“It’s a place where your wish will be granted
Come, you’ll see I’m right
It’s a force that will live on within you
Dark as day is night
It’s a place where your dreams will be sanctioned
And will always be
It’s a force that was sent out to win you
Just you wait and see” – Epica
The angels of Gath they came from the sea, on a March night when the ice broke free. Came they to a wooden dock down from a wooden gate that is often not seen, hidden by hedgerows and a lock without a key. Stood they by so silently could they be children who do not breathe, led they were by one so tall, a bloody Jack who sired them all you see. Came they from a land so dark before the tower of babel, before the ark, knew they each man’s own sin and even women her thoughts within. Landed all these phantoms upon a dock near Whitby’s harbor at three A.M., saw they above them cliffs of white, the harbormaster saw them and died of fright. For they came to fight and maim, to destroy, the world, that women made they came to make it void. There above the sea so cold, those ancient witches with hearts so bold. And no matter what providence or lack of foresight or evidence, knew they once, all the same. This night would come a fire would come a flame. For it was by bloody Jack the Lord bereaved. The angels would strike by air and by sea. Their eyes rolling red, their souls bruised by need. For somewhere ahead on this cold springtime eve rested a fortune in magic of deeds.
And what of the women that rose from their beds, unwrapping their bodies from sated desire unsaid. The scent of their bodies mixed of oil, of spices and musk; with pleasure their toil, so spent from their lust. The manor still sleeping from parties at dusk, Lucy’s gardens outside hiding all that it must. Not seeming aware that so far below, bloody Jack waited to claim what he owed.
For it seemed once in Yorkshire upon such a day, a bloody thief had stolen away, the book of all shadows of an abbess that strayed. In a tavern off Pickering, on Whitby Way, in drunken debauchery, beneath the table they say. A floorboard was loosened, and a treasure displayed. Of writings of secrets, of magic enflamed, of women of Whitby who receive what they say.
So it was that this man darkened his face, with envy of what he had read of this place, and at night he cut on his arms with a knife, and bled bloody circles to end inner strife, and called he up fallen, the angels of Gath. They came from the highlands their purpose in store. To follow from Yorkshire and take witches down, to learn all their secrets, while in blood they did drown.
We come back to three that hour early morn, when witches are rising to praise their light Lord, and thunder it greets them from high in the sky, and somewhere below them, they hear a strange cry. Resa sweet lady looks startled at best, dear “Mina” my mistress have you seen “Poussee Seth”. He stands by the gate, Carlotta says with a sigh, dragging a boa across her own naked thigh. The coven looks wary, as a second sound is heard, and then there is another, of which moves the earth.
The Shilling it twist and it falls to the earth, before the gate closes a dragon is heard, the summoned the called for, the guardian of Din, the judgment of angels of bloody Jacks end. The witch’s familiar, the tide that rolls in. A talon left grasping a book owned by all, the shadows returning to eternity’s call.
And what of the women who rose from their beds, looking on westward to a dawn now that is red. In coven, they call down the light from above, and bless their familiar who returns to their love. The circle unbroken by angels or man, the manor alive now, its rooms all aglow, the spring has arrived now, with sunlight in tow. The angels of Gath have returned whence they came, and bloody Jack vanquished, and all is the same, as we go onward as we go. – 03.22.2018 – דניאל