dagger in his hand. He couldn’t wait to use it.