Beyond the Veil. C. N. Dudek

      Beyond the Veil

      Enter the Temple, Enter Heaven

      Copyright © 2016 C. N. Dudek. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8244-4

      hardcover isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8246-8

      ebook isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8245-1

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      To Sara

      And to my friends

      “Use?” replied Reepicheep. “Use, Captain? If by use you mean filling our bellies or our purses, I confess it will be no use at all. So far as I know we did not set sail to look for things useful but to seek honour and adventure.”

      –C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

      “Dead men cannot take effective action; their power of influence on others lasts only till the grave. Deeds and actions that energise others belong only to the living.”

      –St. Athanasius, On the Incarnation

      Chapter 1

      The moon slipped behind a cumulus sailing across dark skies. It was a balmy night, early fall. Fall bringing a season of contemplation after a burning summer, draining creativity. Crisp fall clears the mind as nights get cooler and time settles before stopping in frozen winter-scape.

      At least this is how Nicholas Ignatius saw the world. He had just closed shop, books in hand, pining to amble the orange-lamped sidewalks embracing cooler evenings and clearer thought.

      Nicholas breathed in chilled air contemplating; taking in the view of row homes on either side, passing the post office, the willow over the rambling creek. How the homes sat silently as petrified giants awaiting the trumpet to awake them and ruin the town. Passing Oak Street where oaks used to stand like pillars, holding the ground in place, supporting the sky. But now, those ancient sentinels, torn from the supple ground where a housing development would take their place.

      Passing Westmoreland Street, he remembered his friend Tom, where they used to play catch in his backyard. Tom’s father had died when he was fifteen; the house sold, the family uprooted, a friend gone; last Nicholas heard, Tom went off to war and hadn’t heard anything since. On to Green walking through Belle Grove Park, remembering holding hands with his first love, his first kiss, near the fountain.

      Nicholas sat on a park bench facing Bond Street. The houses still, windows dark. The homes had been there since the thirties. How many families had lived there over the years? How many dead and gone?

      This night in November marked the second anniversary of Nicholas’ father’s death. He remembered the requiem mass. Paschal candle burning—the presence of Jesus Christ, his eternal kingdom just beyond the veil. The tears, the sorrow, the solemnity. The saturnine presence with virulent life juxtaposed.

      This was a difficult time in Nicholas’ life—the most difficult. Not making that initiation leap with his father’s blessing had torn him from certainty—how to function in this broken world. Fear, anxiety, hatred of self, all posed as daggers eviscerating his marriage to his lovely wife. The pain of the past melding with the present had left their marriage a tattered sail torn by the winds, rains, storms of broken psyche, wayward self-deprecating habits. What was once a beautiful sail filled with winds journeying this couple toward adventure and life, was now unrecognizable—a tattered, threadbare unity, now disparate.

      As Nicholas thought of his life, a ruin, a long forgotten relic, he wandered the streets in no particular direction. The moon sat high in the balmy atmosphere—shining moonbeams. Jupiter, Mars, and Venus all lingered in the sky making a beautiful pointed, dazzling trinity. He thought of the medieval man walking in days of old—looking to the sky as the heavens filled with daemons, angels, unseen creatures of God’s cosmos. Nicholas loathed the modern view of space—the word “space” alone vexed him. The heavens are not just vacuous meaningless space. As Nicholas ambled down Windsor Drive he thought of the beauty of the cosmos. Yet a doubt lingered in him—was all this matter meaningless? Or is all there is, matter alone?

      He stopped. A red door lit by artificial light stood in the distance. A door once familiar to him. He walked down the drive and pulled on the door, luckily it was unlocked. He entered.

      The sanctuary was dimly lit, the eternal candle burning above the tabernacle in its red sconce. Nicholas recalled something an orthodox priest once told him, “Once you enter the church; you enter heaven.” He sat contemplating, thinking, taking in the images surrounding him. The crucifix hanging in the present, yet making present that Good Friday. Head bowed, eyes closed, he prayed, something he hadn’t done for years, uncertain what to say, “Lord, help me, Lord have mercy.” With eyes closed, Nicholas wept in agony. Mourning his marriage, mourning all that was lost: his father, his joy, his peace. A red hue dominated the room.

      The penitent felt a crushing, as though the atmosphere was compressed; he at the center of a vice. The pressure then subsided. He felt a peace as though a spring rain washed over him or the peace and reinvigoration of a rest on vacation.

      Something indescribable changed. Nicholas rose to his feet. He walked to the door and opened it to a twilit sky of red—facing west. The moon was rising, seemingly larger than he’d ever seen before.

      But what struck him was he could see Venus in the sky, the way one can see the moon during daylight hours—a white disc in the sky. In fact, he could see many of the other planets: Mercury, Mars, Saturn, and most prominent Jupiter.

      The air was cleaner—he breathed in deeply feeling refreshed unlike the usual air he was used to.

      “Have I been transported somewhere? Did I fall asleep in the chapel?” Nicholas said in a whisper.

      He had always dreamed of a time without combustion, electricity, without a care in the world. With only the soft sounds of wind, trees, animal sounds, maybe a carriage creaking down a dirt road. In fact, none of the usual sounds of motor cars were heard. Buildings, sidewalk, road disappeared. Yet, the chapel still stood behind him.

      “Where am I?”

      Chapter 2

      “At the culmination of time,” a voice said.

      Nicholas turned. A man stood there. Nicholas saw a man, but there was something more to him than mere flesh, Nicholas could only think of the word gravitas. The man was an embodiment of that word.

      “Who are you?”

      “I am Rigel. I was told to come to your aid, and so I have.”

      “Rigel . . . Who told you?”

      “Why, the king of this place of course. And yes, you do recognize my name correctly. I am he.”

      Nicholas had studied astronomy as a novice for many years. He would gaze into the heavens pointing out the constellations, finding the stars he knew by name. Rigel was one of them. The foot of Orion.

      “I have always dreamed that stars would be more than what they were made of. Their unseen being a true reality. How wonderful to meet you,” Nicholas said. “Who is the king of this place? I