DidIsaythatoutloud?
Foramoment,Ipanicked.
HealreadyknewthatIknewabouttheSocietyofButchers,Ithought. NowI just gaveawaythatIknewaboutthechildrapemoviefromthe50s.Heprobably alreadyknewIknewaboutthat,whichisprobablywhyhementionedit.Butdid he?
Apparently,so,foritseemedthatnothingIhadsaidtohimupsethimany further.HewassmilingliketheBatmanJokeragain.
“Yes,mymotheris quitealady.‘Thatwhichdoesnotkillusmakesus stronger.’”
“Sowhereisshenowthen?”Iasked.
“She’sinthekitchen,”hesaid.“WhereeveryGreatMotherbelongs.
PreparingforEaster.”
“Soearly?”Isaid.IwonderedhowpeoplelikeRosenbergandConsiviawould celebratetheLord’sresurrectionday.
“Well,she’sgottobeatSt.Paul’satthecrackofdawn,”hesaid.“She’sleading EasterMass.”
Outsideofhiswindow,IcouldseethegleamingdomeofSt.Paul’s,which startedtochime.Fromthenumberofrings,Isurmisedthatitwas4a.m.
“I’mreallyoverdueforamorphineshot,”Isaid.
“WellthenletmetakeyoutoyourfriendThomasWeir,”saidRosenberg, grabbingmywheelchairandpushingmetowardsthedoor.“Or,asyouliketo callhim,LeopoldBlack.DidyouknowhewasrelatedtothehouseofDe
Blacas?”
“What?”Isaid.“YoumeanLouisandPierre?”
Hewheeledmethroughthedooranddowntherampthroughthedarkness.
“Yes,Blacas,”hereplied.“ThefamilythatcollectedtheTemplarartifactsthat Hammer‐Purgstallwroteabout.TheyareamongthemanyofThomasWeir’s illustriousancestors.WhensomeoftheirdescendantsmovedtotheBritain,first toScotland,theyrenamedthemselves‘Black.’Itwashismother’smaidenname.
That’swhyhetookitasanalias.HasiteveroccurredtoyouthatLouis,Ducde BlacasmayhavebeentheinspirationfortheDucdeBlangisin 120Daysof Sodom?”
Itcertainlyhadnotoccurredtome.ButnowIhadtothinkaboutit.
TheDucwasaJesuit‐trainedaristocrat,entwinedwiththecrown, essentially runningthegovernmentinFranceasasortofprimeminister,and againstthe Revolution.TheDucwasaccusedbymodernhistoriansoffakingthe Templar artifactsheshowedtoHammer‐Purgstall,coveredwithscenesofthe sacrifice andrapeofanimalsandboys.Theyclaimhemighthavedonethisto make Templars,andthustheFreemasonsassociatedwiththem,lookevil,to discredit theMasonically‐inspiredRevolution.
Sincecommencingmyresearchintothistopic,Ihaddismissedthisargument.
Whatalotofworktogotoforaroundabout,indirectjabattheenemy withno impact,Ihadpreviouslythought.ButIconsideredthefactthattheMarquisde SadehadbeenaRevolutionist,andhadpresentedhisobsceneworksaspolitical commentaries.
Hisdebauchedvillainswerealwaysaristocratslikehimself,orintheclergy.
Sure,theMarquiswasguiltyofmanyofthecrimesdepictedinhisnovels.But hispointwasnotmerelytoglorifyrapeandmurderforthejoyofhurtingpeople.
Whilehedidaccomplishthisindirectly,hispoint,heclaimed,wasreallytoshow theaudiencethat thisiswhattherulingclassgetupto.Pasolini,inhis modernizedfilmversion,hadthesamepoint.
ThisiswhatPasoliniwastrulypersecutedfor,Ithought. Thesamewas probably trueoftheMarquis.That’swhyhewasintheBastille,insteadofbeing invitedto eliteparties.Becauseheexposedthemforwhattheywere.
Rosenberg,almostasifhecouldreadmymind(andI’mprettysurehecouldn’t) nowmentionedthefirstfilmadaptationoftheMarquisdeSade’snovel,which wehadjustbeenwatchinginRosenberg’sPrivyChamber,althoughIdidn’t knowitatthetime.Itwas L’Aged’Or.Ihadnoideathat 120DaysofSodom wasthebasisofthefilm,becauseIhadn’treadanythingaboutitsincecollege, andbecauseI’dneverbeenabletostayawakethroughthewholething.Iwas astonished.Rosenbergcontinuedtoenlightenme.
“DidyouknowthattheMarquisdeSade’smanuscriptwasn’tpublisheduntilthe twentiethcentury?Anddoyouknowwhorescueditfromthecowanswhowere holdingithostage?Whopreservedit?Whobroughtitoutofhidingtotakeits placeinthehistoryofliterature?Hisfamily.Hisdescendants.Theybecamethe HouseofNoailles.Theywerepatronsofthearts.TheyfundedDali,Cocteau, ManRay,JeanHugo,andBunuel.Mostimportantly,theyfundedthismovie, TheGoldenAge,thefirstfilmversionoftheMarquisdeSade’story.Itcameout beforethebookevendid.”
“Didn’ttheVicomtessedeNoaillesletCocteaugetherpregnant?”Isaid,making conversationwithoneofthefewrelatedoddbitsthatIknewofthesubject.
“Yes,butthatwasnoordinarypregnancyeither,”hereplied.“Andthechildwas removedfromthewombprematurelyforhisownprotection.Hegrewupwitha camouflagedidentity,suckingoutspermfromtheverycockthathadspawned him,andheneverevenrealizedit.Butthat’snoneofyourbusiness.”
Justthen,asweswirledaroundtheramptothesecondfloor,theblacklightcame backandtheceilinglightsfadedout.Ilookedupatthegiantsunroofbehind BaronCarrickfergus.Nowwithabetterangle,IcouldseethatfullredMoon behindhim,thethreecirclesnowglowingpurpleandalmostconsumingits entirevisiblesurface.
IstheMoonactuallyglowingfrominside? Iaskedmyfriendinmyhead.
She’spregnantwithnewlight,cametheanswer. Andshe’sabouttogive birthto anewaeon.
Astronomyaside,itdidseemasiftheMoonhadsomethingluminescinginside ofit,andnotjustonitssurface.
TheancientscalledtheSunandMoonthe‘lampsofHeaven,’Ithoughtto myself. CantheMoonreallyhaveastarinitswomb?Canitsskinactasa lampshade?Ifso,thatwouldexplainwheretheUVraysarecomingfrom,but also whytheyaren’tblindingus.Becauseit’sbeingfiltered,justlikeablacklight ata nightclub.
You’renotfaroff,myinvisibleinformanttoldme.
Aswewalked,therampcurveddowntowardsthebasements.TheVortexwas abovemenow,andIcouldseewasthestiff,well‐preservedbodyofLittleSaint George,stillfloatingfacedown,withhiseyesshutandhismouthopenintoa scream,swishingaroundtherevoltingcocktailofshiningsludgelikealonelyice cube.Theeffectoftheblacklightshiningthroughitnowwasatonceamazing andhorrifying.
Aswewentfurtherdownintowhatmusthavebeenthesecondunderground level,Icouldseeaglowingcirclethatwasnowinthecenterofthesemi-triangularVortex.Ithadthreeconcentricringsofglowinggreenfluid—adeeper greenthanhowurinelooksinblacklight.Itresembledthestuffcollectedfrom BaronCarrickfergusbythedrone.Twooftheringswerespinningclockwise, andtheoneinthemiddlewasspinningcounterclockwise,remindingmeofthe wheelswithinwheelsfeaturedinMarcelDuchamp’savant‐gardefilm Anemic Cinema.
“WhatarethosebrightgreenringsinthecenteroftheVortex?”Iasked Rosenberg.
“TheseedoftheSun,”hereplied.“Hegavehimaninjectionsothathissperm wouldbestainedwithafluorescenttincture.Wejustplacedanannularcontainer ofejaculatefromBaronCarrickfergusintothemiddleoftheVortex.
NowIunderstoodwhyhisfreshsemenwasglowinginthebottle,eventhoughit doesn’tnormallyfluorescewhenwet,andneverbrightgreen.
“Sowhat’smakingthemspin?”Iinquired.
“Nothing,”’hesaidproudly.“Sementhatissufficientlyrichwithhealthysperm inlargeconcentration,suchasthatproducedbymyownwell‐fedandwell-sexed employees,naturallyformsringsthatrotateunpredictablyineitherclockwiseor counterclockwisefashionwhenplacedinsuspensioninanannularcontainer.
ThesefindingswerepublishedbytheRoyalSocietyinOctoberof2016
inareportaboutresearchontheintroductionoffreshejaculateintoa microfluidicchipforthepurposeofnanotechno
logydevelopment.”
“Oh,”Isaid.Istaredahead,tryingtomakesenseofwhathehadjustsaid.Afew secondslater,Iaskedforclarification.
“An‘annularcontainer’?Iasked.“Likeananus?”
“Anusjustmeans‘ring,’Pamela,”Rosenbergreplied.
Yeah,Iknow,Ithoughttomyself. LikeUranus.
“LikeUranus,”hesaid,“theOuroboros,whosehogtiedbody,bentbackwards, formsthecircuitoftheheavens.”
Hogtied,Ithought. LikeBaronCarrickfergusontheceiling.LikeDirector Pindar’sheadlesscorpse.UranusisOuroboros,thediscarded,mutilatedcorpse of Saturn’sfather,wrappedaroundtheconcentrically‐stackedaeonsofthe planetary Archons,inthemidstofwhichEarthissecreted,andwithinthat,her womb,filled withmonsters,hidinginsidelikethebabyhidesinthepastryfilling ofakingcake onMardiGras.
Butifhe’sbentbackwardswrappedaroundus,thatmeanswhenwelook upat thesky,we’relookingathisass.ThesamesideGodchosetoshowtoMoses whentheprophetaskedtoseehisLord.Theonlysideit’ssafetolookat, according toGodhimself.
TheGnosticssaidthatSaturnisthehighestsphereoftheArchons.But Uranus occupiestherealmbeyondthat.Doesthatmakehimthehighestgod,even thoughhe’semasculated,andinmostrespects,actuallydead?
Rosenbergbeganrunningashepushedmearoundthecurvingramp,belowthe lobby,intothesubterraneancorridorleadingtothebasements.Theblacklight andglow‐in‐the‐darkcirclesoftheVortexblurredintothelightofthedigital
ceiling.Thenatthatmoment,everything,evenmyperceptionoftimeandspace, seemedtoblurtogetherinmymind.
Itwasasthoughwehadenteredatunneloflights.Amongtheshiningstreaks thatsurroundedme,someseemedtobecausedbyluminouscoloredballsjetting downfromtheceiling,allofvarioushuesandsizes,eachbringingacertain warmth,andacertainhummingsound.Thenitseemedlikethelightswere behindus,boththestreaksandthespheres.Yetwewerestillrunning,outpacing them.
“ThefixedstarsaredescendingtobatheinthebloodoftheArchonsandthe bloodoftheinnocents,”saidRosenberg,jerkinghisthumbbackoverhis shoulder.“Itwon’tbelongbeforethechildfreeshimselffromhisgestational prison.”
“IsthistheBaptismofWisdom?”Iaskedinvoluntarily,forcedbythevoice intrudingintomymind.Rosenbergthrewhisheadbackandcackled.
“Yes,MissAuger,thisis theirbaptisminto‘genitalwisdom,’asyourtranslator ofHammer‐Purgstall’sworkrenderedit. Zoogogonsophian inGreekor,in Arabic, ma‐tana‐sha.Thecarnalknowledgeofgoodandevil,ofgenerationinto flesh.WearebringingdownthelightsofheavenwiththeRitesof Elicio.I’ve giventhemanoffertheycan’trefuse.Likeflieseagerlydrowningthemselvesin honey,theyknowbetter,buttheycan’tstopthemselves.”
Rosenbergslowedhispushingandbroughtthewheelchairtoaquickbutgradual haltashecontinuedlecturingmeonhisevilplottoexploitthesalaciousand bloodthirstyproclivitiesofthegodssoastogainpoweroverthem.
Healreadyseducedthemintohumanbodiesandmurderedthem,Ithoughtto myself. Whatelsecanhepossiblydotothem?Andwhatdoesallthisreally mean? Rosenbergcontinued.
“Thesearetheunalterablelawsofexistenceinthepresentorderofaeons.
Likeahornydogwhosmellsabitchinheattieduptorailroadtracks,oracat who’ssniffedoutadelectablepuddleofantifreezepooleduponaneighbor’s driveway,there’snoturningback.Thefallhasbegun.Nowtellme,myVirgil, whereshallwegonext?”
Asmydizziedoutlookcameintofocus,Irealizedthenthatwewereactually floatinginblackemptyspace,orsoitseemed.Icouldn’ttellwhatwewere standingon,ifanything.
“Wherearewe?”Isaid.“IthoughtyouweretakingmetoseeLeopold.”
“I’vetakenyouasfarasIcareto,”hesaid.“Ibroughtyouheresoyoucould guidemetherestoftheway.Nowshowmehowtogettherefromhere.”
Ohboy,Ithought. Yetanothertest.Surelyheknowswhichwaytogo.He’s just tryingtokeepmeonmytoes.ButIdon’thavetoesanymore. Idecidedtoconsult withmypsychicinformant.
WhatdoIdonow? Iaskedmentally.
Findtherightdoorandgothroughit,camethereply,andthennothingelse.
Well,Ididn’tseeanydoorsatall.ButIhadgottenthroughtwosetsof crossroadssofarbychoosingthedoorinthemiddle.SoIdecidedtolookabit harderforadoordirectlyinfrontofme.
Itriedtoclearmymind.ItriedtolookwithspiritualeyesthesamewayIhad heardthevoiceoftheinformantwithnonphysicalears.Itriedtoseewiththe sameeyethathadseentheshineonthepictureofthebullliveratOrientalClub.
Thiswasthesameeyethathadseentheredglimmerattheendofthebull’s intestinesonthefloorofthe mithraeum.
AsIpicturedthislastimage,theeyethathadspieditopenedupagain,andI nowsawbeforeme,offinthedistance,aruby‐reddiamond,brilliant‐cutjust liketheonefromtheLondonStone.Itwasgivingoffapulsatingredlightasit rotatedinmid‐air.Iknewthattheredlightwasbroadcastingamessagetome, althoughIcouldnotpickitup.
EitherI’mnotequippedto,Ithought, orI’mnotcloseenough.
Idesiredtobeclosertothatlight,topickupitssignal.Inthatinstant,Rosenberg andIbegantofloattowardsit.Asitgrewcloser,itstoppedrotating.
Nowitwassituatedatthetopofanarchwayofgraystones.Theportalwithin
thearchwasblack,andIcouldseenothingbeyondit.Butwewereheaded straighttowardsit.Thensuddenlywestoppedrightinfrontofit.
“Showmeyourhandsplease,”saidavoiceoverhead.“Pleaseidentifyyourself.”
Itwasafeminizedbutartificialvoice.Themessagewaseithercomingfroma robot,oritwasbeingtranslatedbyone.Anditwascomingthroughthat diamondkeystoneinfrontofmeabovemyhead.Iwaspickingupitssignal.I putmypalmsoutinfrontofmeandlookedovermyshoulder.Rosenberghad vanished.Iwasonmyowninfrontofthearchwayinemptydarkness.
WhatshouldIsay? Iaskedmyinformantmentally. ShouldIgivemyreal name?
Identifyyourselfbyyourtitle,theinformantreplied.
Cryphius? Iaskedsilently.
‘ And Caducifer,’theinformantanswered.
OKthen,Ithought.Iannouncedmyself,speakingdirectlytothekeystone.
“CryphiusandCaduciferamI.”
“Thenwhereisyourheraldingstick?”thekeystoneasked.
Ilookeddownatmyself.Ihadnothingwithmebutawheelchair,ahospital gown,andthesetofkeysIhadstolenfromDennis.Iexaminedeachkey carefully.
Ididn’tseeanythingthatqualifiedeitheroneofthem,evensymbolically,asa
“heraldingstick.”Thistermwas,ofcourse,areference,tothe“caduceus,”
derivedfromtheGreekword kerukeion,meaning“herald’sstaff.”
I’veneverreallyunderstoodhowsnakeswrappedaroundastickrepresents a messenger,Ithoughttomyself.
Iknewthatmanyanalyststhoughtitrepresentedthehumanspineentwinedwith nerves,whichwasreasonable.Ithoughtaboutputtingforthmybackboneasa reply.Thenonceagainananswercameforththroughmylipswithoutmy
consciousawareness.
“Ididnotcomehereasaherald,butofmineownaccord,seekingthelightofthe keystone,”Isaid.
ThenwhydidyouhavemesaybeforethatIcamebearingacaduceus? Iasked myinformant.
Thecaduceusiswithin,theinformantreplied.
Withinmyskinsuit.Yeah,Iknow,Isaid.Irolledmyeyes.
NowIwilltellyouthis:therapeandmurderIhadwitnessed,themaimingand dismembermentofmybody,alongwiththedeprivationofsleep,food,andwater thatIhadenduredmuchofthetimeonadietofmostlymorphine—allthese thingshadt
akenquiteatollonmymindandphysicalwell‐being.Butthe constantdanglingofcrypticcluesbyvirtuallyallofthevillainsinvolvedinthis adventure,includingmymysteriouspsychicintruderactingasmystagogue—this waswhatthreatenedtodrivemeovertheedgeintoinsanity.I’dratherthelayers oftheuniversecrashdownintotheAbyssthantohavetosolve,learnabout,or eventhinkaboutanotheresotericriddle,whichatthatmomentIcouldhavedone withoutfortherestofmylife.Orifgiventheoptionofendingthatlifethere ratherthandoingsoeveragain,Iwouldhavegladlychosentheformer.SoI said:
“Youknow,IthinkIleftmyheraldingstickinsidelasttimeIwasinthere heralding”
…hopingthatadeadlylaserbeamwouldshootoutofthetalkingcrystaland severmeintwainrighttherewhereIsathalf‐nakedwithmybloodystumps stickingoutofmywheelchair.Whetherthisdeadlyguardianoftheportalshould cutmewithherfieryswordofvengeancesidewaysordownthemiddle,it matterednottome.
Butinstead,bythesweetgraceofProvidence,thatdidn’thappen.Rather,aneye, fiercewithwisdom,openeduponthekeystone,andawhitelightshotoutofits pupil.Itthensplitoffintosevenrainbow‐coloredrays,twoofwhich(oneither end)Icaughtwiththepupilsoftheeyesthathadjustopenedupinthepalmsof eachofmyhands,stilldisplayednexttomyheadwiththethumbspointedatmy earsintheposeofsurrender,asrequired.
Thekeyturned.Idon’tknowwhatitwas,orwherethelockwas.Butthedoor musthaveopened.BecausethenextthingIknew,Iwasinside.Butsotoowas Rosenberg.Posingasthecaregiverofme,thesadcripple,hehadwormedhis wayinrightbehindme.
OrshallIsaybeneathme?ForIlookeddownandtherewashisface,directly belowinthechamberthatIwasbeingloweredintoonaplankattachedtotwo ropes.Whowasholdingtheropes?Icouldn’ttell.Icranedmyneckupto lookatthemjustintimetoseeanironplateplacedovertheopeningIhadcome through.Theropeshadjustbeensecuredtosomethingabove.
ButIwasnotyetonthefloorofthechamber.InsteadIwasfloatingaboveyet anotherhole,leadingdownintoendlessdarkness.Noxious,suphurousfumes arosefromtheholedirectlyintomynostrils,heighteningmyopiate‐induced nausea.
Genuflect Page 34