Celestial Hierarchy by Stephen Lorne Bennett

Celestial Hierarchy by Stephen Lorne Bennett

Author:Stephen Lorne Bennett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: angels, god, university, atheism, satan, religions, party animal, religion humor, student crush, gods fantasy
Publisher: Stephen Lorne Bennett


Chapter 17

“Her brother is a Salafi?” Harahel tenders me a flicker of recognition over the rim of his spectacles as he flips through the pages of an illuminated text. Scholars have employed this technique since the invention of reading glasses as a means of establishing who has the superior intellect and who is the poor dumb bastard.

“He has the look,” says I.

“Does he indeed?” Skepticism oozes from within the narrow confines of his nasal passages. “Such as?”

“You know,” I carry on, “longish beard, baggy pants, no sense of humour.”

“Afriel, you have just described half of male humanity. They can’t all be Salafis.”

“Sorry. Youth, you know. Prone to stereotyping.”

“Even so, please confirm this on your next visit. It may be important.” He firmly closes the cover of the fat leather-bound volume, generating small flour-like puffs.

“Are Salafis violent?” I ask.

“Not usually. But a young man typically chooses Salafism because he is ultra-conservative and a strong adherent of traditional culture. By contrast, your Chris represents change. Change and tradition are volatile elements. As in chemistry, when two such substances combine a violent reaction is the usual result.”

“Where is Mefathiel?” He interrupts his own discourse. “I sent her to keep track of Mastema.”

“Is that not a trifle dangerous?”

“It is. Hence my sending Mefathiel and not you. She is virtually impossible to detect. You, on the other hand ...”

“Harahel, I have been meaning to ask you about that.”

“Another time.” He claps his hands. “Mefathiel, appear!” She manifests, floating above us, arms and legs akimbo like an upside-down arachnid. Momentarily disoriented, when she spots us she grins. “Taking in the view from the Eiffel Tower at night.”

“You can go back in a minute,” says Harahel, without looking up from his manuscript of the moment. “Mastema is in France, I take it?” He draws a line across a map with his finger, from North America to Europe. “What is he up to?”

“As best as I can understand,” she descends next to me, “he seems determined to stir up trouble in the suburbs of Paris.”

“I see.” Harahel pulls thoughtfully at one ear.

“Why there?” I ask.

Mefathiel bestows a sympathetically patronizing look. “High unemployment, disaffected Muslims, a lot of crime and gang violence. Good place to start problems in a lapsed Catholic country that claims officially to be secular.”

“Indeed,” Harahel agrees. “Although in times such as these the underlying forces, socio-economic inequality and all that take on rather a reduced significance. Clearly an archangel has tasked Mastema to disseminate the seeds of sectarian strife as widely as possible. Hence this Islamic State cult in Iraq. Like most religious vehicles it preys on basic human foibles, especially the need to belong, to be part of a community. Add the dream of partaking in the true utopia, giving meaning to mortal existence through ownership of, and ultimately the imposition of universal truth. Then of course there is the accompanying power, the prestige to lord it over one’s fellows, the opportunity to be enriched, absolute domination over women, the thrill of carrying weapons...

“I have tracked Mastema,” Mefathiel interrupts, “around the globe.



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