The Harrowing of Yeshua

By Hodden Grey

Set in the modern era, an aged Yeshua ha-Nostri (Jesus) journeys to a surreal ‘afterworld’ called Timorous to confront Lucifer, whom he suspects of closing the gates to Heaven; a pre-cursor to war. On Yeshua’s arrival in Timorous, he encounters Camille, whose soul has materialized there as her body lies suspended between life and death in a London hospital bed. Their journey takes them from the forlorn Beaches of the Condemned, across the vile Sea of Diminishment to the notorious Halls of Punishment, where every soul is purified before it can enter Heaven.

Yeshua’s belief in the veneration of Man is severely tested along the way as he and Camille travel through nightmarish landscapes and interact with mixed-breed monsters and other unworldly creatures. Flashbacks to Yeshua’s early years provide an illuminating account of the key events in his life, including a worsening relationship with his brother James which eventually leads to tragedy.

Meanwhile, Lucifer deliberates on the price he is paying for his commitment to a non-interference pact he has made with God, concerning Man’s free will. Lucifer perceives Man as immoral and dangerous to his planet, and possibly to the Heavens, and in need of eradication; a view not shared by ha-Nostri. Unknown to Lucifer, his vengeful concubine and femme fatale, Lilith, plots a rebellion against him, and ultimately intends to invade the Heavens with Lucifer’s armies, whose generals have fallen under her charms.

Back in the hospital, Camille’s ex-boyfriend Max, is at her bedside protecting her from ‘phantom’ attacks on her person, while Camille’s spiteful mother points an accusatory finger at him.

In the Megiddo series, the author blends high fantasy with biblical fiction, and provides an unrestrained and imaginative tale, both alarming and uplifting at the same time, which questions the wisdom of Man's free will and introduces some new perspectives on the afterlife

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hodden Grey
• Release date: Sep 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465753335

Hodden Grey

Born into a working-class family, Hodden left school in Northern England at sixteen abd went to work as an apprentice marine engineer on merchant ships for four years. Most of Hodden's business career has been spent as an entrepreneur in the IT sector where he created and sold consulting and software companies. In the 1990's one of his software products led to the capture and incarceration of several terrorists. Hodden has visited more than fifty countries and has lived and worked in London, Paris, Hawaii, New York, Tokyo and Hong Kong. In 2001, Hodden, in his mid-forties, semi-retired and began the research for the "Megiddo Series." Hodden's interest in ecology has led to expeditions in many rainforests and resulted in memorable close encounters with wildlife. Other interests include the arts, rock-and-roll, numerous sports, cooking, theology and theoretical physics. Hodden is happily married and currently lives in New York. "The Harrowing of Yeshua" is his debut novel.

Book preview

The Prologue

Nearly one thousand years ago, the Creator had agreed that Lucifer could return to Heaven if he could achieve millennia of non-interference in Man’s development. And now with only a few more years of the contract remaining, Lucifer was more anxious than ever. Returning from an inspection of the four gates to the Plains of Heaven, Lucifer stood motionless on the top of the vast, tall Halls of Punishment, staring across an expansive moat of bubbling lava to Absalom, his magnificent palatial home.

Are you ready to return my Lord? inquired Azazel.

Returning to his deep thoughts Lucifer did not hear the concerned voice of his protégé and most trusted general. My Lord, you stand too close to the edge. While Lucifer had not disclosed his desire to return to Heaven to anyone, Azazel knew his Master was unhappy and yearned to be reunited with the Creator.

Although Azazel was ambitious, he was also concerned about the timing of any potential leadership change in the vast afterworld of Timorous. He knew that he would be considered, along with others of Lucifer’s favored few, as the next Lord of Timorous. However, while Azazel could count on the support of many of his peers and their armies, he also knew that much cajolery and mealy-mouthed flattery, which he detested, would have to be required to persuade the competition to unite behind him.

Besides persistent rumors of rebellion amongst the many armies in Timorous, it was the future of mankind that troubled Azazel’s Master so much. When the one thousand year Agreement expired what would happen next? Would it be extended or would the Creator’s experiment with Man be concluded as a failure and mankind destroyed? The thought of trying to maintain Man’s free will by continued non-interference beyond the Agreement could never be achieved, not even by Lucifer. The restless armies of Timorous would undoubtedly revolt and roam the Earth as they did before the accord. Angels would be allowed to fly again for the first time in a thousand years. Azazel knew that these were dangerous times and that his best course of action was to stay close to his Master until the future of mankind had been decided. Then there was Lilith, Lucifer’s concubine to consider. Following her many public and private transgressions, Azazel could not imagine the Creator permitting Lilith entry into Heaven alongside Lucifer. Lucifer’s well-being was also a concern. Azazel had witnessed his Master’s occasional lapses of indecisiveness, and during the last few years he had witnessed several uncharacteristic incongruities that Lucifer had tried to feign as fatigue. Azazel worried that his Master was starting to lose control of himself. He wondered how long would it be before he could no longer continue to lead? And, what if others intent on causing conflict in the Heavens seized the initiative? While Azazel considered himself loyal to Lucifer, the thought of having to choose between loyalty to his Master and to Timorous would cause him immense grief.

Lucifer turned towards his protégé. At three meters tall, he towered over Azazel. In all of Timorous and in the Plains of Heaven, perhaps there were only three other angels who were as imposing as Lucifer, but none were quite so beautiful. He stood perfectly erect and magnificent, basking in unbridled self-assuredness the way only a leader of countless legions could. Fastened to his left arm was the golden shield of Ares. In his right hand, he carried the spear of destiny used at Christ’s crucifixion. His head was adorned with a golden Greek helmet that hid his thick blond curly hair. Draped around his broad shoulders and tied around his thick neck hung a heavy golden tunic that concealed a perfectly developed muscular body. His golden chain mail, or armor, as he referred to it, was only worn for show, either on tours of duty or at ceremonial meetings in the Great Hall of Absalom. Normally, he wandered his palace naked, his youthful beauty legendary. Many believed that the Creator had bestowed eternal beauty upon Lucifer from the moment he was appointed Lord of Timorous, as he had never aged from the moment of his undignified fall from grace from the Heavens.

Thank you for your concern my friend, murmured the great one as he continued to gaze upon his palace, but rest assured, I feel perfectly safe.

This was Lucifer’s tenth tour of duty in as many weeks and would be the final tour for the foreseeable future. Although tiring, he used the opportunity to motivate his generals and their armies, and to monitor the restlessness of his soldiers. He knew he had several problems to resolve. Lucifer suspected that it was only a matter of time before the boredom affecting his armies became truly serious. The problem was that he still did not know from where the rebellion might materialize. In addition, he suspected a traitor from within his own household. He had nothing tangible to go on except instinct. The Lord of Timorous seriously wondered if there was anyone he could trust anymore.

Behind Azazel stood ten thousand of Lucifer’s bodyguards, one fifth of his handpicked personal army of fallen angels that provided the guard of honor for his tours of inspection. They stood in polished silver battle dress, eyes-to-the-front, trying not to stare at the colossus that was their Master. For the warriors, a tour of inspection was an opportunity to leave the drudgery of palace life. As a fighting force they had been trained well and were proficient, but who was their enemy, who were they to fight? Frequent contests were held between armies where the only victor was pride. While they still had the desire to fly, none in Azazel’s army had done so for hundreds of years. As part of the Agreement with the Creator, flying was not permitted.

Lucifer looked beyond Azazel across the vast square structure that contained the seven Halls of Punishment, thirty-five kilometers across and fifty stories high. Recently, Lucifer had become envious of the purified white souls queuing at the four gates waiting to gain entrance to the towers to the Plains of Heaven that rose through menacing clouds.

Yes, I’m ready Azazel. Bound by tradition, Lucifer slowly raised his arms in salute to his palace and in the deepest of baritone voices roared, Absalom.

With his salutary gesture complete, his accompanying guard began to clatter their shields with their swords as they roared, Absalom, Absalom, Absalom.

Chapter 1: Club Tireseus

It had been six weeks since the incident on the bus. The deluge of phone calls from public relations companies, who wanted to represent me, and publishers wanting to tell my life story, were finally down to a few a day. The hundreds of letters from would-be suitors and cranks, which had found their way to my post-box, were slowing to a trickle. The most annoying of all, were the wretched tabloid reporters that continued to knock on my front door until I called the police, and had them moved on. For some newspapers I was the hero who had saved dozens of lives, for others I was vilified for protecting a would-be bomber.

What had started as a typical day with a bus ride to work ended so traumatically after six hours of interrogation by London’s elite anti-terrorist squad. Anyone could have sat next to the young man on the bus, but it just happened to be me, Camille Brennan. He said nothing, but was clearly troubled. From the time of the IRA bombings in the mid-seventies, Londoners had been vigilant about suspicious bags left in public places. Now it was the threat of suicide bombers that was of concern.

This skinny, hooded, twenty-something, geeky-looking Caucasian man held his arms tightly around his buttoned-up bulbous dark blue hoodie and sweated profusely. As he peered out of the window opposite, I sneaked a quick sideways glance in his direction and felt a wave of dread pour over me. Several colored wires peeked out from a gap above his folded arms from inside his jacket. The bus was crowded; I had to think fast.

Is this the bus for Marylebone? I asked, nervously trying to engage him in conversation.

What? startled, he jumped in his seat.

I said, is this the bus for Marylebone? I’m meeting my family there, I lied.

Turning towards me with sorrowful eyes, he mumbled, I can’t do it. And slightly opened his jacket to reveal a vest of explosives. I can’t do it, he repeated. He started to weep as his hands trembled to button-up up his jacket. I’ve nothing, no future, no money.

He told me he was fed up with his life; he was unemployed and unloved by anyone. No one else on the peak hour bus had noticed this drama begin to unfold as I calmly asked him to leave the bus with me.

Let’s talk about this over a coffee, I suggested. I had to get him off the bus.

Five minutes later we were seated on a bench in the center of a tree-lined square off the High Street, each drinking a cola purchased from a street vendor. I called the police from my mobile phone pretending to be calling my office telling them I would be late for work. Within minutes the square had been quietly evacuated and sealed off. Moments later, the young man had given himself up and was taken into custody by the anti-terrorist squad.

How the media got hold of the story remained a mystery. I just wanted to forget it ever happened and get on with my life but now the British Prime Minister was being pressed to give me an award for bravery. A Sunday tabloid then ran a story chronicling how, at the age of fourteen I had saved my younger sister from drowning, and at the age of twenty-three I prevented a young mother from being beaten by her estranged husband. The tabloids were intent on making me out to be a heroine, but I wasn’t. Situations just happened and I responded to them. I just seemed to encounter more than my fair share of them. I did not want to be a hero; I just wanted to return to work. I didn’t want people treating me differently.

Now, six weeks later, I was in the back of a London taxicab with three girlfriends heading towards London’s West End for a night out. I wasn’t really in the mood to go out clubbing, but Jenny, my life-long friend from Liverpool, had made the effort to visit and cheer me up. Our taxi arrived at 9.30 pm at the Club Tireseus in time for the 10 o’clock performance. Lindsay and Susie from the office had been to the club once before and were keen to show me a proverbial good time. Given my celebrity status I wondered if visiting a transvestite club was the right thing to do, but, ‘what the hell’ I thought, I’d had enough of being caged and was reaching a point were I didn’t care any more about what people thought of me. However, my self-consciousness kicked-in when I discovered that our reserved table was in the middle of the front row. But I was here with my friends, and determined to enjoy myself, within limits.

The club was small and intimate. There were six rows of tables with six circular tables in each row. Apart from a few tables at the back of the room, near the bar, all of the tables were fully occupied. The light gray glossy walls were decorated with large colored murals depicting scenes from the Battle of Troy. At one end of the nightclub was a small stage raised a meter off the ground, with two bright yellow pull-away curtains. At the end of the room was a poorly lit bar. Kitschy, full-bosomed waitresses, in dazzling mini-skirts served the tables. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and cigars, the latter supposedly banned in West End clubs. Two rows of ceiling spotlights lit the stage where a Cuban dancer with a crew cut and a very well oiled, bronzed body was performing. The whole room seemed to follow every ripple of his gyratory routine to an abbreviated version of Donna Summer's ‘Love to Love You.’

At a neighboring table sat a group of young men in their late twenties. From their surprised expressions, it looked like they'd walked into quite a different club from the one they were expecting, but had been too curious to leave. So far, they had followed every move of the dancer’s performance with fascination.

The Cuban danced suggestively in front of them, crooking his little finger at one man in the group, beckoning him to come up on stage. With determined pushing from his friends, the young man found himself in the spotlight. It was clear that his part in the show was to remove what was left of the dancer's clothing. The audience erupted into enthusiastic applause; we had wanted something more, now we were going to get it. From my perspective, Jenny, Lindsay and Susie appeared to lead the rapture with wolf whistles that I had never learned to master.

The dancer had chosen his subject well. The young man was clearly not a professional dancer, but he had rhythm and once on the stage he was up for the challenge. The music pulsated and the lights flashed intensely in time with the backbeat of the music. The rest of the young man's party, delighted at their friend's involvement, and each no doubt relieved to have remained safely at the table, cheered and whistled as their friend went along with the Cuban's wishes. The Cuban's bulging studded pocket of trouble on his leather belted g-string, indicated an evident increasing enjoyment of the act. There wasn't much left for the young man to remove. I looked at my three companions wondering if they were feeling as anxiously aroused as me. Lindsay was looking at me, smirking and nodding her approval. Susie covered her mouth with her hand, with high expectations of what was to follow. Jenny was almost out of her seat shouting, Yeah, do it, go on, do it. For my part, I found myself thinking of my former boyfriend, Max, and wondering what would happen if I turned up on his doorstep later that evening. Would he be home? Would he be alone?

Then, in one move, the dancer reached for the young man’s shoulders and forced him down to his knees. He pulled the face of the surprised young man close to his crotch.

You could hear two hundred pairs of lungs simultaneously suck in the smoky, stale air and hold it with a hush of anticipation. The applause faltered momentarily. It seemed that with that single gesture, the Cuban had already gone farther than we'd expect him to. I wondered how the young man would respond and if this was a set-up, but the disbelieving faces of his comrades at the next table suggested otherwise. Time seemed to pause as our uncertainty deepened. And then, with an elegant gesture, and consummate timing, the Cuban raised the young man to his feet. He took his hand, and grasping him around the waist, tangoed his mesmerized partner back to the edge of the stage and back to his friends. The dancer retreated center stage and offered a mocking half bow complemented by three gentle, quick handclaps to the young man. He raised his hand to the rest of us, and vanished into the darkness, stage right. The act was over. The curtains closed. As the main lights came on, the room burst into delighted clapping. We hoped for more, but when the Cuban didn’t return, idle chatter filled the room.

Lindsay and Susie were both team leaders in tele-sales in the IT software company where I was a product manager. Jenny was a housewife with two adorable young children. Lindsay, who’d soon be forty, was starting to tire of the merciless ribbing from the rest of us. Not surprisingly she tried to switch the focus of conversation away from her, and selected me as her target.

So, Camille, have you seen Max lately? Susie and Jenny looked at me and waited for my response. Even after a few glasses of wine and a cocktail, I could not easily find a jocular reply to Lindsay’s unappreciated question. After three years together, Max and I had parted eight weeks ago. We had shared my home until I asked him to move out. I still loved Max. He’s a good man, and although he wants me back in his life I’m not sure what to do. At twenty-nine, I need to be in a relationship with a future. Max was unreliable and flirtatious; two character traits I find difficult to cope with. During the last six weeks of my instant celebrity thanks to the tabloids, we had been in frequent telephone and email communication, although I had refused to see him until our six-month trial separation was over. Max had been supportive and helped me through this difficult time but I was determined not to have him exposed to the media. More importantly, I needed some time and space to figure things out.

I also had my mother’s future to consider. Following my dad’s death six months ago, I persuaded my mum to temporarily move in with Max and me so we could assist in her emotional recuperation. She could be a real bitch at the best of times, but at that point she was at her worst as she milked her grief for all it was worth. It had been a tough period for all of us and I needed some time for me. Two weeks ago, I insisted she return to her home. She hasn’t spoken to me since.

It’s not been a good year for you my love has it? Jenny put her arm around my shoulders and stroked my long blond hair, losing your dad, moving your Mum in with you, and then out, separating from Max, having your sister get busted for possession and then having your picture splashed across all the newspapers. It all happens at once, doesn’t it kiddo?

I put my arm around Jenny’s waist, hugged her tightly and whimpered, I want what you’ve got Jenny. I want a home, a loving husband to share my life with and a family before it’s too late for me. I’ve put so much into this relationship with Max. I don’t want to join the cocktail bar circuit again. I’d always promised myself I’d never live with a man until I had a ring on my finger.

You could do a lot worse you know, said Jenny, comfortingly.

I’m going to call him and tell him to come over tomorrow, I grinned, and reached for my mobile phone. I was so excited about the prospect of being a couple again.

Are you sure? asked Susie, trying to bring me down to Earth.

I’m sure, very sure, I said and pressed the speed dial keys, come on, come on, I shouted impatiently, oh no, it’s going into voicemail. I started to leave a message when my voice was drowned out by a loud pre-recorded roll of drums. And then, the lights dimmed, so I switched my phone off, and wondered how much of the message Max would be able to hear.

The master of ceremonies, Jezebel, who was plump, middle-aged, with heavy make-up, and a ridiculous blond wig, took center stage, and looked down at the four of us as I returned my mobile phone to my purse.

I've had such a hard day dahhhhhlings, she said, licking her full red ruby lips and raising her eyebrows. The audience cheered the innuendo. My partner, Jeremy, he's such a bore, even his answer phone hangs up on him! Not heard that one for a while, I thought. The applause behind me seemed excessive. Jezebel caressed the bulbous end of her microphone with one hand while gently stroking her blond beehive wig with the other.

Thank you darlings, you make it so worth while! Jezebel waved making a gentle royal gesture. The dimmed spotlights reflected off her glamorous turquoise dress as its sequins strained when she turned stage left, checking that the next act was ready. And now for your delectation, I want to introduce you to an animal lover, she paused, and added just like myself, you know. She paced her delivery expertly, scanning the audience as we all bayed for more. All my pets are on healthcare you know, and here is my favorite pussy of them all, the one and only …….. Tempest! Jezebel announced as she exited stage right taking her microphone with her.

The lights dimmed until they were nearly out. The audience applauded the empty stage when strobe lights and colored special effects kicked in. Through the club's sound system I could hear the sound of a pair of maracas leading into salsa music that quickly increased in volume and tempo. As it reached a crescendo, there was an explosion three meters in front of our table. From behind a cloak of thick red smoke, a female dancer started to materialize. As the smoke dispersed I saw her, voluptuous and provocative, as she began to dance across the dance floor.

The strobe lighting stopped and started several times. The pussy cat was stunning. Her long black hair flickered across her luminous yellow bikini top and the curves of her 38B bosom. Her tanned body glistened with oil; a yellow jewelled g-string completely disappeared between her perfect buttocks. Attached to the g-string were thick bright yellow stockings that started mid thigh, then wrinkled behind her knees and stopped just above her ankles.

Please don't let it be me she picks, I whispered to myself, as I looked around. Nobody in the club could take their eyes off her. As my gaze returned to the stage, I noticed that Tempest's hips seemed unusually straight given the amount of curves the rest of her body possessed. Certainly child bearing would be a problem for her, but of course she was a he! Tempest was one of Tireseus' visual conundrums. She was just so stunning. What surgery had created that perfect body? Again I pondered on her gender. Had she had the operation, the big one? Her crotch was bulge-less. No hint of wedding tackle. I focused on her throat to see her Adam's apple, but there were no clues there either.

Tempest gracefully jumped down from the stage, strutted past the young men at the table to our left, and then approached our table, glancing at each of us in turn. I could feel my heartbeat race as she danced right in front of me. I folded my arms, crossed my legs and made a decision: it was time to powder my nose. But before I could move, Tempest leaned even closer to me, fully opened her eyes revealing black vertical thin diamond slits on opaque yellow irises. The cat's eye lenses made her even more intimidating. I was transfixed like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. Her eyes narrowed again, and the glimmer of a steely smile flickered across her face.

And then she was gone, continuing her dance towards the table on our right where two mixed couples sat mesmerized yet nervous, clapping with superficial enthusiasm as the music picked up its tempo. ‘What a relief,’ I thought, just as the Amazon cat queen climbed back onto the stage with her back turned on her audience. Then, without any warning, in the middle of a stepping sequence, she suddenly froze on the spot. Her whole body jarred as if hit by a bolt of lightening. For a moment, she almost glowed.

The music continued. Tempest was supposed to continue. But instead she shook her head as a wet dog would its water-laden coat, and then turned her head stage right, then stage left. At our table we looked at each other quite mystified. Something was wrong. Tempest stood erect, her arms by her side and her legs a meter apart. She turned around to face the audience as the music and light show continued unaffected by the sudden cessation of the dancer’s routine. Tempest stood expressionless looking into the audience, which was mostly quiet now except for a few hecklers at the bar calling for her to get on with it. Then, it happened.

Someone shouted Fire! Others in the audience started screaming. We all stood up. I turned around to see clouds of thick yellowish smoke escaping from the bar area. Meanwhile red smoke was pouring into the room from under the stage, rising to embrace the yellow smoke in the middle of the ceiling. Oddly the music played on. Strobe lights pounded the stage where Tempest stood motionless. People were screaming and scurrying around covering their mouths. I found myself hurled into one of my worst nightmares, trapped in an inferno with no escape. Media accounts of fiery nightclub deaths ran through my head like a morbid newsreel. In the few seconds I stood gazing at the smoke, I thought about my life, my mother, Max, my friends and the future I had had the luxury to worry about only moments earlier.

Camille, quickly, Lindsay beckoned as she and everyone else scrambled towards the exits. Flames rising from behind the bar were now rolling along the ceiling. I could see people with their hair on fire. Men and women pulled and pushed each other. People were being trampled. The smell of sulphur in my nostrils was unexpected. It started to burn my throat like a strong Vindaloo curry does when consumed for the first time. Coughing and choking, I thought I must take control of myself and stay calm. With my left hand covering my mouth and pinching my nose, I tried to gather my thoughts. I looked around to see where Lindsay, Susie and Jenny were but I couldn’t see them. The smoke was so dense I couldn’t see two meters in front of me. I started to search my handbag for a handkerchief when from behind me; a firm hand pulled me around. Even though the smoke was thick and my eyes were full of