Echoes of Creation

The stairs of the granite stone edifice were warm and slick, dripping with the murky water of muddy trotters. Sotiras slurped in the air, oblivious to the medley of rain and blood-filled sweat that was soaked into his tattered fleece. The Dark Ones were beating their animal hide drums with fervor, spreading the cacophony of red reverberations to the minds of spectators, consuming them with an eager manic buzz. With each step of Sotiras’ cloven hooves, the Dark Ones hollered and cursed him. If not for the roar of soft thumping made by The Father’s tears as they spattered the stone, the clamor would have consumed him. Each step came with a buckle in his legs, yet he never faltered from his steady pitter-patter up the void path.

He was detested and considered a most debased lamb. Yet his resolve, hidden in the cascades of his heart, carried him forward. It was the eyes of the dejected, the eyes of the ones who were left helpless, that brought strength to his bones. Their cries were not uttered by their mouths but came from their shackled hearts; a scream only heard by hallowed ears. The resounding lament reverberated into the heavens, seeking to be heard by an old familiar love. Sotiras sought to remember that familiar love too, but he grasped at it like chaff blown during a drought. In his barren agony, he wondered if this old love was more like echoes of a voice in the wind.

Lining the stairs were a myriad of living gazes, from the small eyes of mice, squirrels, hares and hedgehogs, to the larger eyes of dogs, deer, capybaras and cougars. Larger mammals were not permitted on the edifice but the gazes of elephants, bulls, moose and rhinoceroses were on him from their view at the base of the altar. Lanterns, lit periodically every fourteen steps, burned against the rain under sharp lids. Rays shed on the stone reveal gazes of all kinds resting on Sotiras. Many look at him with daggers for irises, lusting to maim him with their glares. Others, sprinkled in the buzzing crowd, watched with soft compassion like that of a mother as she looks upon her brood. He was abandoned and destitute in order to spare the meek from desertion and indigence. At the top of the stairs awaited an odd calamity untouched by his sanctified imagination.

He walked up the void path willingly, only subjected by his own inclination. No brooding could be found in him for it was abolished by a foreign, immortal delight. Harrowed as he was, Sotiras set the seed of immeasurable joy before him. He pressed mortality to its limits, weighed down by the desperate whispers of flesh and bone. For ages he went without meekness, but the levy of the void path is misery. With a strength of such great proportions that it is considered fragility, Sotiras shouldered the subjugation of misery. The slow melody of a greater purpose pulsated through his veins, silently reminding him of a place without misery. The haven which is closed to all, but will soon be opened should he endure.

The music of his Father is woven into the fabric of the edifice, ringing with a melody of its own like a chorus of cellos, masked only by the rioting of the Dark Ones. They, who live within shadowy havens, crescendoed with variations of explosive beating, adding to it with whistles, hollering and excited, diabolical cheers. They danced in circles and jeered at the small lamb working his way up the path. The clouds thundered above them but they misunderstood it as encouragement for their rite. On the contrary, the rain defied the wild raucousness, building the hopeful crescendo of Creation’s chorus. Resonances, which are felt more deeply than the wet touch of the sky, mix and match to be heard as a symphony growing louder than the Dark Ones’ own chanting. The compassionate ones hear it, adding to it with soft voices, turning the quiet vibrations into a song of hope for the oppressed.

Step, buckle, step, buckle went Sotiras, right to the final step. He hesitated with a deep breath as he touched the top of the edifice. The drums halted as he settled before the Chief Dark One, whose back was to Sotiras. The crowd hunched down in hesitation, licking their lips with hunger. The Chief turned slowly revealing a horned mask on his face, settled between his ram’s horns. The mask was black, shining with lantern light and zaps of lightning. He was the realization of rebellion and defilement, prepared with a curved knife a forearms length, in hand.

The drumming began again at a frenzied pace. The Dark Ones made rings around the Chief who rocked back and forth nefariously with the wicked blade. In their rings, the Dark Ones began to rock side to side in tempestuous patterns. They cried out in discordant tones as the Chief’s rocking grew fiercer. Thunder shook the edifice but the Dark Ones only continued their heinous anthem. The Chief tied Sotiras to the wood pyre on the edifice and took the blade to his fleece. The Dark Ones hollered in excitement and cast lots to divide his fleece among themselves.

The Chief lifted the malevolent blade into the air, bouncing from one foot to the other in a manic dance. Then, with one slow stroke of the blade he cleaved the precious lamb’s hide from head to hoof, revealing a laceration of red upon his flesh. The slash of the blade echoed louder than thunder, causing the whole of creation to groan. Lightning filled the sky giving it the appearance of shattered glass, reflecting off of the black mask of the Chief.

Sotiras looked up with saddened eyes, sighing softly. In a voice more thunderous than the storm, Sotiras whispered “It is finished.”

Embracing a familiar love, he sighed his last breath.