The Kingdoms of Eden

CHAPTER FOUR: An Irishman's History of a World

Cathal sighed gently as he expertly aimed his body at a deep cushion of tinder-dry heather, onto which he seated himself with well-practised ease. Amy remained uncharacteristically silent as she gave him time to gather his thoughts. As the moments stretched into minutes, she began to grow impatient. Her mild annoyance quickly slid into mistrust. He was either fashioning some convoluted lie, or he was messing with her, and she disliked the utter pointlessness of both.

"Well?" she snapped, with mild irritation.

"A moment, damn you," he replied, impishly. "There's a lot of the incredible to string into a yarn so that it doesn't sound unbelievable."

"Good luck with that," she hissed.

"I'll start with what I know to be the God's honest truth."

"As opposed to?"

"Hearsay and lies so beautifully crafted that it would be a damn shame not to believe them. There's nothing finer in all creation than a tall tale, well told."

"Go on."

"I'm going on. The nuts and bolts are the place to start. How this land and its mysterious ways actually work. You know? The kind of stuff that will keep a young lady from the great city of New York from winding up in the sort of bother that should never trouble her. But before I get down to it, one word of warning. Who created this place, from the town that we call home, to the great kingdoms laid out before us, or why they made these lands in the way that they did, with their strange rules and even stranger inhabitants—I know nothing of them, lest the hearsay and nonsense that I mentioned. What I do know is based on what I've read, what I've seen with my own two eyes, and what others have told me of their experiences in this place. These, terms and conditions, to put it a parlance more familiar to you, are subject to change."

"Helpful," she said, sarcastically.

"Sure, what would be the point in me telling you that up was down, and down was up, and thus it always was and always would be, when I knew none of it to be the God's honest truth? It would serve me no great purpose, and you even less so. Our town was the first settlement. It was occupied by powerful beings. I mean to say, the most powerful in all of God's creation. The consensus is that these beings were angels. They were part of the great rebellion in Heaven. In a face slap to the received wisdom, the Almighty did not eternally damn them for their crimes against Him. He sent them to this place. A sort of timeout zone where they could think on what they had done and make efforts to redeem their tarnished souls. To be fair to them, most did just that. They built the town where we live and they made plans for redemption. One or two could not be swayed. The evil that chased you from your home to this land is one such rebel. You would think that being on opposing sides they would never rub along together in a harmonious fashion, but you would be wrong. They are brothers after all, and more than that, they are the original brothers. As with all good family tiffs, a time came when the name calling and snide comments, and the disagreement over whether or not to oppose God, came to a head. That's when rules were put in place. I'm not talking your run-of-the-mill, keep off the grass, don't eat meat on Friday or you'll be up in front of the priest, bollocks, I'm talking, break these rules and it's eternal damnation in the deepest pits in Hell for you, boyo. First rule was to make our town a safe place for all. Powers are limited, through enforcement, and at the will of all concerned. Angel or not, if you break that rule you are done for. Then came the lands down there, with their fine cities. It goes on for as far as the imagination goes on, and all of it is protected by the divine will of the brothers. One will, and one rule—no power beyond that of a mortal man for any creature that sets foot on those soils. There's no choice in that. If you are the Arch Angel Michael and you come to land in those kingdoms, you will be as helpless as any mortal man. And the same is true of any offspring you might have—they too are as vulnerable as you or me, as long as they dwell in those kingdoms. That's not to say that some of those offspring don't flex their supernatural muscles every once in a while; they simply can't do it in their own backyard. Those offspring have plagued and helped mankind for as long as there has been a mankind. The Good Book calls them, men of renowned. The ancient Greeks, and Romans, and Egyptians, and all the other old-world civilisations knew them well, if by many different names. They were monsters and giants, and sorcerers, and every other being of nightmares and comfort, and they walked the Earth with the power of gods. Down there they are soldiers and farmers and tax collectors. Some even sing for a living. This is their Earth. The one that they believed God should have given to them in the first place. The damned fools don't seem to realise that their own version of paradise is a more backward version of a world that has long since left them behind. Their world is a violent afterglow of our own. It's as if that in an effort to replace mankind as the Heavenly Father's favoured creation, they have shunned the purity of what they were in favour of a corrupt version of mankind's lesser self. Sure, isn't it the curse of us all—we never know how good we have it until we don't? You know? Chasing an ideal at the cost of who we truly are?"