The Harrowing of HellWhen Christ died, there was a blemish that marred the sky. A red moon eclipsed the sun, and on Earth men wept though they did not understand why. In Jerusalem, few had noticed the execution of three criminals, put to the death on the garbage-heap. Men like the legionnaire, who Destiny had picked to pierce Christ’s side, were among the few who had knowledge of what transgressed.
On the night that followed, saints rose from their graves, roamed the countryside, and banged on men’s doors. An earthquake sundered the land and created a chasm in the sea; it devoured the imperial houses in Palestine, and left augural cracks on the plaster houses of Jews.
Below the earth, the dust was settling over the great-iron door of hell. It had been forced open, falling where it would remain for ages, a mute witness to the entry of the Lifegiver to the underworld.
For three days, Christ descended into hell. As he progressed, the monsters of the abyss watched him from below. His pilgrimage moved ever downward, the godman descending the sheerest cliffs and navigating the dark, concentric circles of hell.
Wisdom sought its servitors in every hole. In every pit, crack, and dark corner of that world. He sought out the Great-fathers of falsity, of suspicion, of ignorance; of lust and greed; and of separation. From each devourer he stole his servants. He took each man from the maws, clothed him in Poverty, and shielded him from Time.
In the ages that followed, saints on their own passage through hell would follow the path illumined by the Lifegiver. Each saint would mark the still and testifying great-iron door, the gate collecting dust after epochs.
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