I am a masterpiece.
The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was change . From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000 B.C., to the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the moko scars of the modern Maori, humans have tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed beings.
Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus 19:28, which forbade the marking of ones flesh, tattoos had become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern age everyone from clean-cut teenagers to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives.
The act of tattooing ones skin was a transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world: I am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical transformation had addicted millions to flesh-altering practices. . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding, and steroids. . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.
A single bell chimed on Malakhs grandfather clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his tools, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his naked, six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside this sprawling mansion was heavy with the pungent fragrance of his skin dyes and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to sterilize his needles. The towering young man moved down the corridor past priceless Italian antiques a Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair, a silver Bugarini oil lamp.
He glanced through a floor-to-ceiling window as he passed, admiring the classical skyline in the distance. the luminous dome of the u.s. capitol glowed with solemn power against the dark winter sky.
This is where it is hidden, he thought. It is buried out there somewhere.
Few men knew it existed. . and even fewer knew its awesome power or the ingenious way in which it had been hidden. To this day, it remained this countrys greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth kept it hidden behind a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.
Now they have opened their doors to me, Malakh thought.
Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed by Americas most influential men, Malakh had ascended to the thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the worlds oldest surviving brotherhood. Despite Malakhs new rank, the brethren had told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it worked. There were circles within circles. . brotherhoods within brotherhoods. Even if Malakh waited years, he might never earn their ultimate trust.
Fortunately, he did not need their trust to obtain their deepest secret.
My initiation served its purpose.
Now, energized by what lay ahead, he strode toward his bedroom. Throughout his entire home, audio speakers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato singing the «Lux Aeterna» from the Verdi Requiem a reminder of a previous life. Malakh touched a remote control to bring on the thundering «Dies Irae.» Then, against a backdrop of crashing timpani and parallel fifths, he bounded up the marble staircase, his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.
As he ran, his empty stomach growled in protest. For two days now, Malakh had fasted, consuming only water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he reminded himself. Along with your pain.
Malakh entered his bedroom sanctuary with reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward his dressing area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Malakh opened his robe to unveil his naked form. The vision awed him.
I am a masterpiece.
His massive body was shaved and smooth. He lowered his gaze first to his feet, which were tattooed with the scales and talons of a hawk. Above that, his muscular legs were tattooed as carved pillars his left leg spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin . His groin and abdomen formed a decorated archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the double-headed phoenix. . each head in profile with its visible eye formed by one of malakhs nipples. his shoulders, neck, face, and shaved head were completely covered with an intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.
I am an artifact. . an evolving icon.
One mortal man had seen Malakh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. «Good God, youre a demon!»
«If you perceive me as such,» Malakh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons were identical interchangeable archetypes all a matter of polarity: the guardian angel who conquered your enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.
Malakh tipped his face down now and got an oblique view of the top of his head. There, within the crownlike halo, shone a small circle of pale, untattooed flesh. This carefully guarded canvas was Malakhs only remaining piece of virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently. . and tonight, it would be filled. Although Malakh did not yet possess what he required to complete his masterpiece, he knew the moment was fast approaching.