[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by Viereck, George Sylvester

  “That is good. And how many men can your brothers muster?”

  “I do not know—a thousand fighting men, if needs be, who would fight to the death to save Catherine.”

  “They will not have to fight once in the castle if we explain their mission to the Maréchal’s soldiers. They come on a peaceful errand.”

  “On God’s own errand,” she added, looking at the Madonna.

  “Have you a trusted servant who could carry our message to your brothers?”

  “I think so, Cartaphilus. A young man who is in love with Madeleine, my chambermaid. He would go into the fires of hell for her and she would do as much for me.”

  “Send him; but one messenger is not enough. Something may happen to him on the way. He may miscarry our orders…”

  “I have a carrier pigeon, Cartaphilus—a most beautiful and intelligent bird. My mother gave us several at our departure. The monster permitted the birds to escape. One returned. He can carry a message under his wings.”

  “Splendid!”

  She pressed my hands, her eyes filled with tears. “Cartaphilus, the Lord Jesus has sent you to us.”

  ‘He will always get the credit,’ I thought.

  “Cartaphilus, supposing the man loses his way and the pigeon is slain? Perhaps my brothers may not be able to come at once. They may be at war with their neighbors. What—what will become of Catherine?” Her despair heightened her loveliness.

  “Then—Anne,” I said, caressing her head, “then, Cartaphilus will save her single-handed.”

  She stared at me. “Single-handed?”

  I nodded.

  “Who are you?” she asked, breathing heavily.

  “Cartaphilus, my dear,” I smiled.

  “You are a messenger from Heaven, Cartaphilus. I know it.” She looked at the crucifix on the wall.

  “Anne, I am betraying my friend.”

  She placed her head between my knees.

  “Promise me one thing, Anne.”

  “Yes, Cartaphilus—anything.”

  “Gilles must not be subjected to torture. He must not be abandoned to the rabble which, hound-like, tears its victims to pieces.”

  “The Church can deal with her erring children, Cartaphilus,” she added. “You will recognize her beneficence and her wisdom if you accept baptism! Let my love persuade you.”

  She crossed herself three times.

  I raised her and with my lips I made the sign of the cross on her body.

  “We might marry then, Cartaphilus, and remain together forever.”

  ‘The eternal woman!’

  I seated her upon my knee and caressed her. She sobbed lightly. Gradually, her sobbing subsided. She placed her arms around my neck. The perfume of their pits delighted me like the deep drinking of an old wine. I laid her gently upon the bed. She offered her treasures as gracefully and as beautifully as flowers open their petals.

  At dawn, she left the bed. Shivering a little from the morning chill, she returned once more. “Love me again, Cartaphilus. I have a premonition that this is our last embrace. Love me!”

  “We shall meet again, Anne.”

  “You will go away. Your eyes are restless. They are seeking a far-off gate.”

  ‘Asi-ma,’ I thought.

  “How shall I live without you, Cartaphilus? How can another man’s embrace delight me after this?”

  “One forgets.”

  “Man forgets—but not woman—not Anne.” The sun made a lake of gold upon the bed.

  “Kotikokura, you play the Devil.”

  He grinned.

  “Play your part well, but above all keep the mask I gave you.”

  He touched his belt.

  “If the brothers do not come and if I cannot dissuade him from slaughtering his lovely wife, I shall throw the powder into the air. One breath of it will paralyze all except us if we wear the masks. We can then carry the victim away and escape. Remember the sign, Kotikokura. Put your mask on and I shall do likewise, or else we shall suffer the general fate.”

  Kotikokura nodded.

  “Meanwhile, cause no suspicion. Obey whatever the Maréchal commands.”

  LXI: WHITE MASS—BLACK MASS—BLACK PRAYER—RITES OF SATAN—BEAST OR GOD—THE SACRIFICE—THE BAPTISM OF HOMUNCULUS—JUDAS—I SEND A PRESENT TO ANNE

  THE people entered, dipping their fingers into the holy water, and bending their knees before the altar. Those of rank seated themselves in the front pews, the peasants in the rear. A box in the manner of the theaters was reserved for the Maréchal and his guests of honor.

  The chapel was like an enormous jewel, carved and chiseled into the shape of a room. The altar was of gold and lapis-lazuli, the pillars of red-veined marble. The walls and ceiling were frescoed with magnificent paintings.

  The organ played and an invisible choir chanted a beautiful litany. The Bishop, accompanied by two priests, entered slowly. The canopy which covered them was of white silk, embroidered with gold. The Bishop held in his hand a crucifix—a mass of precious stones. Six young boys, dressed in black velvet, scattered incense from censers of jade.

  The Bishop mounted the steps of the altar and knelt. He rose and with his back to the worshipers chanted short verses, at the end of which he shook a tiny gold bell. The people responded: “Ora pro nobis.” “Ora pro nobis.” The organ played a melody so low, it floated about the place like the vague perfume of a god.

  The Maréchal and Catherine knelt, pressing their heads against the balustrade of the box. Anne closed her eyes. Her hand clasped mine tightly.

  “They have not come, Cartaphilus,” she whispered.

  “Do not fear, Anne.”

  “My messenger has not returned. Do you think he has reached my brothers?”

  “If not he, the pigeon.”

  “I tremble lest– —”

  “Fear not, I am ready.”

  She knelt and in kneeling, kissed my hand.

  The Bishop uncovered the ciborium. The worshipers approached one by one, in silence, took a tiny wafer—the body of Jesus—and bending their knee, left.

  The music ceased. The priests removed the ciborium and the bell.

  The Maréchal rose and whispered into Catherine’s ear. She rose also and bowing, said: “Whatever my lord desires.”

  He kissed her forehead and descended to speak with the Bishop.

  “Do not go, sister!” Anne implored. “Do not go!”

  Catherine looked at her reproachfully. “Anne, is he not my husband? Should not a wife obey her husband?”

  “He is a– —”

  I pressed her arm. Anne stopped short.

  “Catherine, in the name of our Lord Jesus, do not go today.”

  “Anne, shall I be false to my vow?”

  “He is false to his.”

  “Do not speak thus, sister.”

  The Maréchal took my arm and bade me descend the steps. “Contrasts thrill me, Cartaphilus. To go immediately from the worship of Adonai into the Temple of Lucifer, from the White Mass to the Black Mass, to pray fervently in both places!”

  The steps turned in a spiral. When we reached half way, I listened intently. It seemed to me that I heard hoofbeats in the distance. But the noise died out and there was a deep silence. There was still time to dissuade him from the hideous deed he was contemplating.

  “Gilles, why should man seek truth since truth is infinite and man is finite?”

  “You are younger than I, Cartaphilus, and yet you consider me in the light of your junior. You need not fear for me. Adam ate of the Tree of Knowledge but only one apple. I shall wrest from God the seed!”

  “Mortal eye cannot gaze at truth full-faced. Be content if you lift a corner of the veil… !”

  “One glance—and death—I am satisfied.”

  The Maréchal knit his brow.

  “Cartaphilus, you speak like a Christian. We are now in the house of him who is greater than Adonai. The ignorant call him the Prince of Darkness, but he is Lucifer, the bearer of Lig
ht.”

  From the middle of the ceiling hung a large candelabrum whose shape was a phallic caricature of the one in the Temple of Solomon and which spread a yellowish light, resembling the pallor of a jaundiced eye.

  The walls were painted with grotesque figures,—goats with the heads of men, bulls with bodies of goats, elephants whose trunks and legs suggested colossal organs of procreation, snakes, stallions, bats revolving about naked figures that were partially women and partially beasts.

  In the center of the Temple glowered a large marble statue of Pan: a giant priapus protruding from his belly, like a strangely shaped arrow hurled by an insane hunter.

  The altar, marble encrusted with gold and jewels, was partially surrounded by a velvet curtain of a deep scarlet embroidered with the triangle of Astarte.

  The worshipers were assembled. Their faces were painted with phallic symbols or covered with masks of animals.

  The Maréchal’s face acquired a beatitude which was incongruous with his eyes, wide open as an owl’s in the dark and as ominous. His beard glittered like a cataract of amethysts.

  The organ played a strange hymn, a co-mingling of solemn notes and a dancing medley. A hooded person, whose sex was difficult to determine, shook a censer, scattering an incense which resembled a decayed perfume mixed with human excretions.

  Gilles de Retz invited me to sit with him.

  “We need not take part in the common prayers. For us is reserved the Great Moment.” He looked at me triumphantly, his gray eyes assuming their demoniac glitter.

  I waited for a sign from Catherine’s brothers, but I heard no sound. While I trusted my magic powder, I did not desire to display my power. I was already too conspicuous as the friend of Bluebeard. I did not wish to be compelled to explain the scientific device which produced a gas that paralyzed every muscle.

  The priest entered, gorgeously attired. Upon his chest he wore upside down, an immense crucifix, studded with many diamonds which glittered like lamps.

  He knelt before the altar and chanted. “Our Father which art in Hell, hallowed be Thy Name.”

  The worshipers responded: “Amen.”

  “Thy Kingdom come.”

  “Amen.”

  “Thy Will be done on Earth as in Hell.”

  “Amen.”

  “Bring us this day our daily light.”

  “ Amen.”

  “Lead us into temptation.”

  “Amen.”

  “That we may be free from desire.”

  “Amen.”

  “Deliver us from good.”

  “Amen.”

  “Which maketh men weak.”

  “Amen.”

  “Which bringeth pain and falsehood into the world.”

  “Amen.”

  “For Thine is the Kingdom and power and glory forever.”

  “Amen.”

  The priest uncovered the ciborium, The worshipers approached, one by one, forming a circle.

  “Partake of the body of the Enemy,” the priest repeated at intervals. Each person took a wafer, desecrated it, and cast it upon the floor.

  “Partake of the body of the Enemy.”

  Was it a bugle in the distance or the triumphant note of the organ? I listened, my eyes wide open.

  There was perfect silence again.

  The circle of worshipers was completed. A black-draped acolyte filled the large cup which each one drank and turned upside down to prove that nothing had remained within it.

  “Drink the sacred blood of our Lord Lucifer,” the priests chanted.

  Three times the circle turned. Three times they drank the full cup. Their legs became unsteady and their eyes glistened. Many laughed.

  The organ played: Gloria in Excelsis backward.

  The worshipers began to dance about Pan, swaying, contortioning, moaning, howling.

  I became more and more impatient. Would Kotikokura remember the sign? Would he have the mask with him? I touched my cloak. Mine was safely hidden.

  The worshipers danced on. Their clothing hung from their bodies. Their mouths were covered with foam, like galloping horses.

  A stench which was more than mortal struck my nostrils. Human excreta mingled with a strange odor that seemed to be a permanent exhalation of Lucifer’s Temple. Was this the ultimate corruption? Was it the stench of Second Death…?

  The choir sang a beautiful litany in a minor key. The dance degenerated into obscene gestures. The worshipers tore their clothing, exhibiting their nakedness. Some inflicted wounds upon themselves with tiny spears and knives. They screamed, whether in pleasure or pain, I could not tell.

  “How is the worship of Satan superior to that of Jesus?” I asked.

  The Maréchal looked at me, one eyebrow lifted. “Lucifer releases the primal forces throttled by Adonai.”

  “They are beastly, not human.”

  “By releasing the Beast we discover the God,” he said mysteriously, raising his forefinger which glittered with jewels.

  Once more I heard a noise that seemed the call of a distant bugle. I rose and bent my head in the direction. The Maréchal looked at me intently. Had he heard it also?

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “these men and women will walk the earth free. Freed from passion, they will see the light.”

  “What light?”

  “The true light.”

  “All religions speak of the true light. Meanwhile, man gropes in the dark…”

  The priests struck a cauldron seven times, with a staff in the shape of a pitchfork whose sharp points darted thin blue flames. A sulphurous vapor jetted out and darkened the temple for a few moments.

  “He is with us,” the priest announced.

  “He is with us,” the people responded.

  “He who has conquered Adonai.”

  “He who has conquered Adonai.”

  “Lucifer, the Light-bearer.”

  “Lucifer, the Light-bearer.”

  The Maréchal took my arm and bade me approach the altar.

  The priest blew a silver horn three times to the East, to the West, to the North and to the South. The curtain was drawn aside. Upon the altar, Kotikokura stood disguised as the Prince of Darkness. From his temples rose two tall horns, priapic shaped. His face dazzled. A blue stream of smoke curled from his nostrils. About his chest was a breastplate of gold, studded with one large ruby. His feet were encased in black hoofs, his hands in black gauntlets which shone with tiny jewels. In his right fist, he held an ebony staff, terminating in two gold prongs. The worshipers threw themselves upon their faces. The priest knelt. “Blessed be the Lord of Life.”

  “Amen!” the people responded.

  “May His Kingdom come.”

  “Amen.”

  “Ahriman shall conquer Ahura-mazda.”

  “Amen.”

  “Ahriman shall stand upon the crest of the universe and rule it forever.”

  “Amen.”

  The organ played. The choir sang an ancient Persian litany.

  The Maréchal approached the altar and knelt. “Has the Great Moment arrived, O Prince of Light?”

  Kotikokura nodded. Two long streams of smoke curled out of his nostrils.

  “Thy Name be glorified forever, Lucifer!”

  “Amen.”

  The choir burst into a triumphant song.

  The Maréchal rose. “Bring in the sacrifice!” he commanded.

  I listened intently. It seemed to me I heard the hoofs of horses, but they might be merely the peasants or the Maréchal’s own men passing by. I looked at Kotikokura. His hearing was acuter than mine, but he did not seem to hear anything. Perhaps they had already arrived, but planned to enter noiselessly, to avert useless slaughter.

  Catherine, veiled in black, entered, preceded by the priest.

  “Prepare!”

  The priests uncovered the victim. Catherine, white-faced, her eyes tightly shut, tottered. The priests supported her.

  “Woman, rejoice, for the Lord of Light has chosen you to bring
truth into the world!”

  The priests began disrobing Catherine, exposing the delicate curves of her motherhood to the gaze of the Satanists. She recoiled.

  “Woman, do not hinder us!”

  Catherine looked at Gilles, her eyes dimmed with tears. Her chest heaved a little, as if stifling a sob. Her lips moved. I knew she endeavored to pronounce his name. But Gilles did not hear. His face looked like the ruin of some magnificent castle.

  I made a sign to Kotikokura. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Catherine bent her head upon her chest, as if to cover her lovely nakedness. She raised the corners of her eyes a little and looked at me. I was on the point of calling out: “Fear not! Cartaphilus will not allow him to mutilate your body and to slaughter your child!”

  She was stretched out upon a bench. The priest brought a gold basin and a long knife whose edge was sharpened to the thinness of a hair.

  “Bring in the Child of Reason!” Gilles ordered.

  The priest pushed forcibly the wall on the left which opened like a door. Now I understood the true geography of the place. The temple was adjacent to the cellar where I had seen the corpses of the children.

  Meanwhile, the person whose sex was difficult to determine and who had scattered the strange incense, helped the Maréchal cover his head with a tallith upon which were embroidered formulæ from the Kabala and wound seven times about his waist a red girdle.

  Would help come too late? Even if the hoofbeats that I now distinctly heard were those of our horsemen, it was doubtful whether they could reach us in time.

  The priest brought a large glass jar in which a strange creature lay huddled together—something that resembled a human fœtus or the embryo of a monkey.

  Was this the Child of Reason? I had long discovered that reason could not rule the universe, but I had never suspected the misshapen form of her progeny!

  The Maréchal raised the knife and made an inverted cross upon his chest. The reflection glittered upon Catherine’s face.

  The hoofbeats approached. If I could only delay the madman a little longer!

  “Gilles,” I whispered, “the cross must be made three times or the result is frustrated.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were two coals aflame.