“Am I?” Faustus asked, raising his eyebrows.
“The principle that HaShem created Adam Kadmon, the primordial cosmic soul, a vast ethereal body in His own image that extended across Creation. Divided and cast across the universe, the divine sparks of essence were encased in material husks of evil and profanity, and must be restored through tikkun, breaking the husks by righteous acts so that the divine sparks within can be liberated and return to rebuild the cosmic soul.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Faustus said, smiling, a little patronizingly. “Are you ready for a little tikkun right now?”
“What do you want?”
“I came here for two purposes. The first is to apologize personally,” and he fixed his blue eyes on the Rider, “to you, Rider. My disciple Chaksusa should not have told you the word of power which drove back Shub-Niggurath and the Cold Ones. It was imperative that she be expelled from that quarter of the earth at that time, that the operations of the Black Goat Man be smashed. But I am sorry it was done the way it was done. I fear great harm has been done to you, and I know of no remedy.”
“What do you mean?”
“The word you were taught was a word, which God used to impose order upon chaos, a name of God from the place in which The Outer Gods originate. It is hateful to the Great Old Ones, painful to hear. When combined with one of the Star Stones of Mnar, it is doubly detrimental. But it is a two-edged sword, just as harmful to the one who speaks it as to the Great Old Ones and their servants. Mere knowledge of it burns the life away like coal oil. Luckily you had the Star Stone to siphon off some of the power that was unleashed. Otherwise, you might have been instantly burned to cinders. As it is, you may have inadvertently trimmed your lifespan considerably short.”
The Rider felt cold. He had not been aware of any ill-effects immediately after speaking the word of power, Shamblaparn. True enough, when he had spoken it, it had destroyed the Star Stone of Mnar and obliterated a group of Yiggians.
Since then Kabede had destroyed his name in the Order’s Book of Life, giving him until September twenty second of this year. When The Day of Atonement came and the Rider’s true name was not found in The Book of Life, he would surely die. Was this a coincidence, or had some greater force of correspondence forced Kabede’s hand to pay some cosmic penalty for his use of the strange name of power?
“It was my intent to direct Kabede here against Shub-Niggurath,” Faustus went on, fixing Kabede with a disapproving stare. “With the staff he might not have had to call upon that word. But I failed to persuade him, and so I directed Chaksusa to send for you.”
Kabede’s jowls worked and he sat down. He glanced at the Rider, and then looked away.
“Now I regret that I must come to put you to another task. A dark power is rising once more among the Indians.”
“Not Shub-Niggurath,” the Rider breathed, for he did not want to face that thing again.
“No,” said Faustus, chewing his pipe stem. “No, I don’t think so. The truth is, I do not know what it is. But I know it is bound to you.”
“To me?” said the Rider, taken aback. “Why to me?”
“Do not trust him, Rider,” said Kabede. “I urge you.”
“Do not, if you do not,” Faustus said, rising from his seat. “But trust a friend, if not me.”
He motioned to the vardo and the front door opened. An old Indian stooped and emerged, descending the step and walking around the camels to the fire. His long grey hair was kept from his face by a broad Apache headband, and a long cloth swayed between his white leggings.
When the light fell across his face, the Rider rose.
It was not an old man at all. It was Piishi of the Chiricahua Apache. Piishi, who had killed Shub-Niggurath’s servitor the Black Goat Man with one well-placed throw of a star born knife at the lip of the deep well beneath Red House.
His hair had turned prematurely white after facing the Outer God, his eyes and the soul which looked out through them had aged a great deal, and his face was lined prematurely, but he was still a relatively young man, only a little older than Kabede.
“Rider Who Walks,” said Piishi.
“Piishi,” said the Rider, smiling slightly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“When we met, you asked me if I knew one called Misquamacus,” Piishi said without further preamble, settling by the fire.
The Rider thought. It was true. A band of Indian warriors had come upon him in the night, and admittedly frightened, he had mentioned the shaman whom he had once helped in the years after the war. Misquamacus had claimed to be the greatest shaman of all the Indian nations, had told him that every tribe knew him.
Piishi of course, had never heard of him.
“I remember,” the Rider said.
“A prophet is going among the people at San Carlos. He says he has seen visions of all the Indians of every nation dying at the white man’s hand. This is nothing new, but he has power. I have seen him stop the day, so that the sun and the birds hung in the sky. He has secret army of Indians who come and go on the wind, and he preaches that a final war is coming with the white man. He has called for a great meeting of the people at Pa-Gotzin Kay. His name is Mis-kwa-macus.”
The Rider rubbed his beard.
“Do you know this man of whom he speaks?” Kabede asked.
“I did. A long time ago. He was a Cheyenne medicine man. We became friends, of a sort, but he never had any love for white people. His pregnant wife was murdered at Sand Creek by Chivington’s men. When I knew him, he had hunted down and killed several soldiers of the Third Colorado by himself.”
Not entirely by himself. The Rider had blundered into Misquamacus’ tragedy not long after he had mustered out of the army at Ft. Leavenworth, and he had helped him secure his revenge in the end. This was what had earned the medicine man’s respect, but this was between himself and Misquamacus, and he didn’t see a point in bringing it up here.
“He used a lot of dark power, and Indian magic I didn’t really understand. I kept him from going over the brink. Then I saw him home to his band in the Nations. That was about fourteen years ago.”
“I do not think this man is Cheyenne,” Piishi said. “He knows our ways too well.”
The Rider shrugged.
“Did he have a scar over his left eye?”
“Yes,” Piishi said.
“It’s him,” the Rider said. “How many medicine men are there named Misquamacus?”
“It is not a Dine name,” Piishi admitted.
“Then perhaps you have some sway with him,” Faustus suggested.
“If he’s preaching death to the white man,” the Rider said, “I would think very little.”
“Many have already joined him,” Piishi said. “But his power does not come from Usen. He calls for the people to turn away from Usen.”
“Usen?” Kabede asked.
“The one God,” Piishi said. “The Creator.”
“What power does he tell the people to look to?” the Rider asked.
“He has not told us. He says he will reveal it at Pa-Gotzin Kay in ten days.”
“What’s Pa-Gotzin Kay?”
“It is a secret stronghold high in the Mother Mountains, near the town the Mexicans call Nacozari in Mexico. I know the way.”
“We have no time to divert to Mexico,” said Kabede.
“Divert? Where do you have to be?” Faustus asked wryly. “For that matter, what’s your plan to fight Adon and his Creed? Have you yet learned his plan?”
“Have you?” Kabede snapped.
“No,” Faustus admitted. “But my people have been trying, to their detriment.”
“What do you mean to their detriment?” asked the Rider.
“I mean a war has been going on for quite some time now, Rider. The Sons of the Essenes have not been the only casualties, and Adon is not the only general the Great Old Ones have fielded. Secret societies have risen and fallen in the last twenty years to hinder or hail t
he Hour of the Incursion. The blue monks of Shambhala are all but gone, but we have accounted for some of Adon’s Creed. Ten of my disciples died on a mesa at a place called Stallions Gate in New Mexico with the traitor of Ein Gedi, the Merkabah Rider called Ha’h’ayal. And of the other six who betrayed their enclaves, a man who called himself Barana fought us in Krakow, and is no more.”
“Ha’h’ayal,” the Rider repeated. “It means ‘The Soldier.’ And ‘Barana…’”
“Polish for ‘The Ram,’” Faustus said.
The Rider looked at Kabede.
“Can you confirm those names?”
“Here?” Kabede whispered. “Now?”
The Rider nodded.
Kabede reluctantly reached into his satchel and produced the Order’s Book of Life from which he’d torn the page containing the Rider’s true name. He began to thumb through it.
The whole time, Faustus’ eyes widened.
“Ari Mizrachi, called The Soldier. Of the Ein Gedi Enclave.” He thumbed a few pages, and nodded. “Marek Stroński, The Ram, of Krakow,” he said. “They were both Sons of the Essenes. That much is true.”
Faustus’s expression flashed with naked anger as Kabede recited the names.
“You knew their true names all along…and you didn’t tell me? Do you know how many of my students died fighting these men?”
“How could I trust you? I did not even know if you were devil or angel. Nor did I know who among my Order had turned traitor. Mine is a sacred trust. I would never have given you the names of brother riders even if I could have done so with a clear conscience.”
“Knowing their names might have spared lives. The lives of men and women who even now could have faced the Great Old Ones at your side!”
“Tell us who else betrayed the Order and we’ll tell you their names,” the Rider said.
Kabede wheeled on the Rider.
“How do we know his knowledge isn’t faulty? How do we know he is not allied with these things?”
“He’s not,” the Rider said tiredly. “I met one of his blue monks. He gave his life to stop one of The Old Ones. Anyway, even if he were in league with the enemy he would’ve attacked us by now.” Then, he said to Faustus, “Give us the names and we’ll trade you. What’s done is done.”
Faustus glowered, but nodded. “Alright. My network has discovered the surviving traitors came from Thessaloniki, Amsterdam, Berlin, Livorno, and Owernah.”
“We already know about Het Bot, The Bone of Amsterdam. The Sword and The Shield from Berlin and Owernah are both dead,” the Rider said.
“Il Ferro is the name the Italian traitor goes by,” said Faustus, “and the Greek is known as To Tóxo.”
Kabede went through the book again.
“Leone Romoli from Livorno, The Iron. Noe Cerf of Thessaloniki, The Bow.”
“Now,” said the Rider. “Tear their pages out and throw them in the fire.”
Kabede stared.
“I cannot do that.”
“They’ll die within the year if you do, and we’ll be rid of them. Do it.”
“The names of some of my own brothers of the Balankab Enclave are on those pages.”
“Is your name on one of those pages?” the Rider asked sharply.
“No,” Kabede said.
“What about Adon’s name?” Faustus asked. “Might we not stop him if we know his true name?”
Kabede shook his head.
“He won’t have used his true name. The Order would never have accepted him if he had.”
“How do you know this?” Faustus asked.
Kabede looked at the Rider again.
“Kabede thinks Adon is actually Elisha ben Abuyah, a sage from the first century.”
“Elisha ben Abuyah,” Faustus repeated slowly. “I don’t know him.”
The Rider related the tale of the Four Sages who entered Paradise, and Faustus nodded.
“It does make a great deal of sense,” he said, when it was over.
“What name is Adon listed as in the Book of Life?”
“Jethro Auspitz,” said Kabede automatically. “I already looked him up.”
“It’s alright, Rider,” said Faustus. “Knowing the true names of the turncoat riders will help us quite enough. Since betraying your Order, each of the Creed as they have come to be known, has trained subordinates under Adon’s direction, forming their own private societies dedicated to bringing about the Hour of Incursion. My blue monks have fought the necromancers of the Society of Bone several times already. The numbers of the enemy are growing, while ours are less every day.”
“Who else fights with us?” the Rider asked.
“Not many. Individuals who have come upon the truth in their own way, mostly. The Order of the Peacock Angel, but their motives are selfish and they cannot be trusted. The Nine Unknown Men, but they keep to themselves. The Caste, The Kun-Sun Dai, The Watchers, The Theosophical Society, but they are mostly disorganized, or working from half-truths. I’m afraid most are unaware of or,” he looked at Kabede, “unwilling to believe in the Hour of Incursion.”
“Do you know when it’s due?”
“One of my disciples was focusing solely on that, but he was assassinated before he could pinpoint the date,” Faustus sighed. “He theorized the autumnal equinox of this year.”
The Rider swallowed, and glanced at Kabede, who looked gravely back.
“September twenty second,” the Rider said, mechanically intoning the words like a machine chiseling an epitaph. Also The Day of Atonement.
“Yes,” said Faustus. “It’s no wonder their activities are increasing.”
He motioned with his pipe to Piishi.
“If the Apache decide to join their ranks, we will be effectively unable to move anywhere in the Southwest.”
“That is true,” Piishi said. “Vittorio and Juh and the others will hear Mis-kwa-makis out. If they decide to lend their strength to his, the Great Old Ones will rule this land.”
“And I am convinced that somewhere in the heart of this land,” Faustus continued, “The Creed or some other allied group will usher in The Hour of Incursion, and no one will be able to stop it. Their operations here have been too concentrated as of late.” He blew smoke. “Unless it’s all a grand diversion, of course.”
“It seems to me that Jerusalem would be the center of their plot,” said the Rider. “The Talmud says that the Foundation Stone beneath the Temple Mount is the junction point of Heaven and Earth. It’s the stone the Lord threw into the waters of Chaos, from which the earth expanded. Adam offered sacrifices upon it, and the Patriarch laid Isaac upon it. Wouldn’t it make sense that they’d try to open some kind of gate there?”
“I’ve thought of that too,” Faustus said. “Many of your people’s religious works point to it. The last of my agents are there, watching the city. But I’m not convinced. The Creed has concentrated its greatest efforts in this land. Why would Shub-Niggurath herself appear here? And why is Misquamacus raising an army here?”
“You’re certain it’s the Great Old Ones Misquamacus serves?” said Kabede. “What about Lucifer?”
“He didn’t strike me as wanting to take an active hand in anything,” the Rider said. “If it’s not Shub-Niggurath, what else could it be? How many of these things are here?”
“I don’t know for certain,” said Faustus. “I know of one that sleeps in the depths of the ocean. There is Shub-Niggurath and Yig, and there is the one my brother and I pursued here.”
“What’s the name of that one?”
“He has so many names,” Faustus said. “Where I come from, he was once known as The Abhorred Dread.”
“That’s an impressive title,” Kabede admitted.
“I have heard him called Nyarlathotep as well,” said Faustus.
“Why is this ‘Hour of Incursion’ even needed?” the Rider chuckled nervously. “It seems like there are enough Outer Gods here already.”
“There are quite enough,” Faustus agreed, smili
ng mirthlessly, “but the greatest of them lie beyond the borders of this world. And they that skulk here command only a fraction of their own power without the rest. Don’t let your victory against Shub-Niggurath lull you. You were both exceedingly lucky to have come out of that affair alive at all. And think about what even that brief encounter cost you.”
The Rider didn’t like to, so he urged them back to the matter at hand.
“If this meeting’s going to happen in a secret Apache stronghold, how am I going to get close to Misquamacus?” the Rider asked. “They’ll kill a white man on sight.”
“I will bear along your spirit, Rider Who Walks,” Piishi said. “And you will speak through my lips.”
The Rider looked from Piishi to Faustus.
“I’ve explained it to him, and he’s willing,” said Faustus. “We’ll wait in Nacozari and keep watch over your body while you meet with Misquamacus through Piishi.”
“How long from Nacozari to this stronghold?” the Rider asked.
“A day’s ride up into the mountains,” said Piishi.
“You could never maintain possession that long and at such a distance,” Kabede said.
“You may be right,” the Rider agreed, sighing.
“With my wagon you can,” said Faustus. He rose. “Here, let me show you.”
A few moments later they were standing in the vardo, which though surprisingly spacious, seemed to be jam packed with heaps of books and baubles, astrolabes, and magical paraphernalia. A bank of scrolls was situated in one corner, and the Rider thought momentarily about the Egyptian scroll Adon wanted so badly. He wondered if Faustus could identify it. But he was still not sure he entirely trusted the man.
Faustus led them past the bed and the stove to a black curtain in the back. Drawing it aside, he revealed what appeared to be a door the size of a hotel dumbwaiter. He turned the handle and swung it open, revealing a dark space in which something glittered and moved.
Kabede flinched instinctively, but Faustus took a lantern off the wall sconce and shined it within.
It was a small room, which could just about accommodate an average sized man sitting Indian style, and no more. It was entirely lined with mirrors, floors, wall and ceiling. Even the back of the little door was fitted with polished glass. A silver candleholder was bolted to the floor, surrounded by hard puddles of cold yellow wax.
Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel Page 14