Progress

cold and rain in early winter

the ditch moves past the car window

an orange peel in the oil-stained verge

unwanted

it waits for its decay

hold this in your heart

make anticipation

sweet anticipation

of the sweet promise

of corruption

Job remembered it as a beginning. As the approach of a way of being with pain that was old and sincere. He knew pain. But he did not know humility. And so he offered himself to this way.

He did not know his teachers. But he knew that he was taught. And he knew that he would give his account through what he forgot. Through what he might forsake.

“It is time,” came the words of Essoch, tasting of tears and copper.

The path to the fortress had been steep and unforgiving. Where Job had believed he would find trials, he found ordeals. He found his life was not promised him. He saw it taken from him. He chased the moments where he might believe it restored.

“Come now, give up the anchor,” coaxed Essoch.

Job had learned something of the nature of absence. He had learned of the danger of reliance. He had overcome obstacles of sacred things. He had seen through many fallacies of Self.

“I grow bored,” said the Demon. “If you want magic to work for you, you will give up the anchor. SO THAT WE CAN MOVE ON!”

Essoch’s words were blood. The twitch of a wing. The tap of four pointed nails.

“Now!” it said.

“NO!”

“No?” Essoch echoed, and almost contained its pity.

“Magic does not work for us,” stated Job. His eyes looked out as though through clear water.

Essoch cocked its head in puzzlement.

“No,” said Job, “What your anchor will not allow you to see or accept…” Job raised his fingers and traced the twin lines of abjuration, “Is that it is us who work for it.”

The entity Essoch flinched and lost its mouth to a snarl.

From a well that was within him and outside of him, Job felt the fleeting touch of aether.

It warned him that truth could be a punishment.

It warned him that victory bred arrogance.

It opened the last gate.

He stepped through.