Crom and Oliver Cunninghill sat in a large, beautifully decorated room, at an impressively large granite table, mottled in brown and pink, with flecks of mica. The table had deep channels cut into it in intricate shapes, and looked like the sort of obelisk on which one might perform a human sacrifice. The two men were sipping peat brown glasses of 20 year-old Laphroaig whiskey.
Sitting opposite them was an older man in a brown suit. His right hand showed the hint of an unintelligible tattoo under his suit cuffs. He had a friendly, grandfatherly face, and before him on the granite slab were notes, maps, books, and an e-tablet.
"Fascinating!" The old man said enthusiastically. "A defunct Russian spy satellite! And none of your men, nor you, pictured that sort of thing happening, I take it?"
They both shook their heads. Crom said "Naw, I pictured a lorry full 'a petrol bearin' down on 'im. Explodin' in right ball a' flame n' carnage."
Oliver added "yeah, 'n I thought 'a his shit stain of a tent burnin' to cinders, wit him inside, 'course."
The old man nodded while shuffling through his notes to find a map. "Intriguing. Well, we found the tracking telemetry for that satellite. Not an easy thing to do, mind you. The Russians prefer to keep their secrets. And the really fascinating thing is; it should have landed 70 miles out to sea, off the coast of Madagascar, two months from now. The orbit began to deviate, it appears, at the precise moment the curse was uttered! The orbit decayed, quite unexpectedly, to intercept your poor friend hundreds of miles away and weeks in the future. I've never been privy to such a clear example of a change in one's Wyrd." The look on the old man's face was one of wonderment and excitement. Then, he looked up from the map and addressed Oliver, "were you able to obtain the coroner's report?"
"Aye, 'tis there with the other notes. 'E died hungry an' in bloody flames, just as we planned. 'Is mum, too."
The old man looked satisfied. "Excellent work, boys, although I don't remember agreeing to allow you to murder an old maid. I should suppose she was included in the voicing?" He raised his brow, and Crom and Oliver shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking slightly guilty. Crom nodded slowly. "I suppose perhaps you are further along than we anticipated." He smiled. "Although for your hatred for this young man to include the murder of his mother... good lord, Crom, remind me not to cross you." Crom smiled at the backhanded compliment, showing his missing tooth as black against crooked yellow.
"Now, I've arranged for your payments to be wired direct to the accounts you've given me. I expect, as always, the utmost discretion from you in this matter. You know the value of this project, so you must know, like before, that you are not allowed to use the Alvanic chant without our prior approval."
Crom and Oliver both looked disappointed by this, and Crom opened his mouth to protest. The old man stopped him with a gesture, stood up and began pacing the room, then continued, "I would ask that you return the sheet with the chant itself, that it might be destroyed. But, you know by now that the sheet and the technical description are not important, it is the strength of your will that brings forth a curse. You need only mean it, truly and deeply, and the words will freely come. Your aptitude with the other curses suggests you already know this, and your viciousness with Mr. McAlerod and his mother suggests your willingness to use it again."
He paused here and leaned on his chair. "You must control your anger. You are free to use conventional methods to settle any disputes, but as we recently found, people have begun to take notice, and we can't have more mistakes like Ivan." He put his hands on the table, and looked at the men with all seriousness, "You know what happened there. Ivan was sloppy, he let his anger get to him, and he knew the curse to use. And as a result, we had to eliminate Ivan. I think, in hindsight, that too was sloppy, but a necessity none-the-less. Not on your part, mind you, you boys did just as you were told, I simply think the council failed to anticipate the... unintended consequences. Bloody cameras and witnesses and press. Bad news for covert investigations such as this."
"I like you boys, and your father, but as you know, if you muck this up, we will be forced to kill you." He said this with a matter-of-fact look on his face. The Cunninghill boys believed him wholeheartedly. Crom pulled out the piece of paper and tossed it, dejectedly, on the table.
The old man sat back down, smiled gently and said "Well, then, unless there is other business, I bid you boys farewell."
Crom stood up, but Oliver remained seated. Oliver said "Yah, one more ting, professa'. Why did ya 'ave us record it when ya know it ain't nutin' but static?"
"Well, Oliver, excellent question." He intertwined his fingers, sat up straight, and took on his educator pose. "This has been a source of consternation for us. There is no good reason to expect that we will hear anything but static. The druid would likely have an accurate idea, but she is no longer part of the council of Eulinga, and would not help us if she could. Philosophically, we have no idea why we can write it and speak it, but not record it. We suspect there may be some fundamental truth that says reality is not reproducible after the fact, our studies on the nature of the Wyrd may suggest that, although the potency of written words and runes confounds that idea. Or it may simply be that it is not reproducible digitally."
Oliver sat for a moment. "well, 'den, why don't ya try analog? Ya know, cassette tapes an' such?"
The professor was taken aback. He thought to himself, how could this idiot have thought of that, and we didn't? The Council cannot know, and must not find out if he's right. He smiled at Oliver and said "good question, young man. Let's keep that between us for the time being." He winked generously at Oliver, and the meeting was over.
Wyland Blake is a lawyer who always loses. He is suddenly given a mysterious case that offers him a chance to find out why he's such a loser. But his quest to find answers just might kill him, and anybody near him.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Ch. 13 : Prex Alva
A few miles off the M4 corridor is the lovely little town of Winterbourne. An upscale town on the outskirts of Bristol, in the district of South Gloucestershire. It is green, quaint, and peaceful. It is a normal British town, excepting that the sun will, on some winter days, still show her bright, orange face to the predominately pale, pink inhabitants.
There, a small, frail lady in a retirement home, is pulling a previously frozen microwave dinner out of her microwave. Her adult son is in the next room.
He says to her, "Mum, Dos things'll kill ya. Der's no nutrition in 'em." He is smoking a cigarette as he says this.
She smiles to herself, sets the hot dish aside to cool, and puts one in the microwave for him.
"Dear..." She says, as noble as the queen herself, "I've survived much worse than this."
"But Mum, you'uv all people should know 'bout right eatin'."
He's right, he thinks to himself. She barely survived scurvy in the waining days of the last World War. She's old, pale, frail, and not long for this world. She insists that she survived by the grace of the Lord, though her son is sure that the Americans and their shipments of rations after the war had something to do with it. He worries about her, especially now.
She brushes off his concern with a hand gesture, like she's shooing a fly. "I'm fine, dear, now, you said you had found more work, then?"
He runs his thick hands through his curly reddish-blond hair. "Yes'um" is his answer. His short, formal reply does not satisfy, and her face reflects this.
He sighs. "'Tis up north-ways. Its back'un Scotland."
His mother scowls. "I'll be back teh visit'ya on holidays." He says this, pleading in his eyes, but he knows he's lying. He intends to never see her again. Perhaps he can protect her this way. She's the only family he has. He has a bad feeling she's part of this, too.
"It's not at that same damned quarry near Edinburgh, is it?" She says with the worried look of a disappointed mother.
"Aye, 'tis." He's lying again. He can never show his face there again, not after what happened. He'll go to the states, and he'll talk to the one woman who he hopes can save him. His research over the last week suggested that there is hope, that a learned druid in Michigan had overcome a curse herself. But time is of the essence, he should still have a week or so.
His mother, sternly says "but you hate it up there."
"Aye, again, Mum. 'tis work, though. An' they given me a raise!"
She scowls again, but this is also because the Scot accent reminds her of his father. "Well, I should hope so! That quarry is nothing but trouble, I assure you. You looked terrible when you came back from there last week. Like death himself. Why would you subject yourself to such suffering? For money?!?"
"Aye. I'm leavin' tomorrah" He says quietly, staring at the floor. So long as she buys it, it's OK. It's for her own safety, after all.
They sit in silence for a moment, her staring at the wall, him staring at the floor. And then, the beeping of the microwave can be heard in the kitchen. She goes to get up, but he stops her.
"I'll get 'er, Mum. You stay put."
As he walks into the kitchen, a thunderous boom echoes from the north. The rafters of the little kitchenette creak, and he can hear the dishes rattling in their cupboards. Out the window, he sees a bright orange flash from the corner of his eye. His mother obviously didn't hear it. He runs to the window just in time to see a column of smoke and bright orange flame careen through the grey-blue sky.
His first response is excitement. He decides to pull his phone out and record the event, maybe he'll make the news. But as he watches, before his hand reaches his pocket to pull out the phone, he remembers his fear, and begins to take notice of the path the object is taking through the sky. Almost curving towards him, it seems. Like it's being drawn by a magnet, slowing up, billowing and belching light and smoke.
It's much closer now, near where the jetliners fly. There's another bright flash, followed by a second, much louder and more terrifying boom. The windows rattle and bow, as though made of thin, transparent metal.
He hears his sweet mother's last words: "What on God's green earth?"
Then he hears the words that haunt him, that have terrorized his dreams, that have been on his mind since he left the camp.
He hears it in the deep, booming, otherworldly voice that he originally had heard it, though the man who spoke it had a nasal voice and a thick accent.
He hears the words in English, but they aren't in English. They are in a strange language Stephen has never heard before, but somehow understands. He knows now what it is. The Curse...
"Kentu Ba'al-alenda, Kentu Denoch, Kentu Alva. Rerok Harva. Rerok Despa. Rerok Morthen. Donnu-al Despa Harva Warra Pyren Angon. Pellu Stephen Warren McAlerod. Pellu Kinrecht. Kentu Alva. Prex Alva"
There are hisses and gurgles and crackling noises in the pronunciation of the words. Some of the words don't sound like words at all, and they are words; Stephen understands them as words, but they are also feelings, hunches, visions, complicated emotions cutting deep into his psyche. "Kentu Ba'al-alenda" sounds like cold wind whipping through an dark, empty graveyard, like water gurgling through a sterile cave deep under the earth that has never felt the touch of light or life. "Kentu Denoch" sounds like a newborn child's thick, wet, labored, dying breath and like the mother's impotent, almost silent, desperate whine in answer. "Kentu Alva" sounds like the hot, sinister crackle of lightning before the boom of the thunder, like a predator hungrily crunching the skull of it's prey in it's mouth, heard from the perspective of the prey.
"Prex Alva", or rather the horrid, driving, grating, crunching sound "Prex Alva" makes when spoken aloud, echoes through Stephen's mind, as though chanted by a million souls from the pits of hell, the sound bouncing off the flaming, cavernous walls of Hades. All he hears now is the chanting, over and over again. He can almost feel the teeth of some monstrous creature digging into his temples and slowly feeling his skull give way, a bit at a time, under the pressure. He can almost feel it drooling on him, as sweat drips down his forehead.
Above him, the flame and smoke finally resolve into a shape. His feet feel like they are glued to the floor. His hands are numb.
The last vision that Stephen McAlerod has is of a large, flaming metallic superstructure, with CCCP written on the side in bold, red letters.
He feels his stomach rumble. His mind is an empty hall that should have held the accomplishments of his life. But there is nothing. He tries to think of old girlfriends, the taste of a cold beer, childhood memories. Nothing comes to him; Just a cold, empty feeling, all over.
Then, searing heat, then pain all over, and terrible noise.
All goes black. He feels his heart stop beating. He realizes he isn't breathing.
Then, nothing.
There, a small, frail lady in a retirement home, is pulling a previously frozen microwave dinner out of her microwave. Her adult son is in the next room.
He says to her, "Mum, Dos things'll kill ya. Der's no nutrition in 'em." He is smoking a cigarette as he says this.
She smiles to herself, sets the hot dish aside to cool, and puts one in the microwave for him.
"Dear..." She says, as noble as the queen herself, "I've survived much worse than this."
"But Mum, you'uv all people should know 'bout right eatin'."
He's right, he thinks to himself. She barely survived scurvy in the waining days of the last World War. She's old, pale, frail, and not long for this world. She insists that she survived by the grace of the Lord, though her son is sure that the Americans and their shipments of rations after the war had something to do with it. He worries about her, especially now.
She brushes off his concern with a hand gesture, like she's shooing a fly. "I'm fine, dear, now, you said you had found more work, then?"
He runs his thick hands through his curly reddish-blond hair. "Yes'um" is his answer. His short, formal reply does not satisfy, and her face reflects this.
He sighs. "'Tis up north-ways. Its back'un Scotland."
His mother scowls. "I'll be back teh visit'ya on holidays." He says this, pleading in his eyes, but he knows he's lying. He intends to never see her again. Perhaps he can protect her this way. She's the only family he has. He has a bad feeling she's part of this, too.
"It's not at that same damned quarry near Edinburgh, is it?" She says with the worried look of a disappointed mother.
"Aye, 'tis." He's lying again. He can never show his face there again, not after what happened. He'll go to the states, and he'll talk to the one woman who he hopes can save him. His research over the last week suggested that there is hope, that a learned druid in Michigan had overcome a curse herself. But time is of the essence, he should still have a week or so.
His mother, sternly says "but you hate it up there."
"Aye, again, Mum. 'tis work, though. An' they given me a raise!"
She scowls again, but this is also because the Scot accent reminds her of his father. "Well, I should hope so! That quarry is nothing but trouble, I assure you. You looked terrible when you came back from there last week. Like death himself. Why would you subject yourself to such suffering? For money?!?"
"Aye. I'm leavin' tomorrah" He says quietly, staring at the floor. So long as she buys it, it's OK. It's for her own safety, after all.
They sit in silence for a moment, her staring at the wall, him staring at the floor. And then, the beeping of the microwave can be heard in the kitchen. She goes to get up, but he stops her.
"I'll get 'er, Mum. You stay put."
As he walks into the kitchen, a thunderous boom echoes from the north. The rafters of the little kitchenette creak, and he can hear the dishes rattling in their cupboards. Out the window, he sees a bright orange flash from the corner of his eye. His mother obviously didn't hear it. He runs to the window just in time to see a column of smoke and bright orange flame careen through the grey-blue sky.
His first response is excitement. He decides to pull his phone out and record the event, maybe he'll make the news. But as he watches, before his hand reaches his pocket to pull out the phone, he remembers his fear, and begins to take notice of the path the object is taking through the sky. Almost curving towards him, it seems. Like it's being drawn by a magnet, slowing up, billowing and belching light and smoke.
It's much closer now, near where the jetliners fly. There's another bright flash, followed by a second, much louder and more terrifying boom. The windows rattle and bow, as though made of thin, transparent metal.
He hears his sweet mother's last words: "What on God's green earth?"
Then he hears the words that haunt him, that have terrorized his dreams, that have been on his mind since he left the camp.
He hears it in the deep, booming, otherworldly voice that he originally had heard it, though the man who spoke it had a nasal voice and a thick accent.
He hears the words in English, but they aren't in English. They are in a strange language Stephen has never heard before, but somehow understands. He knows now what it is. The Curse...
"Kentu Ba'al-alenda, Kentu Denoch, Kentu Alva. Rerok Harva. Rerok Despa. Rerok Morthen. Donnu-al Despa Harva Warra Pyren Angon. Pellu Stephen Warren McAlerod. Pellu Kinrecht. Kentu Alva. Prex Alva"
There are hisses and gurgles and crackling noises in the pronunciation of the words. Some of the words don't sound like words at all, and they are words; Stephen understands them as words, but they are also feelings, hunches, visions, complicated emotions cutting deep into his psyche. "Kentu Ba'al-alenda" sounds like cold wind whipping through an dark, empty graveyard, like water gurgling through a sterile cave deep under the earth that has never felt the touch of light or life. "Kentu Denoch" sounds like a newborn child's thick, wet, labored, dying breath and like the mother's impotent, almost silent, desperate whine in answer. "Kentu Alva" sounds like the hot, sinister crackle of lightning before the boom of the thunder, like a predator hungrily crunching the skull of it's prey in it's mouth, heard from the perspective of the prey.
"Prex Alva", or rather the horrid, driving, grating, crunching sound "Prex Alva" makes when spoken aloud, echoes through Stephen's mind, as though chanted by a million souls from the pits of hell, the sound bouncing off the flaming, cavernous walls of Hades. All he hears now is the chanting, over and over again. He can almost feel the teeth of some monstrous creature digging into his temples and slowly feeling his skull give way, a bit at a time, under the pressure. He can almost feel it drooling on him, as sweat drips down his forehead.
Above him, the flame and smoke finally resolve into a shape. His feet feel like they are glued to the floor. His hands are numb.
The last vision that Stephen McAlerod has is of a large, flaming metallic superstructure, with CCCP written on the side in bold, red letters.
He feels his stomach rumble. His mind is an empty hall that should have held the accomplishments of his life. But there is nothing. He tries to think of old girlfriends, the taste of a cold beer, childhood memories. Nothing comes to him; Just a cold, empty feeling, all over.
Then, searing heat, then pain all over, and terrible noise.
All goes black. He feels his heart stop beating. He realizes he isn't breathing.
Then, nothing.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Ch. 12: Via
Wyland awoke after a restless sleep to find he was still thirty thousand feet in the air, suspended by speed, wind, and a massive torrent of heat from the fuel burning in the turbine engines outside the little tube of a cabin. Out the little porthole window, clouds and ocean appeared suspended in the dawn light, un-moving yet whisking past at six hundred miles per hour.
He was disheveled, what hair was left on his head was going every which way, and his traveling suit, a loose two piece that never fit quite right, now bunched at odd angles, forcing him to readjust himself in his seat as he sat up.
His mind went immediately to young Jonathan. The poor boy had been unable to accurately describe the experience of hearing the curse. He had babbled about a sound, a word, a feeling, all of those, all at once. A grating, head-ache inducing, crunching noise. The sound of a meat grinder, but words, also, in a foreign language.
Almost none of the words Jonathan remembered hearing were real curse words. It was all gibberish, save one. Roland had immediately checked the recorder, and only on one word had it faded and warbled and cracked. He knew the name. He wrote down everything Jonathan said, was able to write it out on paper with no problems.
It was a word he knew from an old book on hermetic philosophy. A tense tome of old hybrid Hebrew/Christian demonology and mysticism, full of line drawings and recipes and obscure poems, astrology and morality and obtuse references. The book was written in the 2nd century, translated from the original Hebrew by a Rabbi in the 1970's, and was now a standard text for mystics and conspiracy theorists. It contained many references to an order of "keepers", with an insignia not unlike the sign for the Freemasons, that held deep insights from before the time of Solomon.
It had described the angel of death in that book. He/She/It had the body of a raven, cloven hooves, and a skeletal face. It hungered for life "like a predator hungers for flesh." It was a keeper of damned souls, like the devil, but also took life directly, like the angel of death. The book implied that it was this demon who took Jesus from the cross, and ushered The Lord to hell before His resurrection. Its name, pronounced directly as it was in the original Hebrew, was Alva. The Rabbi had entered a footnote regarding the name: "For although it is with consternation that I even write the true name of this daemon, or any daemon for that matter, it occurs to me that the Roman/Latin/Germanic root of 'evil' is a close bastardization of this terrible daemon's name, and is thus useful for more than simple linguistic purposes, and the use of the bastardization by society in general may be indicative of a deeper truth of the general fear of death and of God's wrath."
The book instructed a learned soul to protect against the name, never to speak it aloud, and it showed a rune to protect a magi against the angel.
Jonathan had spoken the name aloud, but it didn't sound like the noise he described. It was just a word then, not the curse. What was missing that made it a curse? Was Jonathan now destined to die?
As dark thoughts ran through Wylands head, this old book now rested, half open, in Wyland's lap. The page it was open to described the hermetic science and the mysterious "star of Solomon", how to study the stars and planets for prophesy, and of the wheel of the gods. The gods, as near as Wyland could tell, were thoughts as much as beings, feelings made real, demons and angels in the minds of mankind, and each had a counter god or demon that kept the wheel in balance. Against Alva on the wheel was the god of birth, Via. There were gods of war and of peace, anger and consolation, love and hate, poverty and wealth, failure and success, and so on, and in the center of the wheel, the creator god. This creator god was un-named, though the book implied that a learned man should already know the name, and could speak it under the right circumstances to return all things to balance.
But Wyland was not a student of religion, he was a student of law. He had been asked only once, sincerely, what his opinion on God was, and he responded truthfully:
"Fuck if I know."
It always made him smile ironically that he had placed his hand on a bible and been sworn in so many times. Why would a man who thinks this book is gibberish, written by inbred goat herders from two thousand years off, worry about lying under it's oath? Why would a murderer worry about a book that condones the murder of "God's enemies?" Rape and slavery and murder could be justified using the text of the bible. That our legal system essentially rested on the hope that a criminal might be cowed into telling the truth because of an old, contradictory, violent and fucked up religious book was laughable, were it not such a serious lapse of reason.
Religion. It was all foolishness, or so he thought, until recently. Now he was beginning to wonder if maybe someone, somewhere, had actually gotten it right? The bible, of course, offered no hints, other than a set of psalms that sounded an awful lot like a true curse, but heard from a bystander's viewpoint. Curses and daemons and the god of death. Wyland shivered involuntarily.
But this dark and evil thought brought a new thought, a brighter thought, that crested on Wyland like a dreamscape; Wondrous and new and clean. What about blessings? If curses could be spoken aloud, then blessings should be, too. He thought a moment... he now knew a name, a counter curse, the opposing, balancing god's name. He spoke it aloud: "Via."
He said it again, with more force: "Via!"
A chubby woman sitting next to him with deep, sweet brown eyes, a massive bosom and a pastel flowery dress stared at him with a puzzled smile on her face.
He looked at her and asked "sorry, what word did you just hear?"
"Pardon?" She laughed a girlish, nervous laugh behind this question.
"What word did you just hear me speak? I'm just curious."
"You said something like via, like the Roman word, yes?"
"What Roman word?" He said, innocently.
"Oh, you know, via, like a road. Like Via Appia, the main road in ancient Rome."
"Oh, ok. Sorry to disturb you." She closed her eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep, assuming she had never woken up and this was just another weird dream.
Wyland dejectedly shifted his weight in the maddeningly small cloth chair and stared out the little window. Dammit, what's missing?
Land was visible below them now, a flat, green country. He could feel the lumbering jetliner start to descend, flying now through thicker, more turbulent air. He watched the wings bend and sway in the invisible and churning wind, and could hear the faint rattle and boom of the air-frame as it solidly took this invisible thrashing.
Off in the distance, to the far north, Wyland could see an odd cloud formation, like a jet contrail, but sloped downward, slicing from high above, going through the clouds all the way down to the ground. He thought maybe he saw a small orange glow on the ground where cloud met ground, but he couldn't be sure. Soon enough, the strange cloud was out of his sight, and his mind turned to the task at hand.
An hour later, Wyland stepped out of the terminal to the waiting queues of buses and taxis. They all had a boxy, regal look to them, strangely foreign, and an odd sensation of place fell upon him. Just by the cars around him, he could tell he wasn't in the states, and everything looked so damn... English. Pictures of the royal guard in their fuzzy hats welcomed him to the British Isles. He hailed a cab driving past, but failed, and then stepped to a waiting cab. A dingy man with bloodshot eyes looked him over and waved him into the cab. He didn't attempt to help Wyland with his luggage, just sat there silent. Wyland slumped into the seat.
"Westminster, please." And they were off.
He was disheveled, what hair was left on his head was going every which way, and his traveling suit, a loose two piece that never fit quite right, now bunched at odd angles, forcing him to readjust himself in his seat as he sat up.
His mind went immediately to young Jonathan. The poor boy had been unable to accurately describe the experience of hearing the curse. He had babbled about a sound, a word, a feeling, all of those, all at once. A grating, head-ache inducing, crunching noise. The sound of a meat grinder, but words, also, in a foreign language.
Almost none of the words Jonathan remembered hearing were real curse words. It was all gibberish, save one. Roland had immediately checked the recorder, and only on one word had it faded and warbled and cracked. He knew the name. He wrote down everything Jonathan said, was able to write it out on paper with no problems.
It was a word he knew from an old book on hermetic philosophy. A tense tome of old hybrid Hebrew/Christian demonology and mysticism, full of line drawings and recipes and obscure poems, astrology and morality and obtuse references. The book was written in the 2nd century, translated from the original Hebrew by a Rabbi in the 1970's, and was now a standard text for mystics and conspiracy theorists. It contained many references to an order of "keepers", with an insignia not unlike the sign for the Freemasons, that held deep insights from before the time of Solomon.
It had described the angel of death in that book. He/She/It had the body of a raven, cloven hooves, and a skeletal face. It hungered for life "like a predator hungers for flesh." It was a keeper of damned souls, like the devil, but also took life directly, like the angel of death. The book implied that it was this demon who took Jesus from the cross, and ushered The Lord to hell before His resurrection. Its name, pronounced directly as it was in the original Hebrew, was Alva. The Rabbi had entered a footnote regarding the name: "For although it is with consternation that I even write the true name of this daemon, or any daemon for that matter, it occurs to me that the Roman/Latin/Germanic root of 'evil' is a close bastardization of this terrible daemon's name, and is thus useful for more than simple linguistic purposes, and the use of the bastardization by society in general may be indicative of a deeper truth of the general fear of death and of God's wrath."
The book instructed a learned soul to protect against the name, never to speak it aloud, and it showed a rune to protect a magi against the angel.
Jonathan had spoken the name aloud, but it didn't sound like the noise he described. It was just a word then, not the curse. What was missing that made it a curse? Was Jonathan now destined to die?
As dark thoughts ran through Wylands head, this old book now rested, half open, in Wyland's lap. The page it was open to described the hermetic science and the mysterious "star of Solomon", how to study the stars and planets for prophesy, and of the wheel of the gods. The gods, as near as Wyland could tell, were thoughts as much as beings, feelings made real, demons and angels in the minds of mankind, and each had a counter god or demon that kept the wheel in balance. Against Alva on the wheel was the god of birth, Via. There were gods of war and of peace, anger and consolation, love and hate, poverty and wealth, failure and success, and so on, and in the center of the wheel, the creator god. This creator god was un-named, though the book implied that a learned man should already know the name, and could speak it under the right circumstances to return all things to balance.
But Wyland was not a student of religion, he was a student of law. He had been asked only once, sincerely, what his opinion on God was, and he responded truthfully:
"Fuck if I know."
It always made him smile ironically that he had placed his hand on a bible and been sworn in so many times. Why would a man who thinks this book is gibberish, written by inbred goat herders from two thousand years off, worry about lying under it's oath? Why would a murderer worry about a book that condones the murder of "God's enemies?" Rape and slavery and murder could be justified using the text of the bible. That our legal system essentially rested on the hope that a criminal might be cowed into telling the truth because of an old, contradictory, violent and fucked up religious book was laughable, were it not such a serious lapse of reason.
Religion. It was all foolishness, or so he thought, until recently. Now he was beginning to wonder if maybe someone, somewhere, had actually gotten it right? The bible, of course, offered no hints, other than a set of psalms that sounded an awful lot like a true curse, but heard from a bystander's viewpoint. Curses and daemons and the god of death. Wyland shivered involuntarily.
But this dark and evil thought brought a new thought, a brighter thought, that crested on Wyland like a dreamscape; Wondrous and new and clean. What about blessings? If curses could be spoken aloud, then blessings should be, too. He thought a moment... he now knew a name, a counter curse, the opposing, balancing god's name. He spoke it aloud: "Via."
He said it again, with more force: "Via!"
A chubby woman sitting next to him with deep, sweet brown eyes, a massive bosom and a pastel flowery dress stared at him with a puzzled smile on her face.
He looked at her and asked "sorry, what word did you just hear?"
"Pardon?" She laughed a girlish, nervous laugh behind this question.
"What word did you just hear me speak? I'm just curious."
"You said something like via, like the Roman word, yes?"
"What Roman word?" He said, innocently.
"Oh, you know, via, like a road. Like Via Appia, the main road in ancient Rome."
"Oh, ok. Sorry to disturb you." She closed her eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep, assuming she had never woken up and this was just another weird dream.
Wyland dejectedly shifted his weight in the maddeningly small cloth chair and stared out the little window. Dammit, what's missing?
Land was visible below them now, a flat, green country. He could feel the lumbering jetliner start to descend, flying now through thicker, more turbulent air. He watched the wings bend and sway in the invisible and churning wind, and could hear the faint rattle and boom of the air-frame as it solidly took this invisible thrashing.
Off in the distance, to the far north, Wyland could see an odd cloud formation, like a jet contrail, but sloped downward, slicing from high above, going through the clouds all the way down to the ground. He thought maybe he saw a small orange glow on the ground where cloud met ground, but he couldn't be sure. Soon enough, the strange cloud was out of his sight, and his mind turned to the task at hand.
An hour later, Wyland stepped out of the terminal to the waiting queues of buses and taxis. They all had a boxy, regal look to them, strangely foreign, and an odd sensation of place fell upon him. Just by the cars around him, he could tell he wasn't in the states, and everything looked so damn... English. Pictures of the royal guard in their fuzzy hats welcomed him to the British Isles. He hailed a cab driving past, but failed, and then stepped to a waiting cab. A dingy man with bloodshot eyes looked him over and waved him into the cab. He didn't attempt to help Wyland with his luggage, just sat there silent. Wyland slumped into the seat.
"Westminster, please." And they were off.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Ch. 11: Two weeks
Stephen McAlerod felt like shit. He had left the tent barracks without grabbing anything, not that he had much of value in his tent. He kept his passport and money on him, anyway. He was walking to Lanark, it was dark, and the sky had started spitting rain at him. He threw up twice. He was slightly dizzy, and was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Crom had kept his word, and only spoken to him, or rather, at him. No beatings, nothing like that, although the backs of his knees were painful, and the walk hadn't helped. But the words Crom spoke were unlike anything Stephen had ever heard. It felt like a bad dream, and he was just waking up. He tried to think of the words, but they kept slipping in and out of his consciousness, like he was trying to hold onto that dream, but reality kept intruding. He was more confused that he had ever been in his life.
He could see the lights of Lanark up ahead, only a half mile more now. The gravel on the side of the road was now wet, and becoming a little treacherous. A few cars had passed him, but he hadn't thrown up his hand to try and hail one down. He had to think; had to get this straight in his mind.
There was a little cafe there that he knew had a computer one could rent for a small fee. This was his goal now. He had read about the Duke of Northshire and his wife, but he thought it was all bullshit, and hadn't paid close attention. Now he knew otherwise, and needed information.
He remembered reading about an interview with the Duke before he died. He described a word he had never heard before. A word that filled him with dread, like he was a hunted beast, cornered and winded and bleeding. He couldn't remember what it said, and wouldn't have said it even if he could have, but he described it as a feeling.
Stephen now felt that feeling, and heard that word in his heart of hearts.
...
Lanark was an old market town, full of narrow brick alleyways and low slung brick and stone buildings that had seen many cold, wet winters. Stephen walked down High Street, the central thoroughfare in town, and past old churches and a large statue of William Wallace, one of Scotland's great heroes, with sword in hand. The town was mostly empty, except for a couple drunken blokes stumbling out of a bar a few blocks ahead of Stephen. The cool lights of the cafe poured into the street, reflecting off the dark, wet street.
He stumbled into the cafe. It was nearing 9 o'clock, and the place was near empty. A young, pretty girl with pinkish hair was sipping tea and reading a textbook in the corner, ear-buds in and otherwise oblivious to the world around her. She didn't even notice Stephen enter.
A younger man was behind the counter. He had a motocross t-shirt on, and a small, black apron over faded skinny jeans. He had a shaved head around the sides, but had a shuck of curly, blond hair on top. It looked permed. He looked at Stephen and showed a look of confusion on his face. He said "you alright, man? You don' look so good."
"Black tea" was all Stephen responded with.
The boy poured him a cup. Stephen fumbled through two packs of sugar before his shaking hands finally got some in the cup. He sipped it eagerly, and it warmed him, but only temporarily. He was soaking wet. Stephen managed to croak out "can I get the computeh', please?"
"Yeah, sure. Wi-fi pass-code's on the side." Stephen threw a couple wet and crinkled pounds on the counter.
"Tanks", Stephen responded as he heavily slumped into the chair, spilling some tea on the counter in the process. The bar-boy looked at him warily, but said nothing more, and went back to what he was doing before, which was stealing glances at the girl in the corner as he cleaned up the shop.
...
Stephen searched for "Northstead wedding". Nothing useful.
"Curses + London". Also nothing.
"The Duke of Northstead". Ok, there's something... Stephen skimmed it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alpert Frederick Jamesson (1964-2013), fourth Duke of Northstead, former House of Commons MP, member of Liberal Democratic party.
Failed bid for House of Lords. Won House of Commons seat. Later resigned from House of Commons due to controversial affair with Elansa Meridith Duchennse. Took ceremonial title of "Duke and Steward of Northstead" upon resignation.
...
Married to Elansa Duchennse March 4, 2013.
Died in sinkhole accident in The Bahamas, along with new wife, March 13, 2013.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dammit. 'K, lemme try this...
"The Sunshine News + Duke of Northstead + curse". Ahhh, there it is. Stephen clicked the first page.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sunshine News, March 10th, 2013
Exclusive interview with the Late Duke of Northstead!
What on earth happened at the wedding? Was he cursed? Who was the man who cursed him? The details of his mysterious death!
Pg. 6
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stephen clicked to page 6. Alongside a blurb and paparazzi photo spread about some beautiful and fame-hounded pop star, there was the story.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sunshine News, March 10th, 2013
Pg. 6
The Duke of Northstead's exclusive interview with The Sunshine News!
Editor: This interview took place several days before Mr. Jamesson's untimely demise. God take his soul, and that of Mrs. Jamesson's.
The Sunshine News(TS): Thank you for meeting with us, Duke. Congratulations on your recent nuptials.
Alpert Jamesson (AJ): Thank you. Please just call me Al.
TS: With pleasure, Al. Now, speaking of your recent nuptials, it appears to have been a lavish and sumptuous affair, but something... unusual occurred there, did it not?
AJ: It did, indeed. My wife's former lover, Ivan Pertovik, um... crashed the party. He was obviously still in love with Elansa, and did not approve of our marriage. He interrupted the vows, and made quite a scene. Spoke in a foul tongue I've not heard. It was... strange, to say the least.
TS: And what, exactly, did he say?
AJ: I don't know. It was unlike anything I've heard, like an old language, but also not. A noise, a feeling. I heard fear, and death, and hatred, in that voice. A sickly grating noise, like he was torturing a defenseless animal. It made me feel weak, feeble, like I was that defenseless animal being tortured. My wife heard something similar. She fainted afterwards. We both felt ill for several days afterwards, and we postponed the honeymoon by a week as a result. Ivan just walked off and out, smiling.
TS: Strange indeed! Well, the guests did not hear that, and the many cameras and recording devices also did not hear that.
AJ: I am aware of that. I'm not crazy, though, I assure you.
TS: No, we wouldn't suggest such a thing. But given what the guests did hear, mostly a description of their own deepest fears, some of them quite vivid, some people have suggested that you may have been cursed. A real curse, not the curse words so commonly bandied about these days. The cameras recorded only static, adding weight to such a claim.
AJ: If that is so, I don't know what to do about it. I'm feeling better, so is Elansa. We've found no real experts in the subject, only charlatans and men of god. I don't believe in such superstition, but we have had a priest bless us, just in case.
TS: Well, we are all praying for you, as well.
AJ: Thank you.
TS: Tell us about Mr. Pertovik, if you would?
AJ: What's to say? I wager my wife would be the one to ask about that. (laughs). I don't know where he would have picked up the ability to curse like that. He's a miner, muscles between the ears, breathed too much rock dust in his time, if you ask me. I'm not afraid of him or his foul tongue.
TS: Hmmm. We all hope you fare better than him, and that nothing comes of this. Thank you again for your time, best of luck to you, and enjoy your honeymoon!
AJ: Thank you.
...
The Duke and Steward of Northstead, a man who has fought for Queen and Country for all his years, was killed, along with his wife, in a horrific boating accident off the coast of Long Island, Bahamas, three days after this interview. A fire on the boat caused the crew to abandon ship, and Mr. and Mrs. Jamesson were sucked into Dean's blue hole by tidal forces and presumed drowned. Their bodies were never recovered. The remainder of the crew survived the incident.
Ivan Pertovik is being held by Scotland Yard on charges of hate speech, speech leading to harm, defamation and harassment.
Was he cursed? Was this just a coincidence? Is Ivan Pertovik guilty of anything? You tell us! Log onto www.thesunshinenews/opinion/dukeofnorthstead.com to share your opinion!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two weeks to a horrible death. At least Stephan knew he had some time to figure this out. The tea in his belly wasn't sitting right, and he was starving peckish, but dared not eat. He was sure it wouldn't stay down anyway. He purchased a room for the night at a local hotel and a bus ticket south from their respective websites, and got up.
He nodded to the young barista on the way out, and the boy stared back at him, unable or unwilling to respond. The young girl in the corner looked up to watch him go, and then, the two youths made silent, curious eye contact with one another.
Crom had kept his word, and only spoken to him, or rather, at him. No beatings, nothing like that, although the backs of his knees were painful, and the walk hadn't helped. But the words Crom spoke were unlike anything Stephen had ever heard. It felt like a bad dream, and he was just waking up. He tried to think of the words, but they kept slipping in and out of his consciousness, like he was trying to hold onto that dream, but reality kept intruding. He was more confused that he had ever been in his life.
He could see the lights of Lanark up ahead, only a half mile more now. The gravel on the side of the road was now wet, and becoming a little treacherous. A few cars had passed him, but he hadn't thrown up his hand to try and hail one down. He had to think; had to get this straight in his mind.
There was a little cafe there that he knew had a computer one could rent for a small fee. This was his goal now. He had read about the Duke of Northshire and his wife, but he thought it was all bullshit, and hadn't paid close attention. Now he knew otherwise, and needed information.
He remembered reading about an interview with the Duke before he died. He described a word he had never heard before. A word that filled him with dread, like he was a hunted beast, cornered and winded and bleeding. He couldn't remember what it said, and wouldn't have said it even if he could have, but he described it as a feeling.
Stephen now felt that feeling, and heard that word in his heart of hearts.
...
Lanark was an old market town, full of narrow brick alleyways and low slung brick and stone buildings that had seen many cold, wet winters. Stephen walked down High Street, the central thoroughfare in town, and past old churches and a large statue of William Wallace, one of Scotland's great heroes, with sword in hand. The town was mostly empty, except for a couple drunken blokes stumbling out of a bar a few blocks ahead of Stephen. The cool lights of the cafe poured into the street, reflecting off the dark, wet street.
He stumbled into the cafe. It was nearing 9 o'clock, and the place was near empty. A young, pretty girl with pinkish hair was sipping tea and reading a textbook in the corner, ear-buds in and otherwise oblivious to the world around her. She didn't even notice Stephen enter.
A younger man was behind the counter. He had a motocross t-shirt on, and a small, black apron over faded skinny jeans. He had a shaved head around the sides, but had a shuck of curly, blond hair on top. It looked permed. He looked at Stephen and showed a look of confusion on his face. He said "you alright, man? You don' look so good."
"Black tea" was all Stephen responded with.
The boy poured him a cup. Stephen fumbled through two packs of sugar before his shaking hands finally got some in the cup. He sipped it eagerly, and it warmed him, but only temporarily. He was soaking wet. Stephen managed to croak out "can I get the computeh', please?"
"Yeah, sure. Wi-fi pass-code's on the side." Stephen threw a couple wet and crinkled pounds on the counter.
"Tanks", Stephen responded as he heavily slumped into the chair, spilling some tea on the counter in the process. The bar-boy looked at him warily, but said nothing more, and went back to what he was doing before, which was stealing glances at the girl in the corner as he cleaned up the shop.
...
Stephen searched for "Northstead wedding". Nothing useful.
"Curses + London". Also nothing.
"The Duke of Northstead". Ok, there's something... Stephen skimmed it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alpert Frederick Jamesson (1964-2013), fourth Duke of Northstead, former House of Commons MP, member of Liberal Democratic party.
Failed bid for House of Lords. Won House of Commons seat. Later resigned from House of Commons due to controversial affair with Elansa Meridith Duchennse. Took ceremonial title of "Duke and Steward of Northstead" upon resignation.
...
Married to Elansa Duchennse March 4, 2013.
Died in sinkhole accident in The Bahamas, along with new wife, March 13, 2013.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dammit. 'K, lemme try this...
"The Sunshine News + Duke of Northstead + curse". Ahhh, there it is. Stephen clicked the first page.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sunshine News, March 10th, 2013
Exclusive interview with the Late Duke of Northstead!
What on earth happened at the wedding? Was he cursed? Who was the man who cursed him? The details of his mysterious death!
Pg. 6
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stephen clicked to page 6. Alongside a blurb and paparazzi photo spread about some beautiful and fame-hounded pop star, there was the story.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sunshine News, March 10th, 2013
Pg. 6
The Duke of Northstead's exclusive interview with The Sunshine News!
Editor: This interview took place several days before Mr. Jamesson's untimely demise. God take his soul, and that of Mrs. Jamesson's.
The Sunshine News(TS): Thank you for meeting with us, Duke. Congratulations on your recent nuptials.
Alpert Jamesson (AJ): Thank you. Please just call me Al.
TS: With pleasure, Al. Now, speaking of your recent nuptials, it appears to have been a lavish and sumptuous affair, but something... unusual occurred there, did it not?
AJ: It did, indeed. My wife's former lover, Ivan Pertovik, um... crashed the party. He was obviously still in love with Elansa, and did not approve of our marriage. He interrupted the vows, and made quite a scene. Spoke in a foul tongue I've not heard. It was... strange, to say the least.
TS: And what, exactly, did he say?
AJ: I don't know. It was unlike anything I've heard, like an old language, but also not. A noise, a feeling. I heard fear, and death, and hatred, in that voice. A sickly grating noise, like he was torturing a defenseless animal. It made me feel weak, feeble, like I was that defenseless animal being tortured. My wife heard something similar. She fainted afterwards. We both felt ill for several days afterwards, and we postponed the honeymoon by a week as a result. Ivan just walked off and out, smiling.
TS: Strange indeed! Well, the guests did not hear that, and the many cameras and recording devices also did not hear that.
AJ: I am aware of that. I'm not crazy, though, I assure you.
TS: No, we wouldn't suggest such a thing. But given what the guests did hear, mostly a description of their own deepest fears, some of them quite vivid, some people have suggested that you may have been cursed. A real curse, not the curse words so commonly bandied about these days. The cameras recorded only static, adding weight to such a claim.
AJ: If that is so, I don't know what to do about it. I'm feeling better, so is Elansa. We've found no real experts in the subject, only charlatans and men of god. I don't believe in such superstition, but we have had a priest bless us, just in case.
TS: Well, we are all praying for you, as well.
AJ: Thank you.
TS: Tell us about Mr. Pertovik, if you would?
AJ: What's to say? I wager my wife would be the one to ask about that. (laughs). I don't know where he would have picked up the ability to curse like that. He's a miner, muscles between the ears, breathed too much rock dust in his time, if you ask me. I'm not afraid of him or his foul tongue.
TS: Hmmm. We all hope you fare better than him, and that nothing comes of this. Thank you again for your time, best of luck to you, and enjoy your honeymoon!
AJ: Thank you.
...
The Duke and Steward of Northstead, a man who has fought for Queen and Country for all his years, was killed, along with his wife, in a horrific boating accident off the coast of Long Island, Bahamas, three days after this interview. A fire on the boat caused the crew to abandon ship, and Mr. and Mrs. Jamesson were sucked into Dean's blue hole by tidal forces and presumed drowned. Their bodies were never recovered. The remainder of the crew survived the incident.
Ivan Pertovik is being held by Scotland Yard on charges of hate speech, speech leading to harm, defamation and harassment.
Was he cursed? Was this just a coincidence? Is Ivan Pertovik guilty of anything? You tell us! Log onto www.thesunshinenews/opinion/dukeofnorthstead.com to share your opinion!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two weeks to a horrible death. At least Stephan knew he had some time to figure this out. The tea in his belly wasn't sitting right, and he was starving peckish, but dared not eat. He was sure it wouldn't stay down anyway. He purchased a room for the night at a local hotel and a bus ticket south from their respective websites, and got up.
He nodded to the young barista on the way out, and the boy stared back at him, unable or unwilling to respond. The young girl in the corner looked up to watch him go, and then, the two youths made silent, curious eye contact with one another.
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