david f- shultz
Jegudiel It was the summer solstice, nearly noon, and the sun was so open all of God's archangels might pass through. The Order of Jegudiel hoped for just one. A circle of white-robed acolytes had assembled in the field. Joseph Watson, their pastor, saw that his flock was not unlike the daisys and dandelions that dotted the grass, standing in perfect devotion, heads pointed towards God's light, surrounded by and themselves part of the beauty of creation. Monarch butterflies alighted for the ritual, and on the hillside, a white rabbit peeked from his home under the roots of a pear tree to bear witness. A silk sheet had been laid out between the acolytes. They could have been mistaken for a picnic gathering, but for the absence of food. Salt decorated the sheet in the sacred arcana of their order, an elaborate hexagram invoking the name of Jegudiel in the geometric language of Jehovah. They chanted to The Glorifier as the sun reached its apex. Joseph Watson gripped his leatherbound bible, fingertips sunk into the golden embossed lettering. He prayed in the 74 |
antilang- n-4
