A Pillar Against the Sun

By Jon Laurent

Upon the plain I saw him slain,
Silvaticus Rex, King of men.
By spear, pierced; By woman, betrayed,
The hand of the one whom he loved most.

Upon the plain I saw it raised,
A mound of earth, tomb for a king.
In memory made, in honor kept;
A burial place, house of the dead.

Upon the plain I saw them gather,
Build a temple, a holy place.
Stone and pitch, ochre paint,
A space for the god, whom they worshipped.

Tambour and sistrum, drum and horn;
Celebration's frenzy, festival's gift.
Opal, lapis, beryl, betyl;
Gems and stones, pillars lifted.

 

Dance! Sing! Upon the plain;
Forget the man, the one you've slain.
Symbols in clay, words of God;
Sacred marks and secret rites.

 

Upon the plain, I witnessed a sign;
Thunder, lightning, Heaven's fire.
I saw them live, watched them die;
Babel's children, all confused.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Laurent
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224148196

Book preview

A Pillar Against the Sun

Jon Laurent

Copyright © 2024 by Author

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

PART ONE: CARDO ET DECUMANUS

1.The Builders of Mazes

Sacred Lines of Light

Sangreal

Urðr

The House of Peace

2.The Spirit of Geometry

PART TWO: A HIDDEN THING

3.The Pillars of Belief

4.Axis Mundi

5.The Mystery of Faith

The Descent of Man

The Sons of Men

The Power and the Glory

6.Lahad

PART THREE: OUR LADY

7.A Woman's Desire

8.Ignis Irae

9.Ex Cinebrius

PART ONE: CARDO ET DECUMANUS

The Builders of Mazes

Over hills, a road rose and fell. In a previous age this dusty line

A footpath through the forest, a hunting trail, that later

Served as secret passage through the trees

For the tribes at war against Imperator's legions. The wild men had failed to check Empire's advance; Getorix,

The king who had united them was slain. Divided,

They were conquered, their lands taken. Trees were felled, lumber gathered,

A new settlement built at the junction where path met river.

Supplies to this center flowed, traveled

Along the trail that had been widened, made a road. Down this channel armies marched,

Spread Empire's influence beyond the known world.

Outward, there was expansion; Inward, collapse. The territories

Too vast to be effectively managed. The tribes were incorporated

By the Imperator into his mighty legions, but when ordered to defend the borders,

Instead turned south, to Empire's home.

The barbarians sacked the cities, raped the women,

Bled tribute from the citizens, every few years returning,

To harvest again what they had allowed to regrow. Slowly,

The Empire died, over the centuries raided and looted

Until nothing of value remained.

Fed by the plunder, the northern settlement fattened, became a city.

Among the barbarians the greatest was made king,

A dynasty of the Sun inaugurated.

This nascent kingdom conquered; the road branched out. Wars were fought

Over the dominion of the Empire's fragments, the struggles birthing numerous

Kings, each claiming descent from the Imperators who once had reigned. But the Sun King's lineage was the greatest, forging

A line that through the centuries remained unbroken, until it, too,

Became challenged by its own corpulence,

Started to rot.

He calls himself the Sun!

The people spat, cursing their king.

Yet he shines no light on us.

The monarchy became decadent, the king ruling as if distant, hidden

As he was in his palace of gold. Centuries of conflict

Had made the kingdom wealthy, the people poor.

Burdened by the taxes to pay for their lord's wars,

They had grown tired of the Sun King's rule.

Today,

They proclaimed.

"We shall witness the setting of a Sun

Run red with blood!"

Flags were raised, banners

Sewn by the revolution's maidens swarmed

The prison that held the Sun King's enemies.

Liberty!

Countrymen freed.

In the streets they fought the soldiers, though untrained in war

Their number was greater than the king's own.

Equality!

The Crown's men were pulled from their high horses, slain,

Their blood staining the revolution's standards

As they surrounded the palace of the king.

Brotherhood!

The final barricade was broken; The house of the Sun stormed.

The king was captured, his crown removed,

The man marched before the people, prepared for execution.

It will not be enough,

Said the condemned to the crowd that had gathered.

"My blood will not sate. Beasts like you

Always hunger for more. Once I am gone,

Who, then, will you blame for your condition?"

The blade fell, the king's head removed, cut clean

From body by machine made for the purpose. The mob cheered,

Took the head and tossed it around, the murder marking the beginning of a new fraternity,

A Republic.

Our work is not yet done,

One from the crowd.

"Already, the Republic's enemies conspire to restore the throne.

Hunt them down; Root them out.

Let the old road run

Red with traitor's blood."

Day after day the mob assembled, fed heads to their 'Lady', the guillotine,

While the women of their bloody court sewed more flags,

Blood red for the revolution. None were innocent; all were guilty. The violence spread,

Devouring the city.

From the stain of murder rose a man, one anointed by his own

Hand to save the floundering Republic from the mob's reign. He harnessed the chaos, turned terror to order,

And ruled not as a king, but an Emperor like old.

He channeled the butchery outward, waged a war

To sate the beast at home. But the man's reach was too long, his ambition

Cut short by defeat in battle. The loss was unforgivable. He was exiled, held guilty:

"For subverting the Republic,

And the people's revolution."

To utter his name was to be joined to his conspiracy, and swiftly

By 'Our Lady's' hand dispatched. Never again

Would King or Emperor rule over the nation.

The revolutionary body gathered, formed an assembly:

Of those most representative of its spirit.

Appointed at its head a regent to govern. Over time,

This new government learned how to stoke the mob's anger

Just enough so that it would not be burned; kindled the revolutionary fire,

Just enough to keep its embers warm. But a fire, even one tended,

Can quickly burn out of control.

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A carriage bumped along the ancient road, cresting a final hill. Its passenger

With steady hand drew a circle.

Upon the plain I saw him slain,

Silvaticus Rex, King of men.

A dark cloud of ash rolled from fountains of brick, beneath these

Chimneys choked Capitol, the polluted city

Breaking out of its old, walled borders, a maze of twisting

Streets like tentacles reaching, extending,

Strangling the hills surrounding.

Through narrow corridors, between wooden shacks, the coach and its passenger passed.

A second circle traced,

Nested within the first.

By spear, pierced; By woman, betrayed,

The hand of the one whom he loved most.

Children followed, running vagrant among graves, stone

No longer separated, sacred, but now held

Firmly in the city's grip. Men looked

To see who it was who passed so richly,

Before turning back to their games of chance, necks bent over the dice they rolled,

Fortune's dwindling favor chased.

At the edge of the gamblers' circles, the women held vigil, waiting for the wager's

Winner to buy their offered services. The carriage slowed,

Neared an archway cut in the old wall. The passenger looked up from a third circle he'd drawn,

Set at the center of the two larger. A guard approached,

The man's gloved hand raised, signaling halt;

The driver pulled the reins to calm the horses.

Pardon,

Said the guard, lowering his hand

As he approached the coachman.

The carriage door opened, its passenger stepped out,

Weary-eyed and travel worn.

Bonjour, Monsieur,

The gendarme, greeting, removing his glove

To wipe the sweat from his face.

Why have we been stopped?

The passenger asked.

The guard pointed to the driver.

Your man is a foreigner?

The passenger nodded.

And you?

The guard inquired.

A citizen.

The passenger reached into his pocket,

Removed his papers and handed them to the gendarme.

Henri Monstrat,

Said the guard, reading.

You are a nobleman?

Am I being detained, Monsieur...?

Jacques Renaud,

Answered the guard.

"Captain of the gendarmerie. And no, you are not being detained, only delayed.

Our Lady approaches."

Drums beat beyond the wall. Captain Renaud led Monstrat beneath the wide arch, leaned against the portal,

Pointed to the other side.

Look,

He motioned.

Monstrat walked forward, kept to the archway's shadow.

Before the wall passed a procession, drummers leading. Behind, horses pulled

A large cart flanked on either side by a cortège of women,

Their necks wrapped in scarves red in color. The men waved the bloody banners,

All escorting the Lady of the day.

The guillotine!

Monstrat beheld the machine carried by the cart. At the rear of the parade more followed,

Carrying those who had earned the Lady's favor.

Those are the wine carts,

The Captain, picking his teeth, explained.

"The tumbrels that bring the prisoners. By their number

It seems the people have reaped a healthy harvest.

The blood shall make for good vintage."

Behind the prisoners a crowd had gathered, the mob

Following the procession to the place of execution. Children ran along,

Collecting dung from horses to shape into balls

To throw at the condemned. Henri gripped the edge of the wall.

The last train trailed away. The sound of the drums fell to a quiet patter. The Captain

Raised his eyes to a sky that was growing darker.

Listen,

He remarked, pointing high.

Do you hear it?

Monstrat shook his head.

The bells of the cathedral; they're chiming.

…

Captain Renaud watched as Monstrat's carriage rolled away, then turned, looked over the city,

A circle that had been drawn away from its original center. A wheel once round,

Now wobbling. The National Assembly had entertained this arrangement to its limit.

The Captain kicked his boot in a pool of stagnant water, wondering:

How long has it been since the last rain?

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The carriage continued its roll, ferrying Monstrat

Down the winding streets of Capitol.

Upon the plain I saw it raised,

A mound of earth, tomb for a king.

Henri sent lines spiraling out from the three circles that he had drawn,

His pen spinning up the pattern of a vortex.

In memory made, in honor kept;

A burial place, house of the dead.

He had made a map, attached labels to name its regions.

Jackal-Land

This place existed beyond the limits of the page,

Untouched by Monstrat's order.

Troy-Town

Between the largest circle and the second set within, here citizens in their daily habits shifted

Like the moving walls of a maze.

The Realm of Glory

Pressed between the second and inner circles, a concealing cloud veiled a hidden center.

Here were weaved the threads that clothed the king, hid his naked

Body from the profane. Sacrifices, games,

Bread and circuses to please, keep the crowd

From exposing the truth that lends the priests their power.

Monstrat pressed his pen into the inner circle's belly,

Ready to write, blaspheme the secret. Instead

He decided to leave it empty.

Cardo

He cut a vertical line down the center.

Decumanus

Made one horizontal to meet it.

These two lines formed the axis,

The anchor the ancients used to center their cities.

Traditionally set before a design was drawn,

Monstrat used the cross as seal.

Upon the plain I saw them gather,

Build a temple, a holy place.

Stone and pitch, ochre paint,

A space for the god, whom they worshipped.

The carriage slowed its roll, stopped. Monstrat closed his notes,

Placed them on the seat and stepped out. On either side

A narrow row of houses rose, so closely lined

Like a chasm's walls. If the sky were not so thick with ash

Still the sun would not shine.

A moment, only,

He told his driver,

Making way to the house before which they had parked. Above, a chimney added to the gloom.

Why keep a fire in this heat?

At the door was a brass knocker, its shape curled to resemble

A snake devouring its own tail. Monstrat took in hand the handle,

Struck it against the wood. The door opened.

The owner of the home appeared.

LaCroix.

You should not be here,

The man replied.

Inside!

He ordered Monstrat.

What are you burning?

Led within by his host.

LaCroix's face was red, fired like an ember.

My books,

He said, making his way down the hall.

They're worthless now.

The two entered the main room where a library had been gathered, set

In towering stacks before a burning hearth. Monstrat stepped

Carefully among the scattered tomes, volumes fallen

From their piles into heaps on the floor. LaCroix offered a book to the fire.

I'll work until there is nothing left.

Removed another from its column and cast it after.

But these are priceless.

To whom, Monstrat?

The man plucked a book from the hand of his guest, threw it to the flames.

"I've filled my mind with nonsense, thought what I've read

Would be of value. Now I see it's pearls before swine;

The pigs hunger for something other than knowledge."

Monstrat lifted a title from its tower. LaCroix tried to steal it,

But Henri held it tightly.

Don't interfere,

The host warned his guest, who surrendered the book.

The man read its title, gave a sad smile,

Retreated to an old chair. The light from the flames danced across an exhausted face,

As LaCroix watched his library burn.

They're coming for me,

He quietly said, passing

His hand gently over the book he held.

Henri remained silent, allowed LaCroix to reflect.

"When a man first sees the light, so moving is it, he believes

That others would feel the same if he shared it. But there