Falling Idols

“Do you even have to ask?” she said. “It was closer to four thousand, and it was Sennacherib’s own fault. He was starting to fear he might lose the siege, so he went to the priests, the ones he knew practiced sorcery, and he had them conjure a demon from out of the desert wastes. He’d meant to send it over the city walls and turn it loose on Jerusalem. But the priests lost control of it and it began slaughtering our own soldiers. When they wrote about it later, the Israelites grossly exaggerated the casualties and credited them to the Archangel Michael.” Maia shook her head. “They did a lot of that sort of thing. Nothing but propaganda for their god Yahweh.

“What our priests had created, they finally got some control over, but they couldn’t get rid of it. I call it a demon, but it’s not like you think of demon. There’ve always been spirits, like unshaped clay, waiting to take whatever form someone with enough knowledge or devotion gives it, and that’s what the priests had done. But with the appetite they’d given it, and fed on the blood of four thousand warriors, it’d reached a degree of independence. Finally it consented to banishment, but only on condition of a sacrifice. It … it wanted flesh and blood from Sennacherib’s own lineage. Even then he got the priests to bargain with it. The thing didn’t care if what it received was a legitimate heir to the Assyrian throne. It was the flesh and blood alone that mattered.

“They took my children, Patrick. He sent soldiers into our tent and they took my beautiful babies and they fed them to that thing. It opened up their bellies and spread their insides out on the desert floor, and ate them piece … by … piece.”

Maia was silent for a long time, and I didn’t go to her as I might’ve. I wasn’t made to ease grief some 2700 years strong.

“Hezekiah was horrified by what he’d heard happened, and he eventually paid tribute — he ransomed the city, really — so our army went back home again. Except Sennacherib left us behind, Lilah and Salice and me. Now that he’d killed my children he couldn’t trust us, so he made a gift of us to Hezekiah, to be his own concubines. Seems even he had heard of us, from spies he’d sent to Assyria.

“Even though we were betrayed by Sennacherib, we still didn’t have any love for the Israelites, or their god. So it was mostly a very antagonistic relationship we had with Hezekiah. But then one night, before he took us, he became very drunk, and we were amazed at what a state of terror he was in over their god. He talked to us, I think, because we were the only ones he could talk to, the only ones who didn’t share his religion.

“He was still haunted by the butchery of my babies. It wasn’t their deaths so much as the … the consumption of them that was so abhorrent to him. And this one night, drunk, with his guard down, he confessed that he couldn’t see any difference between that, and certain things their own god Yahweh had demanded.

“Then he mentioned some text he’d acquired from a Chaldean trader. He wouldn’t tell us what it said, specifically — he was too horrified to do that — but he hinted that it was written in angelic script, and that it couldn’t be burned, and that it had something to do with Yahweh and the blood sacrifice of a child.”

As Maia told me these things, they plucked at old misgivings I’d once chosen to ignore … like all those scriptures that plainly had God demanding that his chosen people lay waste to enemies down to the last innocent baby and ignorant animal.

Might these, too, have fed him, along with faith?

“When Hezekiah finally had us that night, something became very different about him. In spite of how drunk he was, he was inexhaustible. His erection had swollen to twice its usual size, and he kept after us long after it was raw. Hours, it must’ve been, and he still hadn’t released once. I don’t know if it was something in his eyes, or the way his throat ballooned out, as if his flesh couldn’t contain whatever was inside him, but we knew it wasn’t Hezekiah any longer. It was the Sacred Marriage, all over again … except this time, it was their god inside him.

“And when we realized this, Lilah and Salice and I, that was when he orgasmed. His screaming was like a slaughtered pig’s. You can’t have any idea what that sounded like echoing down the palace corridors and back again. And his seed … it was like venom. He held us down and filled us with it, and there wasn’t any end to it, and it burned us from the inside out…”

When Maia went to the window, pressing her hands to the panes of leaded glass, we both gazed on the risen moon that watched over a land once filled with people who’d had no need of anything from the scorching deserts of Palestine. And I thought how right it was that she and her sisters had come to live amongst the Celts, and wait for that day when some magic in our blood might be turned to their advantage, if only to know the enemy a little better.

“And that was the seed of what we became,” she finished. “The punishment from their god for who we were. What we’d heard. He turned us into their idea of what we’d worshipped at home. Turned us into Liliths. And then he turned us away. Forever.”

VIII. O magnum mysterium

Even before they came to Dublin for the divination, I’d begun collectively thinking of them as the Misbegotten.

They came from as near as across the Irish Sea; as far away as the other side of the world. They came, and they were not all the same. Some drank blood while others ate flesh; then there was Salice. The one called Julius? Before his castrato deafened him, Maia told me, it was the resonances of extraordinary sounds that kept him young. I’d been told of an aborigine who’d been eating eyes since the British used Australia as a penal colony, claiming it kept his view into the Dreamtime clear. I’d been told of a Paris artist who could be nourished only with spinal fluid. They walked and talked like men and women, but only if you looked none too close. For one who knew better, it was as though the gates of some fabulous and terrible menagerie had been thrown wide, and its inhabitants allowed to overrun creation.

Nobody’s ever born this way, Maia had said, but I saw them as misbegotten all the same, of monstrous second births that had, by chance or perverse design, left them equipped to demand accounting for what they’d all become. And even if in the end they might only shake futile fists at Heaven, I felt sure their voices would carry much farther than the rest of ours.

In a way I envied them.

In a way I regretted they hadn’t the power to turn me into one of them.

But to aid their cause, all I had to do was spread wide my arms, fixate my soul upon the Christ, then do what came naturally.

“We’re of two minds on God, Patrick,” she’d explained to me. “But if he really had a son, and there’s even a little bit of him in that son, and if there’s even a little bit of that son now in your blood, and in that single tiny scrap of flesh he left behind, then maybe that’s enough for us to do what men and women have always wanted to do: understand the true nature of God.”

“What tiny scrap of flesh he left behind?” I’d asked.