by Bill Bennett
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 36
Olivier spotted their van first, parked by the side of the road. They were having a picnic under a tree down by a stream. There were five of them in all. A couple of them looked up as he and Marley thundered past on the Triumph, then they resumed their lunch as he rounded a bend and was gone. But he pulled up a hundred yards further on and turned off the bike’s engine.
‘What’s up?’ Marley asked, letting go of his waist and hopping off the back of the bike.
‘Just a feeling,’ Olivier said, kicking the parker pedal down, leaning the bike over and getting off too. ‘Let’s go have a look.’
They walked back, but as they rounded the bend and the stream came into view they ducked down and used the cover of bushes and trees to creep up to the back of the van. The group was sitting by the banks of the stream, laughing and talking loudly – there was an air of excitement about them, a palpable anticipation, like fans on their way to a big game.
‘What are you doing?’ Marley whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ Olivier said back. ‘Just a hunch. Keep lookout.’
Marley peeked around the side of the van, watching the group but keeping out of sight, while Olivier quietly opened the back of the van. Inside were sports bags and suitcases – obviously their personal luggage, along with some camping gear – but amongst it all there were also several large plastic crates piled on top of one another.
Olivier pulled one out. Emblazoned on its lid was NIGHT WATCHERS ASTRONOMICAL SOCIETY. He opened it up and inside, neatly packed, were athames with the Baphomet symbol on their handles, small containers of salt and fluids and other strange things, a ceremonial broom, a sword with gems encrusted into its hilt – and a cloth, like for a dining room table, made of black velvet, once again with the symbol of Baphomet embroidered on each end.
‘Someone’s coming,’ whispered Marley. One of the picnickers had got up and left the group, and was walking back to the van.
Olivier quickly grabbed the velvet coverall, shut the lid of the crate, put it back in place exactly as he’d found it, then silently closed the rear door of the van. He and Marley waited until the picnicker had opened the front door of the van and was fossicking around inside before slipping silently away.
‘They were Baphomet,’ Olivier said, as they walked quickly back to the bike. ‘Going to Unholy, no question,’ he said as he unfurled the velvet cloth and tied it around Marley’s shoulders.
She laughed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘This may not get us all the way in, but it will get us some of the way.’
He hopped on the bike, Marley swung her leg over and jumped on behind him, grabbing him around the waist. He kickstarted the beast, it roared in appreciation, then he tore off – the Baphomet cloth flying out in the wind behind Marley, the symbol of the Golden Order cracking in the backdraft.
As they got closer to the mine they passed cars and vans and utility trucks with trays. One look at the drivers and passengers told Olivier that these were Baphomet witches – some looking steadfastly ahead, not acknowledging their presence, as if they were driving to a funeral or a memorial service.
Olivier climbed high into the mountains, taking the hairpin bends at speed, and soon they were dropping down into the valley, with a view of the Deep Sink Mine laid out before them. He pulled up and stared at the mine site dominated by the black mountain.
‘We will not get through the main gate,’ he said. ‘They will be sure to have guards there checking ID. We will have to go off-road. Hold on.’
He took a small track leading off to one side – big enough for his bike but impassable to a larger vehicle. It was slow going, but they bounced and rocked and swayed their way over rockfalls and decaying logs and across washaways, at times the track totally disappearing only to reappear further along, until they finally came to a stop in front of the mine’s high-wire perimeter fence.
Olivier looked at the signs stating that the fence was electrified.
‘You think it’s live?’ Marley asked.
Olivier angled back and turned to her. ‘I’d like to marry you,’ he said.
Marley laughed. ‘What, now?’
‘Of course not now. When this is over. When we get back.’ He seemed hurt that she would laugh at him. ‘I want to marry you, Marls,’ he repeated, quietly.
Marley looked at him, knew he was serious. ‘I would like that,’ she said, and she leaned forward, he leaned back, and they kissed.
‘Now, hang on tight,’ he said. He revved the bike up to a bone-shaking screech, then suddenly released the brakes. The bike leapt forward and crashed into the fence, sparks flying with a sharp crackling sound. Pushing the wire fence over, Olivier drove straight over it, Marley hanging on behind, whooping with joy.
CHAPTER 37
They came by van, they came by car, some rode in on mountain bikes, a couple on horses, one man even drove an eighteen wheeler to the front gates of the mine, left it there and walked in. Another arrived carrying a backpack saying he’d been on the road for weeks, as though he were making a pilgrimage to a sacred site.
They were Baphomet’s elite witches. Office managers, realtors, welders and engineers, accountants and professors and police officers. They were wealthy, on benefits, CEOs and janitors, entrepreneurs and factory workers. But they were all either adepts or masters, the upper echelon of the Golden Order, the country’s most accomplished and powerful exponents of black magic.
Some set up tents, others simply opened the side doors of their vans or RVs and sat on the steps. A few moved over to the rundown buildings and staked a claim to an empty office, then caught up with old colleagues.
Many set up their altars – simple fold-away picnic tables covered in a cloth – then they laid out their silver chalices and dishes, lit their black candles, carefully placed their ceremonial daggers and broomsticks, cast their circles, then made their quiet communion with the Two Evil.
There was an air of subdued reverence around the mine, an overwhelming sense of occasion, the feeling that those here would soon be witness to, and participants in, something very special. People talked, but it was though the words didn’t matter. They were thinking of greater things soon to come.
No one rushed. Everyone moved slowly and thoughtfully. There was no frivolity, no raucous laughter. These were Baphomet’s most venerable witches and they held this coming night sacred.
Everyone was humbled too, by the black energies coming up from the mine. Very few had been here before and most only knew of it through hearsay. No one tried to go down the shaft. They were fearful of the lamb; they knew it was Satan’s lap-pet and that its appearance always coincided with some calamity or horrific outrage.
Chappy Waterstone had been in the mine only once before, many years ago as part of his orientation tour shortly after he’d been consecrated Grand Master of the North. At the time, he remembered feeling the exhilaration of being so close to the immense omnipotence of Satan.
As he carefully made his way down the steeply inclined shaft, he wondered how the Fallen Priest could stay down here for any length of time. The energies coming up were so powerful that for any normal witch, even a high-level master, it would be too overwhelming. But the Fallen Priest wasn’t just any normal witch. He sat in the Palace of Fires.
The Grand Master approached the collapsed tunnel and played his flashlight over the jumble of rock that had sealed off the entrance. What happened here? he wondered. He could tell that it had collapsed only a couple of hours earlier, perhaps even less. Had it been an accident?
‘There are no accidents down here, my friend.’
The Grand Master turned and almost gasped. The Fallen Priest stood behind him, eerily calm.
‘You gave me a fright, Father,’ Waterstone said, putting his hand theatrically over his thumping heart.
The Fallen Priest merely nodded, but didn’t shift his piercing gaze. ‘The mother and daughter. They are inside. Both of them now. Do you
want to see them?’ he said, his voice flat, his thin lips curled in private amusement.
‘That’s why I came down here.’ Chappy Waterstone tried to sound jovial, giving a little laugh, but it stuck in his throat and he ended up coughing.
‘You first,’ the Fallen Priest said, indicating the rock wall, the smirk on his bloodless lips mocking and cruel.
He was asking the Grand Master to travel through the barrier of fallen rock. It was a test, a show of strength, a throw-down of a challenge to see if his magic was up to the task.
Chappy Waterstone looked hard at the priest and hesitated. He closed his eyes, turned inward to find the stillness he required. He knew the Fallen Priest was staring at him, wanting him to fail. He had to keep calm because if he got the spell wrong, or if he couldn’t invoke it at all, then the Collector of Souls would report back to the Two Evil that the Grand Master of the Northern Quadrant was an incompetent fool and should be replaced. There was a lot riding on this spell.
He turned to the wall, swept his hand in an arc and mumbled words that he hoped would work. He waited. Nothing happened. And then slowly, the rock in front of them both began to part with an earth-wrenching sound, revealing a crevice large enough for them to climb through.
The Fallen Priest nodded and curled his lips in a sign either of respect or contempt, the Grand Master wasn’t sure which. He walked past, lit by his own green luminescence, and crawled through the gap in the rock wall. Waterstone dutifully followed.
The priest led him around several corners until he came at last to the chamber in which Angela and Lily lay lifeless on top of a large coal loader.
The Grand Master approached slowly.
The Fallen Priest stood back and watched, impassive. The woman and her daughter were lying side by side on their backs on a black cloth draped over the coal cart. Waterstone looked down at their faces, their eyes closed, their chests moving slightly with their breath.
He then looked over to the Fallen Priest and he smiled. They both smiled.
CHAPTER 38
There were mountains but they moved as he walked and they watched his every step. Later, when he looked again, they were gone, as if they’d never been. It was barren up here, with leafless trees and a cold racing wind that streaked storm clouds across a sunless sky. Flocks of circling black birds shrieked and cawed and corkscrewed ever upwards in a black moving whorl.
Skyhawk had been here before, once. A bullet to the chest had brought him here that time. And a surgeon’s magic had brought him back.
This time it was different.
This time it was his rat-a-tat-tat that had brought him here.
If not for the sticks, he would be dead. Before the lamb could unleash its fury, he’d managed to drum the sound that had taken him out of the Middle World to this place where he was neither man nor animal, he just was.
There were others like him here in the Upper World. Searching. Always searching. When he’d come before, it was not to ask, just to see. Now he was asking.
Asking for help.
He trusted that this place would answer him.
Some time later, he sat on top of a rocky hill under a huge dead tree, its branches splaying out into the tumultuous grey heavens as if pleading for its life back. He looked across into the next valley, wondering if he would find his guidance there. But that valley was as bleak and empty as this one.
He must have fallen asleep under the tree, because when he woke, he found a cougar beside him, its muzzle in his lap. The wild cat woke too and looked up at him with fierce yellow eyes. In that instant, he understood everything with perfect clarity.
Coming up the rocky hill from all sides were hundreds of cougars, perhaps a thousand or more, all moving silently towards him, picking their way through the boulders and crags, like a golden sea on an incoming tide; noble and magnificent creatures, dignified yet true warriors, their hungry eyes fixed only on him.
CHAPTER 39
As deep shadows stalked across the mine site and the sun began to crest the dark mountains to the west, the witches began to prepare for the coming ceremony. An air of hallowed solemnity settled over the compound; those that wished to talk whispered, those that didn’t remained silent, meditative, going inward.
They began to prepare for the occasion – slowly, mindfully, putting on their ceremonial robes, carefully tying their cords of various colours according to their rank, grooming themselves – some cleaning their teeth, the women carefully putting on make-up, the men trimming their beards, moustaches, combing their hair – even though they knew their heads would be hidden under hoods. It was less about how they looked, more about how they felt. They wanted to feel special. They were, after all, Baphomet’s elite.
In what had once been the general manager’s office – a large dusty room with a big desk, some filing cabinets and windows caked with grime – Chappy Waterstone was himself getting ready for the ceremony. He undid the latches on one of his Night Watchers’ bins, and began to take out the robes and regalia that he only ever used on important ceremonial occasions such as this. But really, there’d never been an occasion such as this before.
With a pink handkerchief that he took from the breast pocket of his silk jacket, he wiped the dust off the top of the desk, then carefully laid out his velvet robe and corded belt. He would be the most regal witch up there tonight, he thought. Up top of the Black Mountain. He would be the finest. Not even the Fallen Priest would look as good as him. He would be commanding, imposing, he would be statesman-like; and even though photos would not be allowed, he would be remembered. Yes, all those under him would hold him in awe. And tomorrow, Centrum would be informed that the night had been a huge success, principally because of the supreme efforts of Randolph Chapman Waterstone the Third. And in speaking with Centrum, he would be humble. He would make sure that he was humble. Centrum liked humility in those below him. Perhaps one day in the not-too-distant future, he mused, he himself might become Centrum. Certainly with the successful execution of tonight, his chances would be elevated.
He undid his belt, stepped out of his trousers and folded them carefully before putting them on top of the dust-free lid of the other bin containing his sword and athame and chalices – then he took off his jacket and shirt too. Tonight he would be skyclad under his robes. It would be cold, but he wouldn’t notice. He would be warmed – no, he would be heated – by the excitement of what was soon to come.
Dr Johnstone, sitting at the front reception desk of the admin building, tried to engage with some of the Baphomet adepts or masters who came in looking for the Grand Master, but they either brushed him off or ignored him totally. He finally walked over to a corner of the room and sat by himself, writing up his Book of Shadows, still eyeing everyone who walked past, hoping that one of them would stop and chat. But they never did. He was well below their status and so they had no interest in him.
He felt angry at being shunned. It was he after all who had found the woman and her daughter. How many years had they been looking for them? And he found them. Why wasn’t he being given greater recognition? Why had the Grand Master been so dismissive? Yes, the girl had escaped under his watch, but that could’ve happened to anyone. That wasn’t his fault. She was a little demon. She could outfox anyone. Fact is, he’d brought mother and daughter to the table, and now they were all about to feast, thanks to his efforts. It wasn’t fair, he thought. It just wasn’t fair.
And as for his son? Kick my ass? I’d like to see him try, he thought. He’d probably break out in one of those panic attacks of his. The baby. He was always just a baby.
Kevin Johnstone and Kritta, along with Andi and Bess, took the suitcase containing The Book of Light out of the Mustang’s trunk, and in stops and starts because of its debilitating white-light energy, they hauled it over to the recreation building where they dumped it in the centre of a basketball court.
They then went back to the canteen, found some dusty crates of beer, pulled some cans and sat and drank,
they too made solemn by the enormity of what was to come, although none of them would be allowed up the mountain for the soul-cutting ceremony. That was restricted to masters and adepts only.
‘What’s it between you and your old man?’ Kritta asked, then took a slug of beer.
‘How do you mean?’ Kevin asked defensively. This was not a conversation he wished to have right now.
‘I mean, there’s a real coldness between you two. I felt it when you guys met. Like there’s serious history.’
Kevin took a drink, hesitated. ‘He’s treated me like crap ever since I can remember. Everything I ever did good, he did better. Now with this, with me joining Baphomet, it’s just going to go the same way, I know it. He won’t let me grow. Be who I want to be. He’ll always try and grind me down, so he can feel better about himself.’
‘Who do you want to be?’ Kritta asked.
‘The best witch possible. I want to have powers, I want to do crazy shit. I want to be free.’
‘Me too. I want to have powers and do crazy shit too.’
Kevin turned to her, smiled. ‘We can do crazy shit together,’ he said.
‘We can.’
She raised her beer can in a toast – they clinked can on can and laughed.
They kept to the shadows. It was near dark now and everyone was either getting dressed or, already robed, standing or sitting in small whispering groups, discussing solemnly the enormity of what was to come. No one noticed them as they crept around the campsite. Baphomet’s finest were too self-absorbed.
Olivier had left the bike at the rear of the mine, about half a mile back, hidden in thick underbrush. Then they’d stealthfully walked in, the black mountain looming before them, each of them feeling its foreboding presence as if it were a huge living thing, pulsating with a deep dark heart.