by J. R. Mabry
“Just fucking spill it, Honey,” said Terry, wiping his mustard-stained hands on his napkin.
“Alan Dane.”
“You’re shitting me,” said Richard, the color draining from his face.
“Hey, Dicky,” Terry asked, his face contorting comically, “when you were sucking his cock at the Jizz Factory, did you think to ask him whether he was planning a coup in Heaven?”
Richard’s color returned, and then some.
“That was mean,” Dylan said.
“I can be a catty bitch on occasion,” Terry said, reaching for the chips. “Sorry, Dicky, I couldn’t help myself.”
Kat had known nothing about Richard and Dane’s sexual encounter, and her eyes were wide. Richard noticed. “I didn’t know him from Adam. And it was months ago.”
“What’s the Jizz Factory?” asked Kat.
“It’s a gay sex club here in Berkeley,” Susan answered.
“AIDS factory is more like it,” Terry said, a note of anger entering his voice. “You sure as shit have better been using protection—”
“All right, calm down,” said Richard, now completely flushed with shame. “Of course I was careful. I’m always careful.”
“Going to a sex club is never my definition of careful,” Terry added.
“Did Philip know about this?” Susan asked.
“We went together,” Richard said.
She looked horrified. “I will never understand gay men.”
“That makes two of us, Sweetie,” said Brian, rising to get a bowl of fruit for dessert.
“Can we get back on task?” asked Richard.
“Oh, by all fucking means,” answered Terry, still miffed.
“Dane is a businessman. What kind of business would he have with the lodge? Where do their interests intersect?” Richard mused.
“Maybe he’s a magickian,” Kat suggested.
“Maybe,” said Terry, “but we’ve never heard of him in occult circles, and we’ve heard of most of the serious practitioners in these parts.”
“Mebbe he’s taken out a huge insurance policy on his family’s avocado plantations?” Dylan offered.
“Good, that’s good,” Richard said. “Susan, can you check out the kind of businesses they own?”
“Will do,” said Susan, reaching for a pear. She leaned toward her husband. “Split this with me?” He nodded.
“Here’s what I’m thinking.” Richard steepled his index fingers. “Dane is using the lodge, and the lodge is using Dane. It’s a marriage of convenience at the moment, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they clash somewhere down the road.”
“What makes you think that will happen?” asked Kat.
“Because, Honey”—said Terry, getting up from the table—“We know occultists. You get two of them in a room, and you’ve got three opinions, and they’ll both end up psychically attacking each other before the evening’s done. They’re like fucking wolves.”
“That’s not exactly fair,” noted Dylan.
“It’s pretty fucking accurate from what I’ve seen,” said Richard, “and I’ve been friends with occultists for a very long time.”
“We all have,” said Terry. “It’s true.”
“Hey, Independent Catholics are no better,” Dylan pointed out.
“Well, at least we don’t throw demons at each other,” Terry protested.
“Nah, we just pray for each other,” Dylan answered.
“In other words, we throw angels?” Terry smiled. “Hey, if I had to have my choice which one I’d have lobbed at me…”
“Ah heard that,” Dylan said.
“So, anyone up for hearing about the other major payment we found?” Susan teased.
“Ah can’t wait,” Dylan said.
“Are you all sitting down?” Susan said. Anyone could plainly see that they were, but her words had the intended effect. Richard braced himself for the news. “Last night at 6 p.m. a payment for $20,000 was posted from the Cougar Properties account into the private checking account of a Mr. Casey Hammet in South Fork, Texas.”
“Fucking A,” Terry breathed. “Bishop Hammet is in Dane’s pocket!”
“He already has it in for us,” Richard noted. “But with Dane’s resources at his disposal…” his voice trailed off.
Silence reigned for several minutes. Finally, Dylan completed the sentence. “We’re toast.”
“Toast,” said several voices together, almost liturgically.
“So, what are we going to do?” Susan asked. She looked at Richard. They all did.
He momentarily shrank back but then he raised his head and squared his shoulders. “This has gotten personal, folks. I think it’s time to see what Dane is really up to. Who’s up for breaking and entering?”
40
Bishop Tom sat rigid through the afternoon session; his jaw was set tight and anger burned in his eyes. For most of the afternoon, he simply glared at Bishop Hammet, barely noticing the business at hand as the excruciating minutiae rolled on hour after merciless hour.
If Hammet noticed his staring, he made no show of it. Instead, the Texan bishop appeared relaxed, cooler than the stuffy room allowed, exhibiting the almost superhuman grace known only to those who possess great power.
Tom did note, however, that, in contrast to Hammet, Presiding Bishop Mellert seemed scattered and unnerved. He, too, seemed to be glaring at the Texan prelate, and the possibility formed in Tom’s mind that, perhaps, his room had not been the only one ransacked.
At around 3:30, the current business was wrapped up, and the time had finally arrived. “Bishop Hammet,” the presiding bishop said in a careful, deliberately even tone, “You may now present your…evidence…” he spoke the word with obvious venom, “against the Order of Saint Raphael.”
Bishop Tom could see that many other bishops were suddenly looking more awake and interested. Bishop Hammet rose and addressed his fellow bishops in a commanding tone. “The day before yesterday, Bishop Stolte quoted our Lord as saying that ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand,’ and I agree with a whole heart. My brother bishops, we cannot abide in a church where the friends of God and the enemies of God both dwell. ‘What has light to do with darkness?’ asked Saint Paul, and I ask you the same question. How can we allow a so-called religious order to exist within our fold when it is made up of drug addicts, faggots, and Satanists? We cannot!”
Bishop Stolte spoke out of turn. “And just what evidence do you have against these friars, Casey?”
“As to the charge that they are drug addicts, I present these photos.” He passed a stack of 8x10 glossies around the room. In that moment, all of Tom’s worst suspicions were confirmed. Those photos had been in the FedEx package.
“In this photo,” Hammet continued, “you will see one Fr. Dylan Melanchthon, whom I understand to be the sub-prior. As you can see, he is walking into the so-called Compassionate Care Club in Berkeley, California.”
“What is Compassionate Care Club?” asked Bishop Van Patton.
“It is, dear lady,” Bishop Hammet acknowledged her existence, perhaps publicly for the first time since her consecration, “a euphemistic phrase indicating a marijuana dispensary, allegedly set up for medical patients.” He handed around another stack of photos. “In this next photo, you can see him walking out of the club, shamelessly dressed in full habit, with a brown paper bag containing his purchase. Please note the size of the paper bag.”
Tom put his head in his hands and stifled the urge to moan.
“In this next photo, note the prior of the order walking into the Jizz Factory, a gay bathhouse, also in Berkeley, California. Note the time marks on the photos, gentlemen. Father Kinney was in that bathhouse for an hour and a half. What was he doing in there, do you think? Handing out condoms? Witnessing to the patrons, hoping to sway them from their reprobate urges? I think that unlikely. You all know what he was doing in there, and so do I, and it makes me sick. It should make you sick, too.”
Bishop Tom bar
ely glanced at the photos as they passed by him. He had seen them already. It was damning evidence, that was for sure, and he knew there was more of it coming.
“The worst of it, gentlemen, is this.” He threw a stack of collated papers down in front of him and then handed half of it to each of the bishops to his left and right. “This is a record of selected postings to an online bulletin board specifically for Satanists. Do you see the ‘handle’ EnochianBitch on many of these pages, ?” He pronounced it with obvious distaste. “This handle belongs to Fr. Terry Milne, a half-breed Japanese. He is another member of this so-called order, who, by the way, lives in an open and unashamed relationship with another man, a Jewish man, besides, who shares his room at the friary.”
Tom felt the urge to correct Hammet, to inform him that, actually, Terry and Brian inhabited a small cottage in the backyard, but as the information wouldn’t do any good, he let it slide. Instead, Tom turned his attention to the stack of papers once it arrived in his lap.
“It’s a lengthy discussion, so allow me to fill you in on the highlights,” Hammet said condescendingly. “In it, Father Milne is having a friendly discussion with an official of the Ordo Templi Orientis, a Satanic organization founded by that notorious enemy of the faith Aleister Crowley! As you can see, Father Milne is not trying to sway the OTO official from his error or trying to rescue anyone from the Satanist’s attacks. In fact, far from it. If you will look at the highlighted portion on page fourteen, you will see that Father Milne asks the Satanic official if he were free to come to the friary for dinner a week hence, and would he like to bring his girlfriend as well?”
He let that sink in and then continued. “On page twenty-five, Father Milne argues the veracity of a twelfth-century grimoire with a member of the Temple of Set, another Satanic organization. Note again the highlighted portion. Father Milne knows the grimoire is authentic because he has tried it, ‘and the magick works.’”
Bishop Tom skipped to the page Hammet indicated and read for himself. It didn’t exactly say that. EnochianBitch had written, I’ve performed numerous experiments utilizing information from the grimoire, and it is my opinion that the magick will work. Tom knew that “performing experiments” and “doing magick” were not precisely the same thing, and he trusted the friars were not, in fact, performing magick, black or any other variety. Still, he was not sure that he could make the subtle distinction clear to the assembly of bishops without sounding like he was splitting hairs.
But, it seemed, the time for considering his options was over. With a flourish, Bishop Hammet relinquished the floor and stared expectantly at the presiding bishop.
Mellert fixed Bishop Hammet with a steely gaze and spoke deliberately, his voice tinged with acid. “Leaving aside for the moment the question of how you came to possess this evidence—and I do mean for the moment—it is only fair that we hear the other side of the story. Bishop Müeller, as the person designated to provide episcopal oversight to the Order of Saint Raphael, how do you answer these charges?”
Tom felt a wave of dizziness pass over him as everyone in the room turned to him. Shaking, he rose to his feet. “Um…gentlemen…and ladies…I don’t know what to say. I have visited the friary many times, and my opinion of the friars is that they are sincere servants of Jesus Christ.” He looked at their faces and saw that they wanted more. But what to say? He ran his hand through his remaining hair and opened his mouth, hoping something intelligible would fall out.
“Do some of them have substance abuse problems? Sure. Half of the people in this room have, at one time or another.” A rumble rippled through the assembly, and he saw a wry smile break out on Bishop Van Patton’s face. Emboldened, he opened his mouth again, hoping for similar success.
“If Jesus didn’t use sinners, there wouldn’t be a church, and none of us would be sitting here. Now, about whether the friars are perverts, as Bishop Hammet calls them, I suppose that is a matter of opinion. Father Milne is gay and is in a monogamous, committed relationship with a Talmudic scholar, and yes, they live together on the friary grounds. Father Milne’s partner is a part-time librarian at the Graduate Theological Union, and does much of the cooking for the order. I’ll admit that his Turkish enchiladas are wicked, but he is not.”
Tom picked up the picture of Richard going into the bathhouse. “This piece of evidence is circumstantial at best. I don’t know exactly what Father Kinney was doing in that bathhouse. But let’s say it is what you allege. I won’t defend him. It is, at best, indiscreet. It is, at worst, self-destructive and sad. I don’t condemn Father Kinney, but I do feel sorry for him. I feel sorry that he is so desperate for love and affection that he has to go to a place like this to get it. I do know that he struggles with his sexuality. I wish he loved and accepted himself enough to settle down with a partner as Father Terry has. But that is his path to walk, hard as it is, not mine. And not yours, either, Bishop Hammet.”
Bishop Hammet opened his mouth to protest, but Tom was on a roll, and continued. “Now, let’s consider this last bit of alleged evidence you’ve presented…” He paused. What was he going to say? He picked up the bulletin board log. “I’m afraid Bishop Hammet has fed this synod some misinformation that is unfairly coloring this material. The Ordo Templi Orientis is not a Satanic organization, as Bishop Hammet declares. It did not originate with Aleister Crowley but with a German lodge in the Masonic tradition, which Crowley happened to join. Do we have any Masons in our midst?”
No one volunteered any information. “Well, it is a secret organization, isn’t it? I happen to know that several of you are Masons. I even know that one of the lady bishops in our midst is a Co-Mason. Now, did Crowley move the lodge away from the Masonic mainstream? Sure. Is it Satanic? It is not. Call it a mystery religion, call it Gnostic, call it a cult if you want to, but it is not Satanic. Father Milne has taught several classes at the OTO lodge in Oakland, one of them on biblical literacy. The order has friends in the OTO. Why should they not invite them to dinner? Have any of you ever been ‘guilty’ of being friends with Baptists? Ever invited a Jew for dinner? Have any relatives that are New Agers? Do you tell them they are not welcome at Christmas dinner?
“As for the correspondence with the gentleman from the Temple of Set, I see it as a cordial debate among scholars. I do not see how you can assert conclusively that Father Milne, or any of the friars, have been practicing magick. Only that experiments have been performed. I think it would be unwise for us to leap to any conclusions without consulting Father Milne further on the exact nature of these experiments.”
“Thank you, Bishop Müeller—”
“Please, I’m not finished.” No one had ever heard him speak this way before. He had always been such a lamb. Now, a bit of lion’s mane was beginning to peek through the wool. “I’d like to ask a few questions of Bishop Hammet. What is the cause of this witch hunt, Bishop? What harm have my friars ever done to you? Is this your own initiative, or has someone put you up to it—perhaps someone for whom the Berkeley Blackfriars have become an inconvenience? What evil are you being unwitting party to, Bishop? And most of all, I would like to know how the good bishop came by his ‘evidence.’”
The ball was in Bishop Hammet’s court, and all eyes turned to him. Yes, the eyes seemed to say, Why are you so interested in these friars? What is driving such an effort?
Bishop Hammet tugged at his clerical collar in an attempt to loosen it. Then he poured himself a glass of water. After a leisurely sip or two, he set the glass down and responded cautiously. “A couple of months ago, one of our volunteers uncovered the bulletin board conversations. The photos…sort of fell into my lap, very recently.”
“Bishop Hammet,” Bishop Tom seethed, “didn’t it occur to you that perhaps someone is out to get the friars? That you are most likely being used? That perhaps, we all are?”
A murmur unsettled the room, and the presiding bishop rose, looking at his watch. “As fascinated as I am personally with Bishop Hammet’s answers to these
questions, I promised this synod we would not run over, and I mean to keep that promise. We will continue this discussion after completing our agenda tomorrow. Let us pray.”
Bishop Tom heard not a word of the prayer. He felt proud of having stood up to Hammet, whom he considered an oafish bully. But he knew the fight had not been won. It had, perhaps, only begun.
41
The fog rolled in early, obscuring the late afternoon light as the last of the magickians arrived. Larch watched the Lower Haight from the window of the lodge, internalizing the gathering gloom of the approaching dusk.
“I brought snacks,” said Frater Parsons, clearing the stairs. He was a tall and bony man, barely thirty but already balding, with thin wisps of blond hair listing where they would as he moved. He set a paper grocery bag on the coffee table and claimed the last seat. Larch took one of the overstuffed chairs, leaving Frater Charybdis scowling from the sofa at the soda pop and spinach dip Parsons unpacked. Frater Turpelo sat beside him, a man of multiple chins and hyperaffected graces.
Larch, whose own magickal name was Frater Babylon, called the meeting to order. “We have had an eventful couple of days, Brothers. We have cause to celebrate…and to grieve. The experiment was a success. I honestly didn’t think it would work,” he confided. He looked at Frater Parsons, who was wrestling a cork out of a bottle of champagne.
“I’m not sure Frater Benedict did either,” said Turpelo with exaggerated pomposity, “or I doubt sincerely whether he would have attempted the working.”
“None of us has ever worked with Articiphus before,” agreed Charybdis. “He was an unknown quantity. And, for a demon, amazingly compliant.”
“That remains to be seen,” Larch said darkly, reaching for a bagel chip and scooping it in the spinach dip. “The working was effective, yes, but it is only half-complete. Frater Benedict is still in a coma, for all we know. And there is the other side of the equation, our failure to liberate Frater Benedict from the Alameda hospital.” Larch scowled.