‘s new troupe game starts up soon. I’m playing a Tremere. He said, “Cool backgrounds get you more points.”

I started writing… and soon found myself unable to stop. 8 days later, I finish, on July 1. Exhausted. Written in between long work sessions (starting at 7 AM and ending at 1 and 2 AM), I think my distinct lack of sleep had something to do with it. That, or an invisible hand. Not sure which. Maybe one caused the other.

Either way, here he is. Insipred by a current obsession with Alan Moore (and one very good bit blatantly stolen), here’s a little writing experiment. I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

10. Malkuth

Malkuth is the first step. All that is represented on Earth. All that can be seen, touched, tasted. We know the physical world by living it. Malkuth sits at the base of the Tree. In the Tarot, it is represented by the Tens. Oppression, perfected success, ruin, and wealth. It is the four elements. Standing alone, it is not part of any triangle, but only receives energy from the other Sephiroth. It is Plato’s Cave… waiting for someone to turn around and see the fire…

June 15, 1215. Runnymede, England. Thirteen bastards make King John sit down and sign the Magna Carta. This is the day, contrary to popular opinion, that rock and roll is born.

In 1381, on the anniversary of that very same day, Wat Tyler, leader of English Peasants’ Revolt, is brought to London for his crimes. He is tried by rich and powerful men. The very same men he openly and publicly condemned. The grandsons of the very same men who sat King John down and forced him to abdicate their own rights. Unsurprisingly, he is found guilty, and beheaded for the public to see. Beheaded for attempting to win the very same rights their grandfathers won for them a century and a half before.

Two hundred and some years later, on June 15, 1520, the Pope sends a most official letter, threatening to excommunicate a young monk named Martin Luther for heresy and crimes against the Mother Church. The Pope’s threats go unheeded and the young monk becomes the most dangerous man in Europe. He escapes Tyler’s fate, but only by the grace of a German King who wants to be free from the tyrannical rule of the Papacy. He finds an excuse to give Luther asylum and does so. Germany becomes the home of heresy.

Fifteen years later, on August 31, 1535, after hearing endless appeals from the English King, Pope Paul II deposes and excommunicates King Henry VIII. This does not stop Henry. He creates the Anglican Church, declares himself Pope and gets his long-awaited divorce. His mistress gives birth to a young girl. Her name is Elizabeth. In less than a lifetime, she will turn England from a helpless island to the western world’s greatest power.

But now, its 1720, across the pond in a land called “America.” June 15^th again. On the shores of the Platomic, in a ceremony of great symbolism, George Washington is declared General of the newly formed United States Army. He is decked out in his finest Masonic symbols. The unfinished pyramid… the ever watchful eye… the rule by which all men are measured. Just a few miles down the road is a Masonic Lodge. The man responsible for founding this Lodge is known only as “Prince Hall.” It is the only place in the world where black and white men call themselves “brother.” Washington will later be the symbol of a people who have freed themselves from tyrannical rule. Their land becomes known as “the Great Experiment.” Their Nation’s Seal is the same symbol on Washington’s cuff.

Meanwhile, on June 15, 1869, John Wesley Hyatt patents celluloid. He is the modern Prometheus, forerunner of the New Light, great-grandfather of Hollywood. He later loses his patents in business deals and dies penniless.

Twelve years after Hyatt brings the world the New Light, on June 15, 1881, exactly six hundred and sixty-six years after King John signs that paper and becomes the last monarch of that kingdom to ever be called “John,” my mother, Mary Ann Nichols, gives me life. I am her first child. Seven years later, after suffering years of my father’s abusive hand and tongue, she’s found herself divorced while he marries the wet nurse who brought my youngest sister into the world. She finds herself homeless, and quickly falls to alcoholism and prostitution. She calls herself “Polly” to hide her true name. And her shame.

But now, it’s August 31, 1888. I’m celebrating my first communion. A year earlier, on that very same day, Thomas Edison finishes what Hyatt began and patents “Kinetoscope.” The world sees moving pictures for the very first time. Three hundred and sixty-four days later, my father, a proud English Protestant, stands at my side in St. Paul’s Cathedral. He beams with pride as I take my Christian name, forsaking the one my mother gave me.

Later that night, at home, I’m staring at the cake, a knife in my hand. I run the knife along my palm, slicing the skin. I do not remember why. Blood gushes from the wound and spills all over the cake. My father beats me senseless and sends me to hospital. Hours later, that very same night, some time before 3 AM, while I’m lying unconscious not more than seven blocks away, recovering from my wound, my mother is alone on the streets of London, just under the shadow of Cleopatra’s Needle, a symbol of male power, usurping the female name. In her drunken stupor, she bumbles into a nameless force that drags her into an alleyway and rips her to pieces. She bleeds for me a second time. The first victim of the Ripper.

 

On the fifty-fifth anniversary of my birth, on June 15, 1934, Adolf Hitler usurps power of the Nazi party and orders the murder of any party member who can challenge his power. Blood runs on this night. Later day historians will call it “the Night of Long Knives.” On this night of murder, I am fifty-five years old. I’ve been a rich man’s son, a runaway, a homeless urchin, a petty thug, a street criminal, a reformed philosopher, a Mason, and a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn. Two months later, on August 31, 1934, I’m walking the streets of Europe and stumble into a nameless force that drags me into an alleyway and rips me to pieces. Edward Richard Nichols dies in that alley. It is the night I am born.

 

 

9. Ysod

Ysod is represented by the Nines in the Tarot: strength, material happiness, despair, cruelty and material gain. Ysod is called “Pure Intelligence” because it purifies the energies before they flow through the Malkuth. It’s virtue is Independence and it’s vice is Idleness. Yesod is represented by the Moon as Malkuth is the Earth. The Moon: Mother of Mystery and Enigma. She shines in the darkest places, showing us what we don’t want to see…

 

“As a master builder, I have laid foundations, and another builds thereon.”

— St. Paul, 1^st Corinthians, 3:10

 

September 7^th, 1896. I am fifteen years old and have run away from home. My black eye the last mark my father will ever make on me. With stolen silverware and my father’s gold watch in my pocket, I have enough treasure to last me the rest of my life. This is what my fifteen year old mind tells me. Three hundred and thirty years earlier, on the very same day, Elizabeth I is born. A bastard daughter sharing her birthday with this bastard son. I visit the place where my mother was butchered and killed. The shadow of Cleopatra’s Needle hovers over me. The presence of two queens is with me. I touch the place where Polly Nichol’s blood ran. Three queens. In forty years, I shall meet a fourth.

I spend ten years on the streets. Because of my slender frame I become an apprentice to a chimney sweep. He spots me running from police, sees my skills at climbing and remembers my face. He spots me later at the Three Bells pub. It is here my career as a chimney sweep begins. I do not know it is also at the Three Bells that my mother’s life as a prostitute began. It is also the last place anyone saw her alive. Except for one.

The skills I learn as a chimney sweep serve me well. Three years later, on July 6, 1899, Adam Worth, the very man Arthur Conan Doyle would use as a model for his “Napoleon of Crime,” the infamous Professor Moriarty, approaches me. I’m to be a snakesman in his crew. He offers me money. I accept. I only stay with his crew for two years before starting my own. I’ve learned much from Worth. I put it to good use, following his example. I use the wealth I acquire to build for myself a false identity; one of good breeding and high manners. While others spend their ill-gotten gains on wine, women, and song, my winnings are invested in transforming myself into a gentleman.

At the age of twenty-five, I’ve surpassed Worth, creating for myself a new identity. Gentlemen make so many assumptions, never asking questions. I pass myself off as unlanded gentry. Because I can speak with confidence, clarity, and charm, they believe the lies I give them. They never question my credentials. I am one of them. A gentleman. My father would be so proud. And somewhere, on the streets of London, my mother’s ghost weeps under the shadow of Cleopatra.

That great monolith haunts me. Terrifies me. I want to know its importance. It’s significance. Carefully worded questions lead me to another gentleman who may know the secret of its presence and power. He is a Mason. I ask. A year later, I’m standing bare-breasted in a dark room with a hood over my head. A knife at my chest, just over my heart, draws blood. They ask the questions and I answer them. A knife at my heart. Under the hood, I think of my mother and weep. I bleed now to understand why she bled then.

Secrets are revealed to me. I learn London’s secret history. I walk its streets now, armed with knowledge few men have. An understanding that shows me the vast power of places. The power of architecture and intention. The Masonic language is clear to me.

I stand in the shadow of St. Paul’s cathedral, where I was baptized in Christ’s name. A temple to Diana stood here in the dark days following the fall of the Roman Empire. Sacrifices were made, her name whispered in revered song.

Diana…

Diana…

In 610, Christian converts destroyed the temple and erected a shrine to St. Peter in its stead. The Goddess of the Hunt usurped by the Wounded God, hanging on his cross. Diana, who transformed her lover into a wolf so his own dogs could hunt him down and destroy him replaced by a man whose death was a vulgar as a dog’s death.

A century after I stand here, looking up at the cathedral, in 1980, a young woman rides in a limousine to her wedding to the Prince of Wales. She was to be married at Westminster – the site of a shrine to Apollo, God of the Sun, symbol of masculine power. At the very last moment, her wedding is changed to this place: St. Paul’s cathedral. And as she rides along, sick to her stomach with worry and doubts, knowing that her husband-to-be is already carrying on multiple infidelities, she looks out the window of her limousine and looks at the faces of the people as she drives by them. She sees their faces and can read their lips. They whisper her name.

Diana…

Diana…

Years later, after a messy divorce, she rides in another limousine. Her driver makes an ill-considered turn and it smashes in a tunnel under the streets of France. She is too close to the Underworld, too close to Pluto’s realm. Her patron cannot protect her there. The men chasing her are not carrying guns; they’re carrying cameras. Cameras loaded with John Wesley Hyatt’s celluloid. It’s the only weapon they needed.

I stand in the shadow of St. Paul’s church with this wisdom. I know things few men know. I see things few men see.

My mother, brutalized by a force that has survived centuries, gaining more and more power every year. Her blood gave him that power.

The Goddess of the Hunt, thought destroyed and usurped, but even now, in the spring of 1899, women come to the cathedral and embrace the columns. Folklore tells them doing so will induce fertility. A pagan rite on Christian ground. Diana isn’t dead, only sleeping, waiting to awaken again. Christianity murders the old gods, but they’re never really dead. Like Christ himself, they rise up from their graves, transformed by the experience, but still vivid and real. We do not recognize them; a veil hides their features, but we do not need to see their faces to know what they are.

I’ve decided the knowledge the Masons can give me is not enough. I must have more. I must know more. I know now that London is a living thing. It’s streets are its areteries, it’s buildings are its organs… but where is the heart? And where in this vast anatomy rests its soul?

I leave the place of my mother’s murder to find the answers. I find them in the Westcott Library in upper London. I step out of the shadow and into the golden dawn.

 

 

8. Hod

In the year 1888, the same year my mother was murdered, the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn is founded by a Qabalist, a Freemason and a Rosicrucian. The holy trinity of occult thought.

The chief heretic is Doctor William Wynn Westcott, a member of the fallen Theosophical Society, Master Mason and Secretary General of the Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia. His inspiration is a mysterious document he calls “the Cipher Manuscript.” It employs an alphabet never before seen, deciphered by Westcott and his cohorts.

it purports the truth but there is no truth the secret name of god is no secret it is clear for all to see
all you need do is open your eyes and you will see

I join the order at the age of 33. Both Jesus and Mozart were dead at the end of that year. For me, the year is 1914 and the Order has already seen its greatest days. Aleister Crowley has already joined and left. His famous feud with author William Butler Yeats is long dead. In 1898, Crowley claimed William Mathers, one of the Order’s founders, sent an invisible vampire to kill him. When I hear this story, I think of the cold chill I felt when first I stood under Cleopatra’s shadow.

The more I learn from the Golden Dawn, the more I know I stand in the organization’s dark ages. The brilliant minds who formed the Order have moved on. I read their words in books, but their presence has left the place forever. The inheritors of their power do not understand the meaning of the rituals. They dabble in sex magic and petty controversies. I leave the Order disillusioned and despondent. I have found nothing here I did not already know. Half-truths and half-lies. My mother’s death was a random accident. A fatal head-on collision with fate. There is no meaning to be found in it. The universe opens its vast black mouth and swallows me whole.

I am nothing.

 

7. Netzach

My search for truth is dismissed as coincidence. The ramblings of a madman seeking meaning in a meaningless world. I retire to my home, allow others to maintain my estate. News reaches me of my father’s death. I give him the same funeral he gave my mother. He rests in a nameless, common grave, buried with other nameless commoners. But there is no rest there. Under the cold earth, his body returns to the clay it once was. There is no sigil to protect his skin, to preserve it against the worms that feed on him. I wake from terrible nightmares: my father’s wormy corpse standing in the doorway, an accusing finger pointed at me. I’m fifteen again. I can’t run. He’s as swift as quicksilver. I wake shaking, the memory of his dead hands on me.

June 15^th, 1919. The first nonstop flight across the Atlantic lands a tiny plane on the coast of Ireland, bringing new meaning to the phrase “across the pond.” Five years later, it’s 1923. Not far from where I live, Arthur Machen is writing his autobiography, The London Adventure. He pauses to visit me on my birthday. Arthur Machen, a member of the Golden Dawn. Born Arthur Llewellyn Jones, he is an author, occultist, Shakespearean actor, essayist, husband. In 1899, his wife, Amy, is slowly dying of cancer. Machen succumbs to a deep, dark depression. With his muse gone, his subsequent work suffers. He lives just down the road. We chat from time to time, but our collective darkness is too great for any sensible conversation. In two years time, his work finds a renaissance and he is the toast of London again. The next time I see him is in 1947, at his wife’s funeral. He shakes my hand, his eyes cast down at his shoes. His depression claims his heart, and he dies shortly thereafter. The black clouds of doubt within my own head blot out the last blue skies of hope.

A year later, July 15^th, 1924, in a bizarre twist of irony, I read the American President has declared the natives of that land are officially recognized as American citizens. A scandalous decision. One that will ruin his career.

The years tick by.

On the morning of August 31, 1934, I’m strangely calm. Earlier that year, ten thousand Indians are killed in a catastrophic earthquake. Hitler unites Germany and signs a lie to not invade Poland for ten years. While eating breakfast, I read the American criminal John Dillinger escapes from authorities again; this time with a hand-made wooden gun he carved in his cell. In other American news, a colouful character named Flash Gordon makes his debut.

Five years earlier, on February 14^th, I stand under the shadow of Cleopatra and feel that same chill. An invisible force, gripping my heart. Far away, in America, seven men are gunned down in cold blood; one of the most famous “gangland murders” in history. As their blood spills, standing where my mother’s blood ran, I am suddenly reminded of the story Crowley told of invisible vampires attacking him in Egypt. I then recall the legendary tales of Rosicrucian agents calling themselves “invisibles,” moving through Queen Elizabeth’s court, guided by John Dee’s hand, seeking out occult assassins who would act against their Queen.

A moment of fancy strikes me. I retire to the Mason’s lodge, acquire pen and paper and begin writing. It’s February 14^th, 1929. Just fourteen days earlier, Stalin has betrayed Trotski. He flees to Turkey. Just eleven years later, he’ll be attacked and ripped to pieces by a nameless force. It leaves behind his broken body and a bloody ice pick.

Surrounded by symbols, I weave a tale of invisible forces moving history in directions never intended by nature. Every page is written under the Lodge’s Great Arch. It is a work of magic and secret language. Only those who can see its symbols understand its true meaning. Both the Masons and the remnants of the Order try to ban it’s printing. They fail. I am ostracized from the occult community, but I have little care. I have not only exposed their secrets, but written a work of fancy that debunks them. I retire in scandal a happy man.

Five years later, at the age of fifty-five, I eat, I dress, I step out. My work is a moderate success, making me a small celebrity among the literati. It is August 31^st. I am going to visit my mother’s grave. It is my last day as a living man.

 

 

 6. Tiphareth

The Sixes represent Tiphareth: Victory, Joy, Earned Success, Material Success. It is called the Mediating Intelligence and serves to equilibrate the lower six Sephiroth leading down to Malkuth. It represents two spiritual experiences: the Vision of Harmony and the Mystery of Crucifixion. By pure destruction, the magus is shown a vision of the divine. It is the sphere of change and the transmutation of one energy into another…

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

John Keats was born on Halloween, 1795. He died of tuberculosis twenty-five years later on February 23, 1821. On the same day, a year earlier, the Cato Street Conspiracy was uncovered, sending William Spence’s disciples running for their lives. This year, on the anniversary of his death, in 1934, King Leopold III is crowned King of Belgium. In 1940, the German army invades Belgium and King Leopold, along with the majority of the Belgian army, is surrounded by the Germans and quickly surrenders. His action leads to accusations of treason. Despite his defiance of the Germans, the Belgian government-in-exile in London refuses to recognize his right to rule. The Germans hold him under house arrest at the royal castle in Brussels. The conquest of Belgium opens the door for the German army to move into France.

Back in 1923, the twilight of the evening falls over me. I’m a little too drunk. The King’s coronation is on the front page of the Times. I decide to walk through Whitechapel to visit my mother’s grave. Standing in the moonlight, the shadow of Cleopatra at my back, I hear a woman’s voice behind me.

It is August 31^st. The symmetry rings loud in my head. Fifty-five years. Numerologists relish the number. Double five. Five is four plus one. There are three persons in the Godhead, and the four represents their created work. Man is the fifth number. The number of corruption. The fall from Grace. The creation was made subject to corruption, mankind has sown to itself corruption, there is no life without death. Although we are fallen, we have a chance at redemption.

She asks my name. I tell her. I see nothing but her silhouette in the moonlight. The curves of her body. The gleam of her hair.

Fifty-five. Eleven fives.

In numerology, ten is ordinal perfection, and eleven is perfect organization plus one more. One extra. One more than required, an extra measure, something more than only what is required. Eleven is the number of revelation.

She asks if I’m cold. I answer something. I don’t remember. I’m bewitched by her. Spellbound. I feel my will spilling onto the street, mingling with the traces of my mother’s blood. An invisible force holding my heart. I cannot move.

Fifty-five is a master number. It symbolizes energy, agitation, persuasion, sexuality, pioneering, exuberance, wiliness, irony, cynicism. The will to discover. To find that which must be revealed. I know this, but I also know that all numbers are magic. 1, 2, 3… all the way up to the sideways eight. They’re all magic numbers.

I feel her hand touch my throat. Her face shines like the moon; a beauty I could only have imagined. Her hand is cold. Her breath is foul. Her lips red. Her hair black. I remember the children’s tale…

Red as blood, black as raven’s wing, white as snow…

… and I suddenly realize the significance of the tale. A little girl who puts a castle to sleep. Who is put to sleep herself with a bit of rowan wood stuck in her finger.

I see the teeth. And I scream my mother’s name. Her spectre, bound to the spot for all eternity, screams with me.

 

 

5. Geburah

I awaken on a hill. Large stones surround me. The woman stands naked, covered in blood. I, too, am naked. My arms feel strong; stronger than they’ve been in years. My eyes see the texture of the darkness. My tongue tastes the night for the first time.

She turns, her smile and eyes gleaming. And she tells me secrets. Secrets of blood, secrets of treachery, secrets older than the world. Of the first murder. Of the first murderer. Of the witch who found him and taught him. My eyes bleed. I am cold. Hungry. She does not hold me. She’s waiting for the sun. As its first rays begin to crawl into the sky, I feel their heat. Feel their power. And, I understand. She takes me into her arms and we sink beneath the soil. To sleep in Pluto’s realm. Under the standing stones Merlin moved so long ago.

For ten years, I learn what I am. For ten years, I learn the name of God. I learn His name so I may curse it. He who made me this. He who took my breath away. He who took my warmth away. I wonder if this is Hell. If the illusion of my mortal life remains only to fool me and torment me more. For ten years, I wonder this. Sometimes, I believe it.

The woman tells me I was brought because of my book. Because I saw truths none should see. She watched me, determined me worthy, and gave me what she calls “the Kiss.”

I tell her the truest kisses are reciprocal. All else is rape. She gives me pain. This is my lesson. For ten years. I read books thought long gone. I read books whose names cannot and should not be spoken. I practice. I learn. I unlearn.

It is March 17, 1939. The day St. Patrick is carried off to be a slave in Ireland. Later, he “chases the snakes” off the island. It is notable that the serpent in the Bible had legs before the Fall. So did the snakes Patrick and his Christian friends chased out of Ireland, leaving nothing behind but fire, smoke, and echoes. I am initiated into another order, make vows and oaths.

I am a Tremere.

I step out into the world. I am christened again with holy blood. A new name. My past all but forgotten… forgotten by the Order. I do not forget. Not anything. Not ever.

Her entrancement over my will remains. She is my lover, my mother, the one who gave me life. She comforts my pain now, assuring me all will pass with time. With her demon milk, she tries to erase who I am, to make me into what she wants me to be. And I know what that is. I am her servant, her slave. Her horned god who will be run down and killed by his own wolves. I wait. And slowly lay seeds of treason.

Aleister Crowley writes The Book of the Law …

Yea I, the Beast, my Scarlet Whore bestriding me, naked and crowned, drunk on her golden cup of fornication, boasting herself my bedfellow, have trodden her in the market place, and roared this word that every woman is a star. And with that word is uttered woman’s freedom; the fools and fribbles and flirts have heard my voice. The fox in woman hath heard the lion in man; fear, fainting, flabbiness, frivolity, falsehood — these are no more the mode.

She is powerful. She is beautiful. She is terrible. I tame her with my own submission. I let her believe she is my master. I let her believe everything she says. And slowly, very slowly, the sex we share is made magical so subtle, even the Beast himself would marvel at it’s subterfuge.

She is the source of my magic. I am the magician, she the goddess. I am the wand, she the cup. The wand is authority and power. The cup is compassion, acceptance. Her well is endless, my thirst, boundless. The magic I give her is intoxicating. Ravishing. She wants more. Always more.

At first, she demands. Then, she requests. Finally, she begs. The power I give her is too much. She cannot survive without it for too long. A turn of the screw.

It is November 5, 1942. The Second World War leaves England in ruins. During the bombings, we are safe in the north lands. We feed off the farmers. London is no safe place for our kind. Having fled the chantry, we seek refuge in the same soil that sheltered us so many years ago. She holds me there, deep in the cold earth. She clings to me tightly. Her black hair wrapped around me.

It is 1605 and seven men stand in the shadow of Westminster. They move slowly down the dark streets, treason in their hearts and in their eyes.

1942. We rise up from the soil, surrounded by the stones.

1605. History will carry the alchemical fire they bring.

She is weak. She needs me. I bring her close. Her lips begging for me.

My lips take from her. And when I’m done, there is only ash.

Remember. Remember.

(to be continued)