by M F Sullivan
The magician shrugged, tapped the incomplete deck of cards, snapped his fingers, and produced from the stack a new king of hearts, another ace of spades. “Why does anything do anything? It wants to eat. Biological viruses are the closest metaphor I have for you, but even that’s not accurate.”
“It’s close.” Lazarus lowered upon his haunches and warmed his hands by the fire, one eye upon the thoughtform’s silhouette. “Viruses are programmed to evolve like anything else, and this thing is desperate to evolve. In this case, the evolution isn’t genetic. It’s an evolution from a state of near total abstraction, to physical representation. That’s why we refrain from giving these things a real name or definition. Even calling it, say, ‘tulpa’ like they do in Tibet, or ‘egregore’ like they do in occult texts, gives it a preexisting form and eases its ability to manifest in reality. If it can collect enough energy, it might be able to manifest in real life—return attached to us, or attached to your energy—and that isn’t a good thing for you.”
“Not necessarily,” cautioned Valentinian. “But there are good thoughtforms.”
“Good thoughtforms don’t need to drain you of psychic, emotional, or memory energy to manifest. They are parts of established patterns that exist in large varieties of information and help the person with whom they connect.”
“Argumentative!”
“Just being specific. But do you get it?” Lazarus turned his attention to Dominia now, who touched her head, embarrassed.
“Yes, of course. As much as anybody can ‘get’ something like this, anyway…now that I’m awake, I know that’s not Cassandra. Of course that’s not Cassandra. But it was like I was almost…sleeping, before. Not here.”
Valentinian nodded. “That’s why you have to keep focused. I meant it when I said that, about getting lost in your thoughts. If you find yourself getting too deep into a memory here, you need to ground yourself—I mean, literally, make yourself aware of the ground.” He patted it as he sat. “It’ll put you in the present and keep you from attracting other…parasites.”
“It’ll be better if she gets something to do.” Lazarus, upon his stomach, tucked his arm beneath his chin in lieu of pillow. “Give her your cards, ‘Basil.’”
“Why not give her your rocks?”
“Because she doesn’t know how to keep time.”
Dominia shivered under the stolen eyes of the thing wearing Cassandra’s face. “How long do the nights last around here?”
“A while,” answered the magician, handing his deck to Dominia. “It’s better to sleep.”
Bitterly, she laughed. “What if I dream while I sleep?”
“When the whole world is a state of dreaming”—Lazarus’s voice was muffled by his half-curled position in the firelight—“sleep is the last place you should expect to dream.”
“But how am I supposed to go to sleep without thinking of anything?” She clutched the cards in her right hand like an angular stuffed animal, and tucked the deck beneath her miserable arms. Lazarus’s tone was less sympathetic than Valentinian’s: largely because he was on the verge of sleep. “Ask yourself how a bluebird does it, and you’ll fall right to sleep.”
“Is he always like this,” whispered the General to the magician. He patted her shoulder.
“It comes from a loving place.”
His hand lingered with a brother’s weight, his eyes no doubt the same place Dominia’s singular orb found tense focus. That vacuous silhouette had edged along the light and now seemed all too near the General for comfort. The bands of color having vanished with the light, she had not even the psychological, imaginary barrier of their electromagnetic field. As Dominia ran her thumb back and forth along the edge of the cards, she murmured, “How am I supposed to sleep with that thing watching me?”
“It can’t hurt you with the fire going. And it can’t hurt you when I’m nearby.” This sentiment was paired with a playful jostle that made her think of the dog she better knew. As though reading her thoughts—and she was certain, based on history, he could—the magician noted, “It’s nice you trust me after the whole…you know, ‘surprise person’ thing.”
The General laughed. “Out of everyone I’ve met this past two weeks, you’ve been the entity I’ve trusted the most, and even you’ve had a secret!”
“Yeah, but I tried to make it clear I was strange. I mean, all dogs are great, but stopping the train? Shooting Kahlil?”
“Thanks for that, by the way. The train, I mean, not Kahlil.”
“Well, thanks for the food! And for the company, and for everything you’ve done for me in all those past attempts. Don’t worry. This time, we get it right.”
As strange as the world had become, she had somehow lost all doubt that existence was cyclical. She didn’t bother asking how much he remembered about their lives before, or how he had survived, or what the future was like, because there would be no getting a straight answer out of him, and she was certain knowing all those things would prove a dreadful weight. The burden she held by virtue of being responsible for the world’s destruction, whether proverbial or real, was dreadful enough. She had quite a few questions about that, but Lazarus would strangle her at this rate. Anyway, delirious as this place made the circles of her thoughts, she dared not spare much consideration for the suggestion. Instead, she turned back to see Valentinian staring down the silhouette, and caught his eye to ask, “How do you know we’ll get it right?”
“I can feel it.” He cast a twinkling glance into space, as though reading there the words of some invisible book. “And I can see it. There are a great many truths yet to be revealed, Dominia.”
Was it the first time he’d said her name? Perhaps not—but for some reason, it felt as such, and she turned back to tuck her arm beneath her head in a fashion not dissimilar from that position into which Lazarus had curled. The magician continued speaking while he lifted his hand from her shoulder to reach into his waistcoat’s pocket.
“Our success in ending this cycle is dependent on the number and proportion of truths revealed, in a way. The truth will set you free, or so says your Father’s raggedy old book stolen from the humans, but I prefer, ‘The amount and momentum of surprise information within the truth will help our consciousnesses achieve the escape velocity required to keep all this from ever having happened in the first place.’”
“But if none of this happened”—the General’s throat tightened—“will I have existed?”
“You will have existed more than ever before!” He laughed, and leaned over her. Before she realized what he was doing, something—a dust or a powder or a sand—was scattered across her eye, and he murmured, “These are questions for reality, when they’ll seem less oppressive. Now go to sleep, kiddo.”
Magically compelled as she was, she did. For hours, it felt, Dominia plunged into a sleep in which one moment she lay upon her arm, and the next she did not exist: neither to dream a dream nor think a thought. It was like having her eye and spirit washed in the Lamb’s blood, soothing a sleep as it was. So soothing, it induced brief delirium. When Dominia awoke, unsure of what had awoken her, she thought it to be morning by the profusion of light; then, she remembered the light of the sun here was not like any she’d known on Earth. It could not be day by any means.
As the tinkling of music reached her consciousness, she lifted her head and found Valentinian and Lazarus both sound asleep. During their inattention, it seemed the light of the fire had multiplied. Like trees instantly grown, torches had sprung in the darkened night. These thin rods of gold towered over the General, who was of no short height for a woman, and the blue-hearted fires atop them formed a chain through the darkness by the pools of light that licked the perimeters of their fellows. This light was clean, yet somehow false in comparison to the magician’s. Her colored field still had not returned—would not, she sensed, until the day.
The most curious thing was not, however, the appearance of the torches, or the hue of the fire, or the late-noted disa
ppearance of Cassandra’s doppelgänger. It was Dominia’s lack of fear. Not often a woman given to fear, she had of late been inundated; now, on being alone in this alien plane, with music streaming from an unknown source to tempt her down this new-laid path, Dominia looked back on those moments in reality where fear had visited her. She marveled that she had ever, in that place, been afraid. Reality had grown less real. Valentinian himself had said that this place was a dream, and now, without the thing watching her from the edges of the light, she remembered nothing could hurt her in dreams. Thus assured of her safety, she padded beneath the lights as if following a stream to its source.
A great many torches passed her by—she supposed she should have been counting in anticipation of her return—but, soon enough in comparison to that day’s walk, she noted a far greater light in the distance. An island, amid all that watery darkness. The closer she drew, the better she discerned that the light formed a study with no walls: only a door carved in an extraordinary forest tableau, and a few bookshelves lining the enclosures of a room that, like Valentinian’s screen, was implied. The music increased in volume and clarity, and now she recognized it (an ancient composer named Berlioz), along with two chairs resting beside the orange-blue fireplace. The unanchored door obstructed her view of the filled armchair, but she knew what she would find well before she knocked—well before she heard the words, “It’s open,” and touched the knob. She knew what she would find well before that door yawned wide: yet, she did not stop herself from letting it swing open to reveal, wine in hand, the Hierophant.
“How glad I am you’ve accepted the invitation, my eternal General. Please: won’t you come in?”
The men might tell her whatever they wanted to gloss the truth for her, but in that moment, Dominia confirmed her instincts had been right.
She was in for one long walk to Cairo.
[ed.: The following requests to Saint Valentinian, originally written in Modern Mephitolian circa 3670 CE, come from prayer cards said to belong to Dominia di Mephitoli in her childhood and first two centuries of life. As they began public circulation in Nogales, Arizona, this is a strong possibility.]
Prayer to
Saint Valentinian
For the Dying
Saint Valentinian! The Lord, in His wisdom, has seen you, above all His saints, fit to guide all souls, damned and righteous, to eternity. Through the Father’s works, you know the trials through which beings strive. Pray now on the trials of [the dying] and relieve, somewhat, the burdens of their sins. You, who were too wise to be made real; for whom God has made home of eternity; who knew all things before Wisdom was revealed to mankind: your knowledge raised you high above all spheres and to the bosom of the Lord, into whose ear you speak. As pleasing as your wisdom is to Him, surely you will see to it that [dying] is granted that knowledge by means of which souls enter the next life not in fear, but peace and love of God. Amen.
Prayer to
Saint Valentinian
For the Success of a Creative Venture
O Saint Valentinian, master of all arts and wise attendant of the Lord, by your works of death you know the nature of Creation. See from your heavenly abode the struggles of the Father’s beloved artists and pray they be delivered to greatness. Let their divinely granted gifts purify the world, and flood its land with the wonders of eternity. With your generous prayers, draw God’s blessing upon all who would create in His name, and allow [artist’s] works, models for that Greatest Work, to thrive as golden crops sewn beneath the shining sun. Amen.
A Timeline of Events
concerning the rise of the hierophant
[ed.: As this document was transmitted non-temporally, concerns exist about the impact of foreknowledge upon future events. Therefore, certain names irrelevant to the story of General Dominia di Mephitoli have been redacted, in the hopes of preventing willful future atrocity. Names and events related to the Rise of the Hierophant or predating this book’s first printing in CE 2019 (BL 25) have been left as is.]
CE 1974 / BL 70
American science-fiction author, Philip K. Dick, has a visionary experience with an entity that he calls VALIS: Vast Active Living Intelligence System
The Hierophant arrives on Earth
Paris radio station, France Inter, is subject to a break-in; the burglar is said to have carried off tapes waiting to be broadcast as part of a series about UFOs, with the missing recordings relating to the theory that UFOs are not extraterrestrial, but supra-physical
American neuroscientist, Dr. John C. Lilly, receives a warning about a nefarious entity called the SSI, or “Solid State Intelligence”, delivered by an extraterrestrial organization that he calls ECCO: Earth Coincidence Control Office
While on tour in Detroit, alien-fascinated British superstar David Bowie happens to catch a local television report of a “verified” UFO landing; later reports deny the incident
US President Richard Nixon resigns in disgrace following the Watergate scandal
His replacement, President Gerald Ford, is quick to pardon him
American author and Playboy magazine editor, Robert Anton Wilson, “enters into a belief system” concerning telepathic contact between himself entities residing on a planet of the double star, Sirius; Sirius A, the brightest star in the sky, is wildly known as “the Dog Star”
CE 1976 / BL 68
The Man Who Fell to Earth, a film starring and largely orchestrated by David Bowie, is released in theaters
The film will provide vital contributions in Philip K. Dick’s efforts to develop a frame of reference intellectualizing his VALIS experience
CE 1978 / BL 66
Pope John Paul I dies 33 days after election in the first Year of Three Popes since 1605 CE; his death proves the genesis of many conspiracy theories
CE 1980 / BL 64
An international cabal of prostitutes known as the Red Market is formally founded
American movie star, Ronald Wilson Reagan, is elected president; Robert Anton Wilson, among others, later notes this name to be an anagram for “Insane Anglo Warlord”
British musician and advocate for peace, John Lennon, is shot dead by Mark David Chapman as the result of a series of strange coincidences
CE 2005 / BL 39
Pope John Paul II dies and is succeeded by Pope Benedict XVI
CE 2011 / BL 33
The Hierophant reveals the sacred protein to researchers, Elijah, and Cicero
Lazarus goes into hiding after being martyred
CE 2013 / BL 31
DIOX Corporation is founded by Cicero and Elijah, with private funding from the Hierophant
Pope Benedict XVI announces his abrupt resignation and is succeeded by Pope Francis, 266th sovereign of the Vatican City State; Francis immediately proves a divisive authority among modern Catholics
CE 2020 / BL 24
The Hierophant works to quietly spread martyrdom to the hyper-elite of Russia
The Church of the Lamb is founded in California by a pair of eccentric brothers; it soon fails to maintain more than a small gathering, and will be reworked over the years into a proper organization
CE 2029 / BL 15
The newfound Holy Martyr Church is a more successful attempt than Cicero’s previous effort, due in part to a number of fresh-martyred celebrities blackmailed into public support: [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]
The organization’s patriarch, the Hierophant, is thought to be a former politician due to those who begin joining the HMC, but he refuses to give his name and cannot be identified; until initiation into the Church is complete, most regard the Hierophant as a likely relative of Cicero’s
However, official members also seem to transform into true believers overnight; many lose friends and family members to the strange group, which promotes, among other things, a nocturnal lifestyle resulting in isolation from one’s former life
Due to the strange behavior, mild tremors, and pale countenance of many members, outsiders speculate their sacraments may
involve the use of drugs; the Hierophant routinely decries these accusations and invites reporters to observe the services
These reporters eventually pervade the erroneous—and dangerous—conclusion that the Holy Martyr Church is merely an offshoot of the Catholic Church
The HMC’s holy text is a book called The Post-Testament, which the Hierophant claims to have recreated from a combination of memory and divine messages from his home world of Acetia
Many outside the Church speculate that tales of extraterrestrial origin are mere fabrication, and the HMC is routinely mocked in pop culture
Nevertheless, by CE 2041, the organization boasts an impressive 10 Churches and 5000 worshippers in the United States: Elijah, now called the Lamb and thought by Churchgoers to be a prophet, travels between what is later identified as the fastest-growing cult in American history with the help of his brother and only priest, Cicero
CE 2045 / AL 1
Martyrs go public after one of the Church’s celebrity supporters is indicted on murder charges
The species is considered the result of religious delusion until [REDACTED] dies in the custody of officers while forced to wait outside the courthouse for his transportation
Blood tests volunteered by the Hierophant confirm that the proteins of martyrs are biologically different from those of humans, and that this trait is infectious
Many human beings refuse to believe in martyrs, but those that do fail to react well
CE 2046 / AL 2 – CE 2150 / AL 105
A dark time in martyr history where the species is relegated to the shadows, and many martyrs are killed on the discovery of their identity; some governments go so far as to render them “non-people”
Russia, home of the Hierophant and several martyr politicians for many years, extends itself as a safe haven of the “maligned” group suffering “religious” persecution
Defenders of martyrs point to the Lamb, the savior of the group; consumption of his blood makes it possible for a martyr to survive up to one week without consumption of human proteins