The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [33]
“Precisely.”
Castillion looked to émilie. “And so we have digressed. If there are these sorts of malakim, each with a throne higher than the other, why not keep them in their natural categories?”
“Because they are more various than their rank. And we did find a way! One of our colleagues—Monsieur Lomonosov— has proposed a startling hypothesis. In his view, there is no matter in the world. Newton himself approached saying this, but shied.”
“I should say he did,” Castillion said. “The Church teaches that matter and spirit are separate. How can there be no matter?”
“It is all spirit. Or rather, it is all affinity—attractions and repulsions. Like gravity, which is not made of matter, or magnetism.”
“But both are created by matter. Gravity by atoms, magnetism by iron.”
“Lomonosov does not think so. He believes there are various sorts of affinities, some nearly perfect—nearer God, if you will—some less perfect. The most perfect affinities do not diminish with distance. The middle ones, like gravity, weaken in a proportion relative to the distance from the source. The least perfect affinities are those things we mistake for matter. But since all of these things are spirit existing at different levels, one may become another, and all are connected,” émilie explained.
“This is making my head spin.”
“Think of a musical scale. All notes on the scale are different, and have different qualities, but all can be reached by lengthening or shortening a string.”
“So if we ‘shorten’ matter, we get gravity? Or the holy spirit?”
“Yes, very like that.”
“And your malakim—those with the most masters between them and God and those nearest man—are the most imperfect, the most material. And the archangels, the thrones, and great powers, are farthest. But can one, then, become the other?” He sounded skeptical.
“We are matter, and imperfect,” Adrienne said. “But aren't we taught that we can become spirit, and perfect?”
“I must hear more of this,” Castillion said. “Much more. The implications—this has been borne out by experiment?”
“It has been suggested by reasoning, and by some experiment. We have yet to devise satisfactory tests, though young Lomonosov is trying.”
“And now—my head spins on—how does this apply to the classification of the malakim?”
“They are made of patterns of affinities, each unique like the ridges on our fingers. We can observe the pattern, using certain instruments. The weaker, less perfect malakim are simpler and more specialized than their masters. What we have discovered is that these masters make their servants from their own substance—not by natural reproduction, but by excising some part of themselves, then changing its ‘musical pitch’ so to speak.”
“All this we knew,” Adrienne said. “I thought you had made progress.”
“We have. As a man's child carries resemblance to him, these malakim made from other malakim resemble one another, but much more strongly. Their patterns tell their parentage, as it were. And our calculations—based, Mademoiselle, largely upon your own papers and observations— suggest something interesting.”
“And that is?”
“That in all the world, Mademoiselle, there are really only two true malakim. Two, from which all the others are descended.”
At midday, the sun scarcely touched the sluggish waters of the mighty Altamaha River. Not here, at least where it was narrow enough that the gallery of oaks it flowed through could nearly twine their branches in an arch, the Spanish moss hanging like stalactites from the roof of a cave. Somewhere the sun was shining; here the waters flowed dark and quiet. Cormorants perched on snags, and a great blue heron came flapping by on heavy wings.
Oglethorpe glanced at Tomochichi, the aging chief of the Yamacraw. Even at his advanced years, he was arresting, his still-muscular chest tattooed with black wings, his earlobes slit and dangling with jewelry. His intelligent face, painted red and black now, expressed something Oglethorpe rarely saw on it: concern. He was staring at the water.
“What's wrong, old friend?”
“Things