Wayne Barlowe
GOD’S DEMON
For Shawna
“Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,” Said then the Lost Archangel, “this the seat That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom For that celestial light?” —John Milton, Paradise Lost Paradise Lost Awake, arise, or be for ever fall’n. —John Milton, Paradise Lost This book was, by any measure, an ambitious undertaking for me. There was not one moment during its creation that I was not certain I had made a terrible mistake in breaking away from painting and drawing to attempt it. During the arduous process of writing, however, I was bolstered by people both alive and dead, without whom I could never have finished the task. First and foremost among them was my wife, Shawna McCarthy, who told me more times than I can count that this was a journey that I was capable of completing. This book could never have been finished without her wisdom and unflagging encouragement, and my gratitude to her is total.
I must also thank my wonderful agent and friend, Russell Galen, for his continued support and valuable comments. Thanks must also go to my editor, Pat LoBrutto, who understood this project from the start and whose humor and insights into matters both heavenly and infernal were always welcome.
Thanks also to my great friend, TyRuben Ellingson, for his deep understanding of the labyrinth that is my creative mind.
God’s Demon would not exist but for the inspiration provided me by John Milton’s Paradise Lost. That work of genius, arguably the greatest poem written in the English language, set me on the path to first visualize Hell in artwork and then in writing. Like Dante’s Virgil, Milton’s spirit was a constant, guiding companion.
John Dee’s Complete Enochian Dictionary provided me with the basis for the language used throughout this book in both the pure “angelic” form and the somewhat corrupted “demonic” form. Dr. Dee’s unique work was derived from conversations he had in 1581 with two angels and, therefore, seemed to me authoritative.
To enrich your reading of God’s Demon with many of the images of Hell that I have created, please visit www.godsdemon.com.
BARLOWE’S INFERNO{1} Ash fell from a sky of umber darkness, softening the jagged chaos of the world below his open window. It obscured his vision so that he could barely discern the distant, broken towers he knew to be there. Only the star Algol, ever burning, ever watchful, managed to pierce the dark clouds and tint his room with a subtle ruddy glow. Eligor sat motionless, as he could for hours, watching the flakes drift down, and thought it fitting that they should come so heavily. He watched the tiny laborers far below, as they tirelessly rebuilt the shattered city of Adamantinarx. The ash fell peacefully; no burning wind played upon its slow descent and so Eligor could write without having to clear his desk every few minutes.
He wrote in ferocious bursts, punctuated only by his countless interviews and his moments of reverie. He wrote because he felt that he had to, and when he wrote it was in the script of angels. Because now it was permitted. The script had come fitfully, at first; it had been so long since he had written in it. The long strokes of his precious quill pen had been just a little too precise, the terminating circles a little too crabbed. But eventually he loosened up, remembering his way, and the letters flew from his pen like lightning. Soon the events of the not- so-distant past were flowing freely and the story of the last days of his lord, Sargatanas, took shape.
Eligor barely remembered the flight from the battlefield back to the palace. He had only the vague impression of passing through the shredded clouds of war with his troops, an elite squadron of Flying Guards, and of being so weary that he could barely stay aloft. There was too much to say between them, and therefore no one said anything.
Beneath him the clouds had parted to reveal the dark landscape. From their altitude the world looked as it always had. Vast olive-brown plains, like sheets of skin, rended and folded, were cut by flowing, incandescent rivers of lava and pocked by scattered outposts, pincushioned with fiery-tipped towers. The fires of Hell still blazed, at least, and Eligor had tried to convince himself that all was as it had been.
On they flew, their spirits beginning to lift, but when they entered Sargatanas’ wards all their fantasies vanished. There were virtually no intact buildings to be seen, so complete had been the need for the city’s bricks, for its souls. Where once had been laid out a vast and bustling city there now was a dismal grid of tumbled blocks and foundations. Like some newly excavated ruin, the city of Adamantinarx lay exposed and broken, its empty streets only discernible with the greatest effort. Colossal statues stood tilted upon pillaged pedestals, ornamental columns were strewn like broken bones across avenues, and the once-active river harbor was submerged for many blocks in the absence of its former embankment.
Sargatanas’ palace had fared little better. Looming up from the mount in the city’s center, it looked dark and ominous. The immense, domed building was pierced in a thousand places, its walls ravaged for their bricks, allowing the wind, cinders, and ash to move freely within. Eligor closed his eyes when he first saw the palace. Here was the home of his lord, abandoned and subject to the fury of Hell’s fierce elements. Empty.
Eligor and his traveling companions alighted upon the rim of the dome’s oculus and, wings folded, peered down into the once-great Audience Chamber. Nothing could be seen.
They descended into the darkness, silently. As they dropped down, the only light came from the fires guttering atop the Guards’ heads, reflected as tiny pinpricks of flame that gleamed back from the innumerable distant gold columns that ringed the space. It took many minutes to fall to the floor and, once there, many more for
