Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  “Yeah, sure, that too, but I mean, I gotta make a living, Louie. Man’s gotta eat, ya know?”

  Louie sighed, raspy and ragged. “Tell you what, you worthless cagata. You start talking, and if I like what I hear, I’ll make arrangements for you to get paid, but if I don’t like what I hear—”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem, big man. You got it,” Peeper hurriedly agreed. “About a week before he got whacked, Cushing told me to nose around about that cult group, the Disciples of Whatchamacallit.”

  “Endor. Unh-hunh.”

  “So, I was hanging at a Chelsea strip joint, watching some of da regular gals doin’ their numbers, and I starts talkin’ to this guy sittin’ beside me, ya know, talkin’ about the gals and their routines, I mean, some of ‘em are damned fine, but others—”

  “Get to the point, porca vacca.”

  “Okay. So after a coupla beers, I find out this dude’s in the Mazzimah.”

  Peeper now had Louie’s full attention. “Okay. What’d he tell you?”

  “Well, after that, I started buyin’ us some whiskeys, since I knew I needed to get as much outta him as I could. I only bought the bar booze, mind you—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you bought him—just tell me what you found out.” Louie’s voice deepened even further, sounding like a small rockslide.

  “Yeah, sure. Dude asks me what the craziest thing I ever seen was. I give him a BS answer about a couple a whores and a chicken, and then he starts spillin’ his guts about seein’ this broad they’d kidnapped sucked dry by the high priestess or whatever she is of that cult.”

  “Okay, good. What else?”

  “So finally the guy tells me that this cult queen’s got a ‘secret hideout’ in the North End. So I asks him where and widdout thinkin,’ he tells me it’s across the street from Copp’s Hill. Then he gets a scared look on his face and he won’t tell me anything more. It’s like he finally realized that he’s been talkin’ too much, so he heads out.”

  Louie waited for several seconds. “So is that it?”

  “Yeah,” Peeper replied. “Ain’t that enough? That’s everything I told Cushing, and he seemed real happy to hear it.”

  Louie sighed. “Alright then. You get to keep sucking air, even though you’re the biggest waste of oxygen I ever seen.”

  “Aww, you don’t mean that, Louie.”

  “Stai zitto. Shut up, little man, and quit while you’re ahead. You go to Stanza dei Sigari tomorrow night and tell Frankie that you’re there to pick up your mail.”

  “My mail? I don’t get no mail there—”

  “No, idiota, but there’s gonna be an envelope for you there tomorrow night, è chiaro?”

  “Oh, I gotcha, I get it.”

  “Took you long enough. Call me if you hear anything else.”

  “Sure thing, Louie. You can count on me.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Louie said, cutting off the connection. Stanza dei Sigari was a cigar shop/bar down the street from Louie’s townhouse. He had a standing arrangement with one of the bartenders to pass along payments or other deliveries on Louie’s behalf. Louie finished his wine, replaced the phone on the kitchen handset, and then stumped back to the recliner. Willy and Nilly greeted him, jumping to various perches on their gym. “Good, good, little ones. Papa’s gonna call the Mick with this info, then we’ll watch some TV, eh? Maybe see what’s on Animal Planet?” Louie sat with a sigh, picked up the phone, and gave Jamie a call.

  * * * *

  Sedecla descended a spiral staircase in the far corner of her bedroom that ran down through each floor of her townhouse and into the hidden caverns that lay beneath. Every landing had secured doors, each requiring the entry of a unique code to gain entrance. Since the successful break-in by Cal Cushing, Sedecla had instructed Tomás da Silva to improve all of their security. Consequently, all of the door entry systems had been upgraded to more sophisticated systems.

  It was midnight, the time of greatest power for her, as Sedecla entered her subterranean complex to perform her rituals. She was dressed simply, in a loose black silk tunic, edged with purple satin, tied about the waist by a simple wrought gold belt. Her hair was tied back with a golden clasp with a black ring that showed a Mandean skandola identical to the image upon the black iron ring on her left hand. Sedecla walked through the updated smugglers tunnels to the amphitheater cavern that was the center of her complex. Off to one side, there was another steel reinforced door with a keypad. To gain access to this room, she had to not only enter the proper code, but successfully pass voice, palm, and retinal scan identifications. Only Sedecla was permitted into this room.

  As she entered, automated lighting turned on—infrared lighting that cast a pale, ghostly illumination upon a small basalt altar centered in a fifteen-foot, circular raised platform of polished black mahogany. Sedecla walked a narrow mahogany path that ran from the door to the platform, into which an eleven-pointed silver star had been inset—the altar stood at the center of the star. The floor of the room, about twenty feet square, was covered in a fine, whitish powder—ground-up human bones from an ancient graveyard that Sedecla had discovered during the expansion of the tunnels and cavern. Placing her altar and platform above such a site served to intensify the effects of her rituals. The air in the room was musty and stale. It felt like the air one would inhale after cracking the seal of an ancient mausoleum.

  Upon reaching the platform, Sedecla walked to a small acacian box built onto the far edge of the circle. She opened the box and took out her ritualistic tools—eleven black candles, each about three inches in diameter and twelve inches tall. She placed them into holders built into the perimeter of the altar. Sedecla bowed her head and softly chanted in Aramaic as she lit each candle. She poured incense from a leather pouch into a small iron brazier, and then lit it. Next, she removed a janbīyah, a small, curved dagger, with a saifani hilt made from rhinoceros’ horn, followed by a slender wand, a foot-long piece of ivory that had been heavily scrimshawed with black runes and bound at both ends and the middle by dark bands of platinum. Reverently, she withdrew a small stone statue depicting a shedim, or demon, and placed it upon the altary. The final item was a small, black, marble chalice, about six inches in diameter, adorned with a copper Mandean skandola, which she filled with dark, blood red wine.

  Sedecla began her Qliphotic ritual by directing the janbīyah toward each cardinal direction, purifying the site. Then she closed her eyes and meditated for several minutes, emptying her thoughts as much as possible and centering her remaining thoughts in her back brain, the primal portion of the brain. Upon opening her eyes, Sedecla then performed the Opening of the Seven Gates. First, she drew a circle about the altar, along the lines of the eleven-pointed star, then replaced the janbīyah upon the altar, and picked up her wand. She pointed the wand to the cardinal directions, then the ground, the heavens and herself, intoning ancient prayers for each gate.

  Sedecla closed her eyes and awaited the arrival of the forces. After a few moments, she felt the temperature plunge, and the air became thick and heavy. She felt as if she were moving underwater, sluggish and fighting against the power of the summoned forces. Sedecla completed the Opening of the Seven Gates by holding the chalice in each direction, greeting each demon by name, and offering a toast to them, taking small sips with each toast.

  Next, Sedecla performed her ritual of evocation—she took her wand, and softly chanting again in Aramaic, tapped the stone statute of the shedim three times. After a few seconds, a variegated haze, filled with black sparks, coalesced about the statue. The haze slowly coagulated into a murky form—two feet tall, its shape seemed fluid, but most often appeared as a being with a flat, cobra-like head and hood that outlined a long neck as it descended into a roughly humanoid body, with four clawed arms and two clawed legs. The shedim’s skin shifted constantly from black diamond scales, to shaggy unkempt fur, to pestilent human skin, and back to scales. Unlike a cobra, the shedim had triangular ears that sat at at
tention upon each side of its head, four ebony eyes, and fang-like chelicerae, like a spider. The shedim’s form obscured the stone statue in its multi-colored haze, which slowly diminished into a mantle-like form that surrounded the being. At length, the shedim’s arms twitched, and finally, it turned its unblinking gaze upon Sedecla and addressed her in a buzzing, dissonant voice.

  “You call upon me again, witch,” the shedim stated in a harsh susurrus.

  “I do, shedim.” The word was Hebrew for demon, and while Sedecla had worked with this particular demon for a long time on her Qliphotic studies, she did not know his name, for names are power. Sedecla was not in command of the demon—it was a partnership. “I offer you the agreed upon tithe of energy.” Sedecla pointed her wand at the demon, and the shedim opened all four arms wide, accepting a stream of energy that flowed in a sparkling cascade from the wand into the demon’s embrace. Its body glowed as it absorbed the energy.

  When the stream ceased, the shedim bowed. “You have fulfilled your part of our pact. Now I shall assist you.” The pair began a familiar invocation, one they had been performing and expanding for months, as the shedim assisted Sedecla in mastering the Necheshiron, the twenty-two paths that traversed the ten Qliphotic spheres that constituted the Tree of Death. The invocation consisted of the shedim raising each path by name. Sedecla then responded by chanting the aspects of the spheres connected by that path. There were various magical and mundane studies and tasks required before Sedecla could comprehend and detail the aspects of each sphere. Once she had completed the requirements for a sphere and its paths, Sedecla was then able to walk the path by evoking the aspects of that sphere and path. They were steppingstones—she could only reach the next step of her studies by treading mystically upon each stone that made up her path. With each incantation of a path, the shedim pulsed and glowed, emanating a dark energy. As Sedecla chanted the aspects of each path, her shape shimmered, as if it no longer existed solely in our world.

  Having now traversed the fifteen paths she had mastered, Sedecla sank to her knees and attended to the words of the shedim, who began instructing her in the nature of the sixteenth path, A’ano’nin, which leads from Thagirion to Harab Serapel, where lust and suffering are transcended through burning fire into ecstatic energy. The energy stolen by Sedecla from her human sacrifices were absorbed by the powers integral to the path, and upon completion of this demonic lesson, both the shedim and Sedecla were drained. As the Qliphotic lesson concluded, Sedecla now knew the tasks and studies she must perform to master A’ano’nin. Both her form and that of the shedim slowly reverted to their normal appearance.

  The shedim turned to her and rasped, “You dare much, witch. Are your powers and stamina sufficient to this task? Many have attempted this and no one has yet to succeed.”

  Sedecla drew upon her inner strength and glared at the shedim. “Do not presume to judge me, demon. We are partners, and you are my guide, not my superior.”

  The shedim laughed, a horrible sound. “As you wish, witch.” The demon’s shape slowly dissipated.

  Sedecla concluded the ritual by bidding farewell to the forces she had summoned, drinking again of the wine each time. She closed the gates by pointing her janbīyah in each of the seven directions in the opposite order from the opening and intoning, “Go in peace, return to the place from whence you came. I beseech you to come again when next I call upon you.”

  Sedecla wearily broke the ritual circle, extinguished the candles and burning incense, replaced her implements, and then walked slowly back to the door across the room. She opened the door and staggered through it. Tomás da Silva, always present upon completion of her rituals, assisted her to climb the spiral staircase back to her bedchamber, where Sedecla would rest for many hours.

  * * * *

  Jamie Griffin was tired of being tired. He looked around the table at his wife and three daughters as they ate dinner—they were full of life, chatting about school, work, and the upcoming holiday. There were inside jokes common to most families. Even Finn MacCool was involved, twisting and twining his way amongst the table, chair, and legs in his attempts to beg food. Jamie felt a wave of love flood through him, but he also felt a wave of sadness fighting against that tide. Dinnertime used to be one of his favorite times. Before he became ill, Jamie “held court” at the dinner table, “interrogating” the Griffin females about their days, sharing what he could with them of his day, and keeping the atmosphere humorous and enjoyable.

  These days, Jamie thought morosely, I’m more like a boat anchor—I bring everything down. He picked at his food listlessly, which was another change for him. Jamie usually ate with great gusto and in quantities that drew disapproving looks from Eileen, who helped her husband watch his weight. In the past week, she had to scold him into eating.

  Brigid had just finished a story about the sendoff the students had given the football team before break. Notre Dame was playing in a bowl game again for the first time in years. This year, while he watched the ND football games, Eileen had commented on his negativity and lack of happiness, even when the Irish won. The current football coach, doubly blessed in Jamie’s opinion since he was Irish as well as turning the program around, had been passionate at the rally in building support for the team. By this point, with the bowl game just over two weeks away, Jamie would have been in full planning mode, deciding the snacks and drinks that they would serve at their bowl party.

  This year, he hadn’t even mentioned watching the bowl game yet. He had not participated in Christmas activities, and more often than not, he sat in the living room on the sectional, Finn MacCool curled up at his side, watching television. With each failed attempt by Eileen and the girls to get him involved in some activity, Jamie could see their worry increase. The one occasion Jamie had become active was when he had accompanied Daphné and Darcelle on their stakeout yesterday. While he had done nothing but sit and chat with the girls for several hours, Jamie had come home exhausted, his headache blinding and fierce, and so dizzy that he could barely walk into the house without falling. Then he slept for almost twenty of the next twenty-four hours.

  After they finished dinner, Jamie went back into the living room by himself. Once dinner clean-up was done, Finn took his usual spot by Jamie, then Eileen and the girls joined them in the living room. Jamie turned on the television to some show. It didn’t seem to matter much anymore what show, just something that would at least occasionally distract him. Eileen walked over and turned off the TV.

  “Hey,” Jamie said after a moment. “I was watching that.”

  “No you weren’t,” Eileen disagreed.

  “Even if you were, Daddy,” Brigid added, “we have to talk.” Caitlin and Riona chimed in their agreement.

  “Okay, let’s talk.” Jamie said the words in a toneless, flat voice.

  “Jamie, love,” Eileen began, “I’ve been telling you for some time now that you’ve got to find some way to pull yourself together.”

  Jamie snorted. “Good advice. I’ll get right on that.”

  “You don’t actually do anything to pull yourself together.” Fear, anger, and frustration laced Eileen’s voice.

  “Dad,” Brigid said, “I’ve been home less than a week, and I want to know where the hell my father went.”

  “I’m right here,” Jamie replied bitterly. “I’m always right here.”

  “Well, someone’s right here,” Brigid shot back, “and while he looks like my father and he talks like my father, my father would never just give up.”

  “Ah, stop channeling your mother,” Jamie replied.

  “It’s not just Mom,” Brigid declared. “It’s me and Caitlin and Riona. It’s your parents and Mom’s parents, your brothers and sisters, the neighbors—hell, even Father O’Connor said something about it yesterday.”

  “Brigid,” Eileen warned. “I don’t know how they let you talk at Notre Dame, but you’ll not be swearing in this house.”

  Brigid rolled her eyes and held up her hands
. “Fine. Sorry, Mother.” Then she turned back to her father. “Dad, we all know you’re depressed about losing your job—”

  “I am not depressed,” Jamie insisted.

  “Both Jerry and your counselor disagree,” Eileen said.

  “Ah, what do they know?” Jamie replied. “Sure, I’m down, but Lord knows, I’ve got enough reasons. I’ve lost my job, my partner, and the respect of my father, my brother, and everyone I ever worked with.”

  “Maybe,” Riona jumped in, “but you’re starting to lose your daughters, too.”

  “Riona,” Eileen chided.

  “It’s true, Mom.” Riona looked like she was almost ready to cry. “Daddy used to always ask about our days, about what we’d learned, about my games or Caitlin’s friends or Brigid’s classes. Now he just sits there and watches TV.”

  “She’s right, Mom,” Caitlin said softly. “Dad, you can’t go on like this.” While Brigid was always the leader and Riona the bossy and outgoing sister, Caitlin was the peacemaker. “You’re scaring Mom, you’re scaring us, and you’re scaring everyone who knows and cares about you.” She looked steadily at her father, and Jamie finally looked away.

  No one spoke for several seconds. Finally, Jamie sighed deeply and shook his head. “I don’t know how to get past this, gang,” he admitted, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the sectional for several seconds. “I just don’t know what to do. All my life, I’ve worked hard, I’ve been active, in charge and successful. Since I got sick, I’ve prayed for guidance, seen all the doctors, let them run a thousand different tests, but for what? I can’t do anything without making myself worse.”

  “That’s not true, darlin’,” Eileen said. “You’ve been helping Louie and the twins.”

  “No, not really,” Jamie replied. “I’ve tagged along and talked and tried to stay out of their way, but even that effort leaves me feeling like a wet dishrag—with a headache from hell on top of it.”

  “Jamie, you’re the one heading this investigation—they’re just doing what you ask of them.” Eileen reached out and took her husband’s hand. “You may not be doing much field work, but you’re the one slowly putting the pieces together.”