The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  All hell broke loose. Demand for the book skyrocketed. As there had only been a limited print run, the original volume quickly became impossible to find, with the publisher bound by a court order to destroy all remaining copies. Pirated versions appeared to fill the demand, but these were shoddily produced and full of misprints; when they did pop up they were seized by the authorities, who considered the book obscene. Comparatively tame by modern standards, the book's sexual diagrams and explicit language made it the subject of world-wide attention - which had been the author's goal all along.

  According to the third chapter of The Other Way, Clautney Iris was an orphan on the streets of Paris from the age of four. Living in abandoned buildings, subsisting off of whatever he might find or steal, his was a feral existence in the shadows of the filthy city. While attempting to pick the pocket of an elderly gentleman Iris was caught and brought back to the old man's home. There, Iris states he was "…indoctrinated into the world of the Mystic, unwillingly thrust across the threshold into a realm of power and imagination." For ten years he stayed with his master, learning the Six Mysteries of Man and developing the magical prowess to seek the Seventh.

  Iris' quest to discover the Seventh mystery is told in a series of rich, but ultimately indecipherable metaphors, the truth of which is described as "knowledge for now best kept secret." He concludes by speaking in a heavy-handed fashion about "…the awesome responsibility that found me in those endless wastes, that drove me forward to bring a message of hope and change to Humanity." This would, indeed, prove to be the focal point of his life.

  In early 1929 Iris received American citizenship. How he accomplished this remains unclear; some say a series of bribes bought him the influence he needed, while other rumors suggest blackmail at the uppermost levels. Whatever the case, it provided him with the freedom to at last spread his word in the west. Riding the tide of notoriety stirred by his book, he became an infamous figure of the time. Iris moved in the highest circles, associating with the rich and powerful, assembling a cabal of sorts around him.

  The outer circle of this group was the social arm, recruiting new members at lavish, orgy-like parties and plying guests with sex and exotic drugs. Once a "suggestive" state was reached, the members of a specially selected troupe would stage dramatic presentations for the dazed audience. These presentations were explicit, with representations of ritualized fornication and violence performed in the midst of the party goers. Most potential candidates never progressed passed this first stage, simply remaining a decorative part of the larger structure. Those who responded, however, were drawn into the second circle.

  (Author's Note: this book is designed to provide a general overview of important players in the occult community throughout the ages. While presenting valuable biographical information and commentary, it in no way seeks to reveal "secret" information or encourage the theft of intellectual property. By request of the estate of Clautney Iris we have deleted two paragraphs of text, which appeared in the original hardcover edition of this volume. While the author feels that the information within these two paragraphs is public knowledge (and, indeed, on public record) he respectfully complies with the Iris Estate's request.)

  At the center of this third circle was Clautney Iris himself. The poet Yuseff Kemp said of him: "It was as if some ancient and terrible statue had been unearthed from the dead clay of Carcosa. Coarse, withered, with wild, white beard and wind-burned skin, his lips curled back over broken teeth, and eyes burning black with visions of the Void beyond." In Iris' 1928 mug-shot we get a sense of this. The magician's eyes do seem to smolder in his wizened head, glaring out at the viewer with an almost magnetic intensity. The image remains popular to this day, appearing on Iris' four books, as well as t-shirts, posters and most famously on the cover of the album Die Katze, Die Für Immer War by German progressive rock band iFFF. (see iFFF, p. 43.)

  Iris used his new found infamy to his advantage. By early February 1930, The Other Way was officially reissued in the United States. Now that a legal, corrected copy of his work existed, Iris was free to disseminate it. He traveled though the year, lecturing at private functions and meeting with other underground luminaries such as Ayley La Noc and renown "weird tales" writer Peyton Croft. Iris spoke to professors, scientists and politicians, as well as the curious layman. Always expanding his circle of influence, Iris invited a select few from each lecture to attend his next retreat, though all who attended the seminar were encouraged to purchase the book.

  At the end of November, Iris left the United States, joining noted astronomer Theodore Bravosky and High Priestess of the temple of Amm, Madame Marie Arialis, at a conference in Switzerland. It was there Iris was struck with a curious case of paralysis which incapacitated the entire left side of his body for well over a year. Some say this was a result of an ill-chosen battle of wills with Madame Marie, while others insist it was simply the first symptom in his ongoing battle with ubisiosis. Whatever the case, the paralysis kept Iris out of action until the beginning of 1932, when he returned to the U.S.

  Iris was gladly received back into the world he had left. His book had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in his absence and those who hadn't seen him the first time around were eager to hear him speak. Iris' theories on human sexuality had begun to resonate with other social and philosophical movements of the day, slowly gaining in credibility; his enigmatic origins didn't hurt him any, either. The public was interested in The Other Way and the odd little man who had written it. They wanted more, but Iris' next book would prove to be different.

  Written over the course of 1932 while touring the United States, Of Thy Father's Flesh took Iris' ideas several steps further. Gone was the veiled and mysterious poetry and gentle transformation. In its place Iris spoke directly of the human mind and the self-imposed limitations that keep the species in check. "Flesh can be remade," he states boldly. "We are created blank canvases, left so that we might re-design the work of the Gods themselves." He elaborates further on the Seventh Mystery and of things he has seen on his quest: of yogi who have developed strange new sensory organs, high priests whose bodies have been physically merged together in arcane rituals, and monks reduced to ecstatic masses of inert nerve and flesh.

  "These are the appendages of Paq'q the Sleeper, reaching into the world that he might know us when He wakes," Iris states cryptically. He speaks of the Laying Of The Way, or opening a rift between Paq'q's world and ours, that the child of the new age may be born into flesh. "Each of us must strive to be a worthy vessel, for we know not when He comes. We must be ready to bear His mark, to speak His Word and bring Him again into this world, that He might topple the throne of the Keeper of Reason and establish a New Aeon on its bones."

  This book was, unsurprisingly, less popular than its predecessor. The formula had become more intensive, utilizing obscure magical terminology and complex mathematics; the sexual content now included lengthy incantations and, more often than not, multiple partners. The new complexity was daunting to even seasoned readers, but to previous critics it was fresh ammunition. 1933 began with attacks by both Iris' patrons and the press, who sensed a ripe target in the eccentric bearded gentleman. Over the next six months wild stories emerged about Iris and his teachings, ranging from the potentially true (his need for daily beatings with a lash) to the outright ludicrous (he bathed in the blood of old European royalty to maintain his power.)

  The backlash hurt Iris' reputation and brought a cloud of suspicion down around him wherever he went. He found he was no longer invited to the parties he'd been the main attraction of two short years before, and sales of his second book proved dismal. Even his own sacred Brotherhood, known to the world as the IRI, was in chaos due to political interference and bitter in-fighting. With little recourse, Iris fled to Europe.

  This is perhaps the most contentious part of this enigmatic character's history. While many of his modern converts insist Iris eventually became an unwilling tool of the Nazi party, history seems to sug
gest otherwise. What is known is that Iris spent the next several years in Germany, assembling what he once referred to as his "Circle of Seven." This was a cadre of scientists, philosophers and occultists who met in secret, allegedly to perform invocations of power and establish a priesthood of the new age. When word leaked out about this Iris' reputation took a beating in the North. His works, once considered canonical, were now dismissed as Nazi propaganda. His teachings were dismissed as being part of the Old Aeon he railed against, and the occult community quickly distanced itself from him.

  In 1937, the Nazi party made all occult activity illegal in Germany. There is much speculation as to why, best elaborated in Alan Henshaw's 1974 book Clautney Iris and the Rise of the Third Reich. In essence, it is believed Iris and his followers attempted a ritual which failed, with nightmarish results. Whatever the case, Iris was arrested and imprisoned for nine months, during which he was mercilessly starved and beaten by his captors. Due to some unknown circumstance the author was released; although a warrant was issued almost immediately for his re-arrest, Iris managed to quickly flee to Norway, where he remained hidden until after the war. In 1946 he quietly returned to America, publishing two others books before vanishing into the mists of time.

  Twenty-odd years passed. In that time the world had forgotten many things, including Clautney Iris. But then a curious thing happened. In the 1960's Iris and his work was re-embraced by a new generation of truth-seekers. Emboldened by the liberal movement, many groups began to re-assert themselves, establishing their temples in the midst of the psychedelic explosion. Turned on by his anti-establishment stance and his "progressive" views on sex, Clautney Iris soon had a new brood of disciples, the wild and undisciplined youth shaken to the edges of the counter-culture.

  While initially wildly successful at recruitment and republishing Iris' lost works, all was not well. There proved to be much in-fighting among these groups, each claiming to be enigmatic wizard's standard bearer. Several in-depth volumes of study exist: recommended is Nicola Tsversis' three volume overview the Children of Paq'q. Tsversis claims that not only is a magical war being fought between these groups, but that Clautney Iris himself is still alive, establishing a new hierarchy to see his work come to its fruition. While many maintain this idea is laughable, Tsversis shows compelling proof far too involved to elaborate on here. This long-held belief still sheds little light on the mystery of the man; the only thing that truly is clear is that the shadow of Clautney Iris looms long across this, the beginning of an uncertain New Age.

  "Son of a bitch," said Baxter, looking away. He rubbed his eyes. They felt as if they'd been sucked dry.

  "Pretty compelling, huh?"

  Baxter nodded."Yeah. And you've never heard of this guy until now?"

  "No, amazingly enough I've never even heard mention of his name. Then, all of a sudden all this stuff began popping up. It's like it's been hidden in plain sight the whole time, just waiting."

  Zak's choice of words brought a chill to Baxter. He rose from the monitor, brushing off some imaginary debris. The problems of ten minutes ago seemed distant now, unimportant before the tide of anxiety which seemed intent on claiming him. Baxter drank again but the wine tasted stale, used up, leaving an ashy residue on his tongue.

  "I'm going back out," he heard himself say, his voice brittle. Zak watched his roommate vanish again through the doorway, into the warm spring night beyond.

  ~*~

  "Hello, what's this?" Baxter plucked the small cream-colored envelope from its place on his desk and tore it open, quickly scanning what was written there. Brow furrowed, Baxter dialed his phone. After five rings Annie picked up, breathless.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Annie."

  "Hey, Bax," she said warmly. "I was just thinking about you."

  "Is that why you're breathless?"

  She laughed. "No, I just got back from a run. What's up?"

  "Well, I just received a card from Ashton, inviting me to join him and '...a small group of his closest friends on a summer retreat at his family's ancestral home.'”

  "Yeah, I got one, too. What do you think?"

  "Not sure. What about you?" he asked cagily.

  "Well, I was looking for a reason not to have to go home this summer. This sounds like it. Zak already said he was going: I just figured I would, too. Why? Don't you want to go?"

  "I'm not sure. It sounds great and all…"

  "But what?"

  "Well, it's just the whole thing is on him. I don't feel I'm bringing anything to the party."

  Annie sighed. "Bax, nobody brings anything to Ashton's parties. Besides, he likes you. He finds you interesting. All of his other friends are dull. Believe me, I know. He just feels like playing host for the summer. The manor has been empty since his parents died. He wants to bring a little life back into the place. He can afford it, after all. I say we let him."

  Baxter found it hard to argue with that line of reasoning.

  "Besides," she said warmly, "I want you there."

  "Well, I'm not about to disappoint you"

  Annie perked up.

  "All right, then. We're going?" Baxter looked at the invitation thoughtfully.

  "Yeah, what the hell. We're going."

  NOW

  Baxter drove. The hills rose and fell as ever, an endless sward of October-color beyond his window. Pennsylvania stretched on, her mountains reaching for a sky that remained untouched. The dull sun sulked behind the clouds, peering out only occasionally, giving the day a muted, used-up feel. He sped in place, seemingly no further along than when he'd started. How long had he been on the road now? A quick glance at the dashboard clock brought a wince. He'd only been driving for three hours, but it felt as if he'd been behind the wheel for days. The excesses of the night before were taking their toll. He ached again, the pain once focused in his ribs now spread thickly throughout his body. Baxter looked up and down the highway; he was alone, the road to himself. Time for a quick pick me up. He tapped a big pinch of coke onto the back of his hand and sniffed it.

  "Zoom!"

  He sped up. The hues of the autumn tapestry grew richer, its reds and golds embedded in the threadbare green. The subtle undulation of the hills was suggestive, almost hypnotic. Baxter thought back to tales of the Hill-Folk and shuddered. Too much truth in those words for his liking. He tried to put them out of his mind but could not. This was their place, after all, sacred territory where forgotten heroes had fought and died to bury the dread earth-serpent T'chilke, forcing him to dwell forever in the darkness below. When the hills shook it was he, "the thunder in the rock," searching, ever searching for access into the outside world once more.

  The sun had gone. The flinty gray of above was marked contrast to the vivid terrain the little car sped through. As Baxter neared the top of an especially steep grade he expected to find nothing beyond, just empty sky spreading forever out. The car would drop, float off into the forgotten, an ever-ending action at the end of the final cycle. Surprisingly, there was a road below the horizon. The car seemed to hug it eagerly, afraid of the madman who would pilot it into oblivion. Baxter glanced at the speedometer and realized he was pushing one hundred miles per hour.

  "Fucking hell." He eased up on the pedal, felt sweat trickle down his temple, along his jaw line and down his wilted collar. Though the car had slowed he realized he was unable to read the signs flashing past. Still too fast? Or just fried beyond capacity? Baxter dropped down to forty-five miles per hour. It felt like he was crawling, but it brought back some degree of control. He had to keep it together. Perhaps a bite to eat? The thought made him sick. No. There was no pulling over now. His friends were depending on him. Just a little longer: he was almost there…

  EIGHT

  "Damn," Zak muttered under his breath. Baxter might have put it another way, but Ashton Manor was expletive-worthy. It came into view as a ship might, slowly tracking across the length of the windshield, an imposing stone pile framed by the wild of the woodland b
eyond. Thick ivy climbed its dark sandstone walls, framed the high, rounded arches and crow-stepped gables. Chimneys and turrets with copper-capped spires stretched past the treetops, brazen statements against the clear June sky. The structure justified its size by its weirdness, the exterior decorated with fanciful and perverse carvings of indeterminate myth. Despite the bright sun Ashton Manor seemed to brood, casting its long shadow over them.

  "I can't believe we have the place to ourselves for the entire summer!" Zak said, shaking his head. Baxter had to agree; it was a bit like putting the inmates in charge of the asylum. The manor was like something out of a dream, a building too fanciful to be real - it appeared dislocated, stranded on its way to the Past, hunched at the base of the wood tensed and waiting. For them, perhaps? The idea was both silly and exhilarating.

  "James is already here, I'm sure. Let's unload the gear and I'll park around back." The boys did as Annie suggested, pulling the luggage from the cab and onto the driveway's shoulder. When finished Zak closed the hatch and Annie drove on, disappearing behind the building.

  "What do you think, Baxter?"

  Baxter turned to face his friend. He was smiling. "This is amazing, man." They laughed together, the sound carrying into the wood beyond. The dense bramble answered, a chorus of whistles, clicks and chirps. The boys carried their mismatched luggage up to the front door. As they approached it swung open.

  "Gentlemen. Welcome."

  Ashton appeared smiling, a glass of wine in his hand.

  "I trust your trip went well?"

  Zak nodded in the affirmative. "Didn't make a wrong turn and got here with time to spare."

  Ashton nodded, picking up Baxter's pack. "Annie is an excellent navigator. She has a certain sense about it, if you will."

  Baxter looked at Ashton curiously, but his host was already through the door. With a shrug Baxter followed, shouldering Annie's over-packed bags. "Wow."