

Before, Now and After.

The Dogbreaths Publishing

The Occult History

Of the

TETRAGRAMMATON

**ISBN:** 9781311502315

Copyright David William Kirby 2009

The Dogbreaths Publishing

Smashwords Edition

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Before Now and After

Copyright David William Kirby 2009

thedogbreathspublishing.weebly.com

Book 1

A Visit to an Island

Book 11

At what price a city is born

Book 111

The Path to Glory

Part 1

In the beginning was the word.

A visit to an island

There is, like hawk on fire, a sword

Curved, its blade rolling.

Stalking the seam.

A feather on a shield held high

in a rock or stone

Shimmering.

Like water falling

on a blue, empty pass.

True and high and rained.

Falling, curving down through this flower

This flower of fire

Blooded and fallen.

Its face and roots,

its clawed and hooded

stone fingers like poses

Of fire, of water, of magick.

Pond like, wide and deep,

as the mysterious sea.

Deadly.

Utibia was beautiful, a lone star of an island situated in the middle ocean; just off the tropic of Capricorn. Although just a few miles wide, it was the sanctuary of every fish and beast of this world and more; it was the other Eden.

Utibia seemed, to the inhabitants of that place, as if life had been breathed into the world through the island by a god-like power and their very presence was an indication of that infinite power.

Dolphins swam in the tide and strange birds occupied the blue skies; the place was blessed. Fertile and warm, Utibia was a heavenly garden and no less a place to start a story.

The people who made their life on this island had been there forever, so their stories said. Throughout the ages they spent their lives in awe of the beauty that surrounded them; humbled by it.

The Langa people were blue but not naturally so. Brown eyed and brown skinned they shimmered like sapphires in the morning sun. They painted their brown skin blue, by rubbing on to it, the blue clay that was harvested from a marsh in the island's centre. The clay was rich and organic and so protected their skin from the bright sun. It also reminded them, that they too, were part of the ocean and the sky that surrounded them.

A naturally peaceful race that led slow and contented lives in small family villages. Their lives were ordered so that no one did too much or too little; no one had everything and no one had nothing.

They shared the chores and the labours of life for the benefit of all. The old were given special attention for being the wise ones and the young were relished for being new life. Their ambitions were to have rounded bellies and smiles to wear.

Langa believed that they were spiritual manifestations of their mother goddess; The Earth. They saw the earth as a womb from which they burst forth. That it spun around the sun like the atoms of their bodies spun around other minute particles; and that if you looked closely enough into a person's cells you would see eventually another island like Utibia.

Likewise if you travelled far into the universe; so far all the stars and planets and galaxies would merge into one. Then you would eventually find yourself looking at another island like Utibia. The macro mirrored the micro. All life was connected.

The villagers believed that reincarnation enabled souls to travel from those very small places up through the plains of existence until each soul had experienced them all. Life and death were part of the same journey; the travel of the soul.

They saw it in the birth and death of each day, the ebb and flow of the tides and the wax and waning of the moon. Life returned again. A death in the village was not a time to be sad but a time of celebration and joy. It marked a personal transition from one small plain to the next.

Through their traditional songs they educated the young and helped the old prepare for their next transition; into the greater whole.

Stories were of great importance to the Langa. Story telling formed the education of the young and entertainment for the old. One story told that the island was formed to create order in chaos.

That all life, the soil, the flora and all living things were made of the same substance from which they themselves were formed. It was the essence, the spirit of life. With this idea in their hearts the Langa lived in peace, with love and consideration for all that they found around them.

They tended the gardens and looked after the animals of their world with love. Some would not eat meat or fish explaining it would be like eating one of their own. Others, like the wise old men, loved to eat their meat and fish; but would talk to the animal before slaughter to ensure it was ready for its transition.

All were equal in the village although when a person reached a certain age he or she could choose to be one of the elder's circle or die.

The elders carried a heavy burden; a responsibility. So, some chose to go. Go through the transition and leave this world.

To be an elder meant to lose ones youth and teeth and hair and become frail. But with this they also became wise and able to judge others if disputes arose. They also had to look after the only thing the Langa valued; the book.

But more of that later.

Another story told of a man who spent his time wondering if there was more to life than just the island and the village; Rufus was his name.

He was born greedy and cunning and was able to misbehave without a conscious. From an early age Rufus exploited helplessness and used People.

He wanted more, proof that death was not the end and that life continued. The story told that he left the island and travelled to a far off place where he stole powerful relics. Relics, that he hoped would enable his army to become invincible; relics like the book.

The book was the repository on Earth, stitched with gold thread upon each of its leather pages, of the secret and most powerful name of God.

This act of theft changed him. He returned many years later and told the elders that the name he had stolen was destined to be theirs. It was so powerful this word could not be spoken and had been written in the book for the benefit of mankind; but must never be uttered again.

Those that did risked being burned alive if the ritual, the ceremony that accompanied its pronunciation, was not enacted.

Rufus told that with this name on a man's lips enemies could be slaughtered, cities destroyed and people controlled. He said that the book was now his and was never to be opened by any other. That he had brought it to the island because he knew the elders could be trusted to keep it safe for him and never use its power. After his death it passed to the Elder of the Elder circle; down through the generations.

This story, which was enacted on long mid summer nights around the blazing village hearths, said that this man had conjured fire from the skies. That the spirit of the trees had spoken to him. He had learned to control the power that governed all life and, with this power, had looked through the veils of time.

Rufus could see the past fading away like the last embers of a cooling morning fire and into the future, where terror reared up in the children's eyes; like the bucking hoofs of a fierce stallion. Far from the island in the West, a huge tribe evolved where Rufus became just a fading legend.

The Langa's story said that his lust for power was infectious and these others had become diseased by it. They kept but One Ruler; as Rufus had ruled over them in their prehistory. He was a 'so-called' Blueblood; who gained his right to rule by the blood running through his veins.

These new rulers were His bloodline and through the centuries they became the Kings and aristocracy of those Western Isles. These dangerous and deluded men spelt the end of life for the villagers and the destruction of the whole world. Across the sea a cancer was spreading; everyday it was getting closer on an almost shrinking Earth.

Kings became Emperors and down the centuries the legend of Rufus and The Name of God faded into folk lore. Although one family kept Rufus alive, with yearly rituals dedicated to Him, and wild stories of their own.

These descendants owned secret relics that brought them closer to Him. In isolation, from the rest of mankind, this dynasty kept his legend alive.

The sacking of the great temple in Jerusalem had given them a faded map which was now kept as a relic. Copies had been made as the parchment disintegrated into fragments over the years; passing through many generations; far across the sea to the west.

Although these stories disturbed the people on the island they also knew that change was inevitable. Death must follow Life. The elders dreamt on moonless nights, when stormy waves beat against the great rocks in the bay, omens of things to come; omens that bothered them.

During the passing of time that cancer from the Western Isle became an army no other could conquer. The elder's story always ended with a premonition. The villagers were told that he would return. The army from the West, the army of Rufus, were expected to return and fulfil this prophecy.

When the villagers performed the story of Rufus around those blazing midsummer-night fires it would always end with Rufus rising up, like a demon, from the ocean. With death in his eyes, blood on his hands and fearlessness in his heart he would stand victorious upon the ruins of the past. He was heralding the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end of Rufus.

"Contemplation of Mother God, and her divine wisdom,

is the secret to simple order.

Strife for her power

strikes with chaos at the root

of our being"

These were the last words of Abras Watermountain, eldest of the elder circle. With these soft spoken words he closed his eyes upon the world and clasped a small box to his breast. It was the only important thing he possessed and he was sorry to leave it in the hands of men who did not appreciate its power.

Where it would not receive the respect and quality of care it had received from his father and from his father and his father before him.

The box, which held the book, had been carved by his great grandfather from cedar. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl by grandfather and precious stones by father. Kissing the book gently, he covered it with soft blue silk and laid it in the box; planning to swiftly leave this life.

He had known that today was to be the day just after he awoke that morning. It may have been the shape of the first cloud he saw through his open doorway.

Or it may have been the distant shouts of children playing; their soft voices rising on the wind telling him that the day had arrived.

It may have been the way the sun shone on the houses or the way the breeze travelled through the trees, the texture of the warm soil; the buzzing of a distant insect. All the signs were there, today he expected to depart this life and move on. The old man squeezed the box tightly and sighed.

He was not scared to go only sorry to leave this possession. In fact he was proud that the legends of the past should now be crashing into his present. He was about to walk with ancestral kings and hold court with them; exalted in those darker lands.

With the passing of his life he was forced to evaluate his deeds, muse upon his misgivings; all in all, he was happy with what he saw. Although this was true he felt the world had changed recently. Either that or his memory was failing, for the summers seemed bleaker then those he remembered as a boy. He thought that the air had grown stale or had become poisoned by a menace from beyond the horizon.

That far across the ocean, fires burned like beacons upon every hilltop, carrying their filthy smoke in the clouds. It seemed that the world was dyeing with him. As his life filtered away, Abras Watermountain slowly perceived the order that had created him. He could feel it flowing through his being, burning within and without him.

He allowed himself to drift into the feeling, allowing it to permeate his body; he was transparent to it. It was the time, the old man thought, and time to die. The boats had moored; there were visitors to the island. Slaves dragged the longboats up onto the sands so that their masters might land without wetting their leather sandals.

A small army alighted and formed a neat regiment on the beach. They were addressed by a heavily built man, finely turned out in silver armour, a bright breastplate inlaid with gold shimmered in the sun.

Black feathered plumes rose like smoke from the silver helmet that covered his head. The man clasped the sword attached to a belt at his side and addressed his troops.

"Men..." He shouted beating his chest with his other fist.

"...Before we journey into this land you must prepare yourselves. All manner of trickery awaits you here. If you see a beautiful maiden, use your dagger and stab hard, she is a devil and the bitch is bewitching you. If you see a beautiful youth, again strike firmly; in case his beauty entrances your senses. If you see an innocent child, strike harder, for the devil takes many forms and we are here to kill him; him and all his followers."

He pulled a dusty map from his belt and unfurled it so that his men could inspect the document.

"See where we are?" He spat on the sand. "Men, you see here, in the centre of the world, only beasts and savages lurk. The magic they practice is opposed to all the things we stand for. It is rumoured that they have the secrets of Abraham the Magi and that they practice the witchcraft of the Essenes; they possess power greater than both Mars and Mercury. That they bewitch you with their eyes."

He could see his words were having the desired effect, the men looked worried, thin beads of sweat gathered on their brows and some whispered silent prayers. Good, he thought, he wanted them anxious.

"The only way to protect yourselves from these monsters is to slay them quickly. We take no prisoners from this place, Augustus has decreed this."

What about the women?" Someone asked from the rear.

"They are not women, they are witches." The man replied. "Put your sword where you might put your prick and slay them."

It was at that point a small blue boy stepped from between the coconut trees. His red lips quivered and brown eyes widened seeing the strangers in his midst. The ribbons in his hair and the brightly coloured shells around his neck glittered in the midday sun. His expression was one of innocence and wonder.

He pointed at the men in their strange and cumbersome costumes, their plumes and breastplates, their swords and spears. These things reminded him of a story he had been told but he could not remember when.

"General?" One of the party stuttered. "Look, there's a savage amongst us."

He pointed to the boy and gasped.

"He is naked like the savages you described; but surely this child is not a devil?"

"You are allowing the child's innocence to bewitch you..." The general replied glumly. "...Let the archers do their work; destroy this beast."

With this command arrows streamed through the air. Silent death with a hundred barbed teeth; each one aimed to penetrate. A bird chirped and fled its nest as blood soaked into the white sand.

A leather sandal trod the body of the boy in to the sand and the soldier with the black plumes reached for his sword. The blade sparkled in the sun as it swooped down severing the boy's head.

"Onward." He cried. "Victory awaits; have neither fear in your hearts or mercy in your minds today. Go forth and civilise this island, in the name of the Emperor, for the glory of the Empire and the honour of Rome. Hail Augustus."

Abras Watermountain was found dead and cold by the man with the black plumes. He was still clutching in his frail fingers the small box, a smile on his lips. The digits clasped the box so hard that even in death it was difficult to give up their prize. They cracked as the box was taken.

The soldier opened the box slowly and peered within as the screams of other villagers filled the afternoon air.

In the midst of the death and destruction he could see only beauty in his view as a magical light streamed from the box almost blinding him. Within was just a simple blue cloth that covered a small insignificant looking book.

Made from old kid leather, which had faded with time, it did not appear to be the prize he had been sent to find; but he could feel its power freezing his finger-tips.

This truly is a great treasure, the General thought silently, worth more than its weight in gold or silver, worthy of the greatest emperor the world had ever known. The reality of war awaited him as the Marcus Agrippa left the longhouse. The soil was red with blood and the sky black with acrid smoke as he tucked the box into his map bag.

"Agrippa?" A voice shouted from behind him. "Come, all the island is ablaze and soon this evil will sink beneath the waves. We are preparing to leave."

"Did you see me carrying anything?" Agrippa asked the soldier as he joined him.

"The box, Sir? I only saw the small box." The man replied hesitantly.

"I thought so." Agrippa said as he stuck the blade of his sword into the man's belly.

"That was unfortunate, my brother."

The soldier fell as the long house began to smoke fiercely behind them. The dying soldier looked up at his executioner and heard faint words upon the wind.

Agrippa was saying a small prayer for the fallen man; giving the soldier as a sacrifice to Mars in thanks for the prize. His Emperor will be pleased to receive this worthy relic, Agrippa mused, and blood had to be given in thanks.

Some months later Agrippa was aboard a galley as it moored off the coast of Ostia; only a short journey from the centre of imperial Rome. It had been four years since he had last seen that wonder of cities; wandered through its bustling streets and surrounded himself with familiarity. He wondered if it had changed much in the preceding years.

He was aware that Augustus was still the emperor. That fact was obvious by the size of the welcoming party put on for him and his men. For it seemed through Agrippa's eyes that all Rome had turned out to welcome him home.

The bay was full as far as the eye could see with all manner of small boats crowded with waving people.

The docks were also crowded with people dressed in the soft fabric that was the fashion of the day. The people seemed to flap like flags in the small breeze as their voices cheered him.

Soon Agrippa was riding a chariot through the crowd following a band of horn blowers and drummers. The fanfare led all the way from the coast to the city walls. It was a hot day and Agrippa felt small beads of sweat gather on his brow as his chariot entered the city through the gate by Circus Maximus.

It was empty that day, no shouts rang from its tiers; no horses thrashed around its track. The whole of Rome had emptied to welcome him back. Then through the centre of the crowd a trail of dust rose through the air as two speeding chariots approached. Agrippa steadied his horses as the chariots came to a halt in his path; they were being driven by two of Augustus' bodyguard.

One shouted to him across the noise of the drummers.

"General Agrippa..." The man screamed. "...We are here to escort you directly to the Palatine; the Emperor waits."

"Yes, I thought this would happen..." Agrippa replied. He looked behind at the line of men who had disembarked with him and shouted.

"...But what about my men?"

"The baths await their pleasure, Sir; but Augustus expects you now."

Without haste Agrippa nodded to his men and with a flick of the horse's reigns he followed the two chariots toward the palatine hill and the Emperor's palace.

The palace stood on one of Rome's seven hills completely encircled on all sides by a thick wall. One side had a gate that gave access to all the public buildings and temples, which consisted of the legal and political heart of the empire.

While another gate gave a splendid view of the river Tiber and the city itself which curled about it. The emperor also had access, from the rear of the palace, to a flight of stone steps that led all the way down to the circus. The palace was his own little empire and it mimicked the greater empire over which he ruled.

Once atop of the hill and in the beautiful palace garden Agrippa was surrounded on all sides by luxury. Finely sculpted figures stood white and static around bright crisp fountains. Nymphs blew spa water through the air cooling it down for the visitors to this place.

He was led by a slave-boy, down an open path that was inlaid with precious gems and metals. Through a portico lined with red granite pillars and into a great hall that smelt of violet and linseed. The floors were made of fine marble laid to form squares, circles and triangles all intertwined to form complicated patterns. Yes, Agrippa mused, the emperor was truly a patron of the arts.

Soon he was approaching a huge golden door studied with the emperor's emblem, a circle of laurel held in the mouth of a swooping eagle. Above the door Agrippa noticed an etched plate which depicted Rome's mythical past. Romulus and Reemus suckling the teats of a she-wolf were depicted in all their glory.

The door was flung open to the sound of a gong and Agrippa found himself faced by the emperor. He was seated upon a guilt and marble throne at the far end of a long, bright room. Behind him was a window that overlooked the city and the snaking river below. Augustus gestured for the man to approach as a valet shouted.

"Hail Augustus."

The exaltation boomed around the room and was the cue for the emperor to hold out a frail hand for Agrippa to kiss.

"Agrippa?" The emperor whispered as the man took his hand and kissed the ring he was wearing. "It is good to have you back after so long. We feared the sea had got you."

"Thank you master..." Agrippa replied keeping his gaze firmly on the floor not daring to look into the face of the emperor.

"...I am glad to be back."

"I speak for all Rome when I say you have been missed..." Augustus continued.

"...The senate has made my life difficult with one of my greatest generals away. I have felt truly vulnerable at times..."

"Surely not master?"

"...I am glad you have returned." He gestured for Agrippa to rise and clapped. This instruction made the black plumed guards, who lined the walls, leave in single file; closing the gold door behind them.

Agrippa was aware that he and the emperor were now very much alone. Alone except for Augustus' valet, a deaf mute, strong as an ox and as hard as iron; he never left his master's side. The emperor looked quizzically at Agrippa after the room emptied.

"I seem to remember Agrippa..." The Emperor said after a long pause.

"...That we had a wager before you left, can you remember what it was?"

"I shall never forget, Sir."

"It was that you should find me a relic, a treasure from the past, a mystery or a myth. That you should deliver to me that relic; that secret word which those mystical Jews whisper of?"

"I remember master." Agrippa replied looking the emperor in the eyes for the first time.

"Well..." Augustus asked greedily. "...was the relic real or just a myth?"

"You remember your part in this bargain I hope?"

"To make you console of Rome and general of all my armies, of course I remember; but were you able to find this relic or were you not?"

"I have kept my word master." Agrippa whispered feeling his mouth go dry as the words left them.

"You have?" Augustus leaned forwards and his eyes lit up.

"You have bought me a myth, a legend. You have for me the Word of Power that was revealed to Abraham; I don't believe it."

"Believe this, Sir." Agrippa smiled as he opened his map bag and removed the box from it. He held the box in his palm and offered it to the emperor.

"Believe this."

Augustus took the box and sighed as he twisted it in his fingers. The light seemed to dance on the inlaid mother of pearl and stones, as a timid smile crossed his pale old lips.

"Where did you get this?" He asked as his fingers clicked the box open.

"Many months from here."

"The Enochian islands?" The old man asked.

"I cannot tell you the island's real name." Agrippa replied. "I had neither the chance of inclination to ask. We followed the directions on the map and eventually we found the island, just as the story said.

The map was charted long before the seas were conquered and so it was not very accurate. All I can say is that we looked for an island and in the end we found one; this was on it as the story said."

The emperor looked at the book still wrapped in its blue dust cover and stroked it gently.

"Even though this relic, this book is covered by a cheap rag I can feel the power, the energy flowing from it; I feel it through my fingertips. It's too much of a coincidence Agrippa, The map, the island, the box and now the book. I should never have doubted its existence.

They say every legend has a foundation in truth and if this really is the sacred name of power. If this is the name revealed to Abraham in a dream; the word that Moses pronounced to part the Red Seas; Rome's armies have a weapon no other could match."

"Isn't that just gossip put about by old Jews to scare their children; this so-called name of power?"

"Possibly..." Augustus replied closing the box.

"...But it is ours now. You remember that these Hebrews and Enocians thought that peace could be founded upon wisdom; wisdom and understanding? Indeed, they say this name is nothing but an ode to peace if you like. Providing that the name is used only for wisdom and understanding.

A sword hung on the wall becomes a symbol, an icon that represents anything one chooses for it. It could be the end of bloodshed, for instance, the laying down of arms. But place that sword in your palm, grip the hilt strongly and thrust it forwards purposely and it becomes a tool once more. It ceases to mean anything.

Isn't this what the Greeks taught our forefathers, that people can be conquered by war and politics? This is our charter, the Hellenistic way; it is our way, Marcus."

"Am I to get my prize now?" Agrippa asked gently wishing to bring the emperor's attention back to him again. Augustus tapped the box gently deep in thought.

"A lot has happened since you departed Marcus. I have only one man to thank for my safety while you have been away. Unfortunately I made him general in chief shortly before you returned. If I now take this prize from him in the eyes of my people I may seem indecisive or incompetent. This would never do."

"Would any one dare call you incompetent if they knew the power you now possessed?"

"THEY MUST NEVER KNOW!" The emperor snapped. "No one should know about this; this Word of Power. It is to be our secret."

"But the wager, Sir..." Agrippa said softly. "...what about the wager?"

"You are right. I didn't believe that you could keep your end of it; I should never have doubted you. What a fool I have been. Tell me Marcus, surely there is something else I can do for you?"

A stony silence fell between the two men. A silence that was filled with tension and Agrippa was aware that the Emperor would not suffer this for long.

"There is one thing Principate." Agrippa said using the Emperor's favourite title.

"If you wish to practice the ritual designed for this word. The Enochian ritual I believe it is called, I would very much like to be a witness. I have heard that the mere pronunciation of the word in this box can bring fire from the sky; now, that is something I would like to see."

"I could cut your head off and be done with you instead..." The emperor said smugly.

"... but no Marcus, I feel it would be unbecoming for an emperor to practice this heresy. If you are saying it is something that you would like to explore for me, well then, build a temple for me here in Rome; a temple for the ritual; a temple to Hellenism.

Do so in secrecy, if it's possible to do anything in secret in a city as great as ours, and we shall see what can be done."

"I will concoct a story if you like? Let's say we are building a temple to Romulus and Reemus. Are there instructions for the ritual?"

"Somewhere among my things Marcus, I will find them for you. Can I trust you to use this power for us, men of Rome; to share its secrets with me only; your emperor. Can I trust you Marcus?"

"Of course my Lord."

"Then you shall do it..." The Emperor smiled. "...but it must remain our secret if you are to be my general, my consol and my magician."

"You shall be remembered for being the greatest emperor this world has ever seen, even the gods of Abraham will kneel before you.

Did you say you wanted a Greek influence on the temple, not a Hebrew style?"

"The world must know that the ideology of peace through wisdom is dead. Let them see that Hellenism; order maintained with politics and war, is the true way of our Empire. Hellenism is the true and only path to glory.

Here in the centre of our empire a temple will rise, shining like a jewel in the mid-day sun, here in the centre of Rome. A temple entirely covered in the fruits of bloodshed will rise. It must be as great as the Parthenon in Greece.

Our shrine to power and heroism and all those things we hold dear will be a monument to us; men of Rome. It will become a sword that we will hold at the throat of mankind for a thousand years or more."

Thus the building was erected. Over ten years slaves rolled marble pillars and stone blocks to the place of construction under the Palatine hill. Their backs red from the whip and their foreheads black from the sun they laboured; carving stone from rock.

As the structure rose from the landscape and the wooden supports were removed from under its great concrete dome the tides of destiny turned against the emperor.

Trouble that had loomed for months came to a head when the Egyptian's stopped supplying the Roman armies with grain for their bread. Their queen wanted taxes raised in Rome to pay the higher price for the grain; but gold was needed for the temple.

When the lilac trees blossomed in the twinkling of spring the emperor ordered that bread was made with Egyptian blood. General Agrippa saw to this and when his name was carved above the great temple's portico it honoured this barbarity. Agrippa invited Augustus to view the building and he opened it formally on that same day; a day of Hellenistic celebration.

A fanfare of trumpets and a crash of cymbals announced the start of the procession as it wove its way through the Palatine gates and on through the great city.

At its helm African warriors leapt through the air shaking fists armed with spears in a crazed dance. The citizens gasped in amazement as the warriors twisted through the air and banged spears against skin covered shields. Tigers on leashes at their side growled at the crowd.

Behind them followed a group of Spartan women, dressed in translucent cloth and carrying great sheaths of reeds danced like trails of smoke. Dripping lilac fronds which they carried in bags from their snake-like hips; they danced as petals dripped on the street; a strange blizzard of purple snow.

In their wake strode sixteen drummers beating a wild and exotic rhythm which echoed through the rag-bag buildings and bounced off the wattle walls until the beat was lost in a cacophony of sound.

To this throbbing reverberation, twenty young Spartan boys marched with their training swords clutched to their small chests and savage snarls on their beautiful faces. They were followed by adult Spartan males wearing full armour and holding the emperor's colours high into the breeze.

Ten legions of gladiators followed who themselves held the colours of Greece to acknowledge Augustus' honour of that land. Then behind them marched the emperor's bodyguard dressed in their full armour and palatine colours accompanied on each side by trumpeters and drummer boys.

Then held aloft upon a golden sleigh the emperor was carried and the crowds loved to see him. They screamed his name above the sound of the drums and trumpets as his sleigh was paraded through the streets; carried by forty Arab slaves dressed in gold thread.

The sleigh was fixed to four elephant tusks, one on each corner, by virtue of a golden disc and these were in turn connected to golden rings that held his golden throne aloft.

Augustus, resplendent in his purple robe trimmed with gold, touched his golden laurel crown and smiled benignly as the procession filed down the hill to the temple. He could see, now that the wooden tresses had been removed, that the concrete dome was by far the biggest ever free standing structure in the world.

Covered in gilt it shone like a diamond in the morning sun. Seeing it the emperor turned to catch sight of Marcus Agrippa who rode beside him on a white Arabic horse; another gift bestowed upon the emperor's favourite magician

He smiled and Agrippa nodded back, pleased that his emperor was happy with the construction. He touched the jewel encrusted sword that hung from his hip, another gift from the emperor. Agrippa held the golden blade above his head in salute. They arrived outside the building and the drums went silent.

The crowd was held back by the emperor's bodyguard as Augustus' sleigh was lowered to the ground.

"Hail Augustus!" Shouted Agrippa as his white horse cantering beside the crowd and snorted.

"Hail Augustus!" The crowd shouted back.

Augustus was helped from the sleigh by a slave as Agrippa dismounted to greet him upon the steps of the portico. He threw down his cloak for the emperor to step on and the crowd saw that he was dressed in a simple smock of white linen. Around his waist was a glittering gold belt with a gold disc on the front.

The sight of this hushed the awe struck crowd. To see Agrippa dressed in the symbols of the Egyptian sun god confused them but when he dropped to his knee and Augustus blessed him they cheered as he anticipated they would.

As this cheer rang out the great doors to the temple opened and the crowd saw the space within for the first time. The sight of the marbled hall brought amazed coos from the crowd.

Seeing the great oculus in the ceiling, which let a beam of light through the domed roof into the hall, amazed them and their emperor. Augustus beckoned Agrippa to stand beside him and acknowledge the crowd's jubilation. Both men smiled as Augustus whispered through the side of his mouth.

"Remember Marcus, you are only a man."

Agrippa smiled and bowed slightly before inviting his master into the temple. Once inside Augustus was in awe of the temple's construction. The dome was spellbinding and seemed to rise higher than anything he had even imagined.

He looked up to the centre of the dome seeing the oculus, a round hole the same size as the midday sun, which allowed bright light to beam onto the marble floor beneath them. He knew secretly this was designed for the pillar of fire that the ritual promised.

"This, Master Agrippa is surely one of the worlds wonders." He patted Agrippa on the back.

"You are now a master mason as well as my greatest general."

"Will it be suitable for the ritual?" Agrippa asked.

"Who knows..." Augustus replied. "...You followed the design as laid out in the Hebrew doctrine?"

"I did."

"Then it will be suitable."

"Where did the ritual come from?" Agrippa asked casually.

"I am aware that the Jew Moses was a great magi but I understand that the words contained in the ark from the temple in Jerusalem were incomplete."

"That's true, they thought that the name of their god was so powerful that they could not write it down, hence only the consonants were found in the temple.

But we heard that a tribe of Israelites had themselves a sacred book containing details of the ritual and after a search of many small temples we found the location of that tribe. The rest, you know, is history my friend.

I have heard they call my secret book, the Tettragrammaton..." Augustus said as the two men walked through the temple."...a poem of twenty-two syllables, I am impatient to see it used. It was rumoured, as you know, that it was magical incantation that Moses used to part the Sea of Reeds.

With it he brought fire from the sky and this enabled the Israelites to escape Egyptian slavery. This power is now in Rome's hands and it shall ensure Rome's power for all time."

"You thought this was myth and superstition."

"Perhaps I was wrong. But they say this Name of Power is dangerous..." Augustus replied as they strolled around the great space under the dome.

"... To ensure it does not kill the one who pronounces, this invocation, you must follow the set of rules closely; Marcus."

The emperor walked with Agrippa in to the centre of the temple and looked up at the oculus.

"The ritual must be taken seriously if you are not to be burned by the pillar of fire. Are you ready to practice this magic?

"I am honoured, Sir." Agrippa replied, knowing in his heart that once he had used this power, his heirs would inherit the golden laurel crown of the empire.

There could be no other way, especially as Augustus was now aged and weak, and childless. Having the knowledge of Heaven and Hell would be Agrippa's key to the empire.

So it turned out, after the death of Augustus Agrippa's sons took the throne of the Roman Empire. Time marched on and, eventually Tiberius (a descendent of Agrippa, not Augustus) became emperor, and lord of the palatine hill.

One hot summer's day he was in the great Coliseum theatre watching two gladiator's fight in the midday sun. Blood strewn the sand and the crowd roared for more. Nobody took any notice of the dusty messenger who entered the rear of the coliseum and fought his way to the guards that surrounded Tiberius' balcony.

They fought to hold him back and a commotion broke out. Eventually the emperor looked around and asked what all the noise was about. The messenger held out a scroll which had the seal of Pilate upon it.

"Here Sir..." the messenger shouted. "...a message direct from your consulate in Palestine."

"Let him through." Tiberius said as before him a gladiator threw a net over his opponent and used his trident to pierce the man's heart.

A roar swept through the crowd as the man fell to his knees. The gladiator took his sword from his belt and was about to chop the man's head off when the gladiator's trainer ran in to the circus and stood in front of the injured man.

"Very good." Tiberius shouted, clapping his approval. He gestured that the man had fought well and that his life should be spared, very much to the trainers' approval.

The crowd roared their assent and the injured gladiator has helped out of the ring. The triumphant gladiator raised his trident high and the crowd screamed.

"Sir..." The messenger repeated. "...a message from Palestine."

Tiberius beckoned for the messenger to approach and looked closely at his dusty clothes and face. He had obviously been travelling on horseback for many days without a break.

"Bring this man some water." Tiberius said casually taking the scroll from the messenger and, after breaking its seal, read the contents in thoughtful silence.

After a few moments of contemplation the emperor addressed his company of senators.

"It appears Pilate has been asked to judge the Son of God." He laughed causing a ripple of smiles among those around him as the senators laughed with him.

"This messenger has travelled from Hierosoluma to Acti, onward to Athena, then to Ostia and then on to us here; to this great convention. Just to ask a question; what should Rome's position be?

Should we side with the Israelites against this man, this so called messiah or should we stand aside and hand him back to them to do as they wish."

"Are we not the governors of Judea?" One of the senators replied.

"Charged with upholding the law of that land? If this is so then we should act decisively and do what would be in Rome's interest."

"But what would be in Rome's interest?" Tiberius asked.

"If this man claims to be the son of their god, not ours, then he is not placing himself over me? It would be treason in any language otherwise. If he says he is not their king and my loyal subject then no law has been broken. If I order this man's death it may cause rebellion for years to come."

"Bring him to Rome for our entertainment..." Another senator shouted with a chuckle.

"...a son of god would make good show in the circus."

"Very good." Tiberius replied.

"Let Pilate feed him to those Jew lions." Another shouted.

"Perhaps..." The Emperor smiled grasping his toga with both hands and addressing his politicians.

"...I feel there is an answer to this puzzle in the route this messenger took to get here."

Tiberius placed his hands upon his hips and addressed his minister and the crowd.

"Our history shows that, over time, there has been a continuous war between two factions. Those that believe that man can change his destiny by submitting himself to the will of his god; as represented by this man who claims to be the son of a god.

The others believe that man can change his destiny through the politic of warfare; the Greek notion of Hellenism; forcing the gods to prostrate themselves to our will.

Has not history shown that Hellenism is the greater force? Is not the might of Rome founded upon these principles? Our great empire stands as a testament to this system."

He placed a hand on the neckline of his toga and looked up at the sun.

"As this is the case I put it to you, the people of Rome, that we should advise Pilate to rise above the petty squabbles of his slaves and serfs.

This prisoner, a son of Hebraism, can have no real power or he would not be rotting in one of our jails. We should advise Pilate to take a political stance and let the locals do as they wish with him. He must rise above the local rivalry of peasants and if they decide, in the fullness of time, they have acted rashly; it will be of no concern to us."

He turned to the messenger.

"Go and sleep, tomorrow you shall return to Hierosolyma with this message for Pilate. The people of Rome have decided that he should not involve himself in the petty wrangling of the local people; especially as this man cannot pose any real threat to the Empire.

Let it be know that if, and only if, he slanders my name or questions my authority then he should die a traitor's death. Otherwise it is in the hands of the Israelites to decide what they should do with him. This is the word of Rome."

Time marched onwards through the Julio-Claudia dynasty. The secret of the black book passed on to another. His name was Nero and his practice of the magical art was not so prudent.

Having not the patience or prudence to practice the ritual in full, the fire from the sky brought with it destruction to the city. Even a simple circle on the floor, to protect him from the great power the ritual unleashed, was too much effort.

Madness seeped into his brain as the daemons, this magic sought to control, cast their spell upon him. In the end the power worked against him and all those he wanted to control. Nero's last wish was to tell his wife to hide the box. She was told to hide it in the ruins of Agrippa's temple.

"Have you done it?" Nero whispered, in his inner chamber, high on the Palatine hill.

"Yes, my lord..." She said softly looking at his bare and dirty feet.

"...You are free of its influence at last."

"That book, that word, that name..." he spat weakly.

"..whatever possessed me to speak it. A word of such power, wasn't it insanity to imagine such magic exists and that it would bow to me?

Isn't the confusion that now racks my brain just punishment for believing this heresy? No, the fires that rage beyond this hill are its only consequence.

How was I to know that the fire from the heavens would set the temple ablaze and that Rome would burn also?"

"It is over..." His wife whispered as she reached out and stroked his damp hair. The shadows of flames around their building crept up the walls like greedy ghosts as the billowing smoke thickened the air.

"...try not to bother your heart with such matters as it's history now; it is the end."

She listened and heard the trample of soldier's feet approaching.

"No my sweet lover..."Nero hissed as she plunged a dagger in his heart.

"...it has only just begun."

The book was found of course, when Herod had the temple rebuilt and the Empire grew strong again. The ritual practiced in its entirety gave to his magi the fruits of the world and all the knowledge of heaven and hell. In the cold arms of the dark arts Herod consolidated his power.

Time marched on like a legion of Soldiers and from the ashes of the Julio-Claudia dynasty rose the Flavians. The people saw the empire strong as a consequence and there was peace, of course, through the chaos of war. But somewhere in the empire, discord and revolution was rising. During the reign of Constantine this discord came in the shape of a cult. The cult of the fisherman.

It had begun all those years back when Tiberius had told Pilate to do what the locals wanted; this had led to the execution of a Prophet and the birth of a martyr. They had tried to kill the followers of this cult but all this had done was make them more numerous.

They appeared to shine in death and this light brought others into the cult. Constantine wanted another way to end this rising alternative to his reign and thought long and hard about his response.

Late into the evening he had become accustomed to spending time with his wife. They lived for one another being among the gods of Heaven and earth.

They held dominion over everything they could see and feel and touch. Only this cult threatened them.

Of course the Empire was run by others under their direct control but Constantine was wise enough to see ahead and he knew that unless he could control the spread of the cult he would lose everything. Practicing the ritual one hot summer evening he asked what the answer should be.

The gods of the fire told him that the cult could be manipulated if he was to embrace it. He should stop persecuting those in it and instead come as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

He was a soldier of Mithras, he'd answered defiantly, and only Mithras would he worship. Ah, the voice answered, then Mithras should become a wolf. Dress him in the clothes of the cult and then all will blindly worship him.

The magic had done more for the emperor than anything else his empire could offer and as he thought about this the answers became clear. No more would he come among the people to be greeted by silence or lips moving behind cupped hands. The wolf would be worshiped by its prey.

"Oh to be like Hadrian..." He whispered through the pale of opium smoke that rose in a curl from the pipe he was holding. It was a sparse room, a warm room, a room for all seasons. He had been in that particular position for twelve hours thinking through his problem.

First on his stomach sprawled across several big cushions naked. His wife had massaged his back with sweet oils while he had sampled exotic chemicals from around the empire.

For the first two hours she had rubbed musk from the tip of his toes to the top of his groin while he had sniffed powdered Phygaric mushroom. For the next two hours she had rubbed his neck and back with sweet patchouli while he had sucked the essence of hemp through a long water pipe.

Then she had rubbed his head with sandalwood while he had smoked the opium; slowly allowing her fingers to move like a snake down his body to the tip of his penis.

"Oh to be like Hadrian..." He whispered again to no one in particular.

"What?" his wife exclaimed with a sly lizard-like smile. "You want me to strap on the horn of an elephant and sodomize you dear husband; is that it. You fancy the thrill of a young boy as Hadrian did?"

"You would as well, wouldn't you, my love?" He replied dryly.

"If you were the beast of duality, able to take me twice and once in return, well, that would suit us both; alas such a beast does not exist. No my dearest. I wish to be remembered, like Hadrian, as a great leader and a builder of men. Instead I shall be remembered for giving over Rome's power to a sect; a miserable cult.

Even as we speak our people give up their worship of Mithras; they ignore the day of the Sun, the Sol Invictus and the other rituals that tie us together; tie them to me. Our ways are to be forgotten in replacement of and favour to a dead fish."

"You only remember Hadrian..." his wife replied. "...Because he gave you back that magical name of power. Think, what has the magic instructed you to do, do you remember dear?"

"I have been told to welcome the cult and to go as a wolf in sheep's clothing." Constantine replied sitting up and facing his wife wide eyed.

"The magic has given us everything we could ask except the respect of the people; but now I think I know how to get it."

"You cannot turn your back upon Mithras, the sun god has given Roman people something to believe in since Augustus."

"I will give Mithras a new name and the people permission to worship him. He will no longer be the bull-horned man re-born, He will become the Christ, it really can't be that simple; can it? I will have to say that I have embraced their religion while changing its rituals to embrace my own, they will all worship Mithras as the fisher of men. Yes, that will get them to love me; I will be adored and respected for all time."

"If you want their love, husband, why not just stop feeding them to lions?"

"Only two thousand a month, that's all. You'd think that they would have found something else to entertain themselves with; something else to believe, wouldn't you?

So, if they want a religion, I will give it to them. I will place myself at its head and they will worship me; I shall decide it's rituals, its holy days and sanctuaries. Mithras was born on the winter equinox so shall they worship their prophet's birth.

Mithras died for three days before being reborn on the spring equinox; so should they should celebrate his death and resurrection. Mithras was nailed to a tree, this will be their Christ's end. They shall have the Sabbath not on the day of Saturn like the Jews but on the day of the Sun.

This will be their holy day. I see it all now I was told to do these things months ago but the angels talk in such riddles I did not understand. Now I do. My statues will not be smashed after my death but revered.

My likeness from today onward will have the sun burning behind my head and all will think it is a mark of their Christ; when in fact it will be Mithras burning there.

What a great plan, I am astonishing how simple it will be. Simplicity is always the key to make deception work, and we have the magic to thank for it."

"If you give them this my lord..." She whispered hesitantly.

"...they will want everything else, even our treasure; our magical secret treasure."

Constantine reached out and touched the delicately carved wooden box that lay near him.

"The people must never know this secret, it is too powerful for anyone but us. Let them practice their heresy in my name but nothing else. I will grant a Christian amnesty and instruct my scribe to collate all their writings.

We shall examine all and keep what is favourable to Rome. This will make me a honourable man in their eyes, a man to be remembered.

I shall not leave buildings as my legacy, like Hadrian did, but I shall build a church in my name and this will last longer than any brick of stone."

"Yes..." she said excitedly. "...Make the heresy complete, let them ignorantly worship all the pagan gods of old while we laugh behind cupped hands.

Let's say he was born of a virgin and see them bow down to statues of mother and child. What a thrill it would be to see them prostrating themselves before Isis and Horus..." she sniggered seditiously. "...imagining their Madonna."

"Yes and for good measure, we will instruct them to end each prayer with the name of Amon; the bringer of sunlight." Constantine replied giggling like a small child.

"What treachery; it will be the greatest trick in history if we can pull it off."

"I cannot wait. How should we go about this?" She whispered taking the opium pipe from him and sucking in then fumes.

"First I shall issue an edict permitting them to go freely in our realm. Then I will instruct every province to send forth a representative with their old writings for collation in a great book of the law. We shall call it the codex.

Remember dear, whoever controls the present also controls the past."

"You surely are a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Yes, I am their sheepish wolf." he smiled before howling at the moon.

They flowed into the hall like a frightened flock of geese forming a crescent audience around the central throne.

"Don't be scared." A Roman centurion shouted as they entered.

"It's true that you are protected here; the emperor has found your god."

They were cautious but became less so when they saw there was no obvious guard preventing them from attacking him when he entered. Perhaps it was true and he was going to honour the amnesty.

They had plenty to attack him for considering the previous years of bloodshed. But their curiosity got the better of them and they took to their seats and waited patiently.

When the room filled, a loud blast of trumpets announced his entry; resplendent in purple and gold he swept into the room and took his seat upon the dais.

"Greetings, friends..." He laughed, trying to keep his elevated mood hidden, fearing they'd smell deceit if they saw it.

"...I have asked you here to Nicosia to announce to you all the end of persecution. It is the beginning of a new era; the end of aggression from Rome."

His wife touched him tenderly on the shoulder as she stood supportively behind him and tried her very best to look sincere.

"You have brought your written teachings as requested?" He continued smugly.

"Yes." They replied.

"I have the torah, our most holy scripture." Said one.

"Yes, the law from Judea..." Constantine smiled benignly.

"...I am familiar with that. I have been reading a copy of it recently, particularly the story of Moses and his flight from Amana. I know all about his heroic escape from Egypt with the knowledge of the Atum, the divine SUN, while pursued by the evil pharaoh. It was truly, my friends, the birth of monotheism as I understand."

"Well, the story differs from telling to telling." The man replied looking a little confused.

"I have the gospels as recorded by the witness' to His divine Ministry." Another bearded man shouted from the crowd, holding out some scrolls, for the emperor's inspection.

"Good..." Constantine said with a sly grin.

"...for I have decided to unite the empire under one religion, with one book of law. I will collect your writings and instruct my scribe Jerome to collate this information into one great volume which our religion will use forever more."

"And what has caused your transformation?" A grizzled old man with a flowing white beard asked.

"Tell us, what has brought you to our Lord after so long?"

"I saw a sign, I heard the voice of god saying that I was to worship Him, the voice came from out of the Sun on a distant battlefield."

"It's a miracle..." They whispered. "...You are to worship His Son?"

"Yes, the Sol Invictus, the bringer of life, the lamb and the Shepherd." Constantine smiled broadly. "...He that was born of a virgin and died for our sins; to be reborn three days later. I am a fellow devotee."

"It truly is a miracle." They announced.

"The spirit of your god entered my body and directed me to lead you, how about that?" He said with a sniff.

"Well, does this please you?"

The crowd did not reply but whispered among themselves.

"What battle was it?" said one at the front.

"What do you mean?" Constantine answered.

"The battle at which you saw the sign, heard the voice?" the man asked further.

"Who cares, what battle it was..." Constantine replied angrily.but a sideways glance from his wife held Constantine's tongue; his snarl suddenly evaporated into a sickly smile.

"...I was at battle with my brother, and after the sign, the victory was mine. I decided then that your god should also be Rome's."

"It really is the end of persecution?" an old man asked.

"You give us your word?"

"I decree it. Please leave your writings with me and within a year I shall have created one great holy manuscript from them. From today there will be but One Church, One Empire and One Gospel in praise of one God, the father, The Virgin Mother and the Divine Sun."

565 A.D

In the course of time Constantine became what he sought; the first Holy Roman Emperor. From that day artists were instructed to depict him as a saint with a golden halo encircling his head. It was the representation of Constantine as Mithras, the Sun God.

Cities were named after him and in the following years successive emperors took residence in one of these far from the critical eyes and gossip of Rome, Constantinople.

Emperor Justinian built his magical palace far from the greedy and inquisitive politicians of the forum. Constantine's plan was perfect, on the site of an old temple to Mithras, a huge cathedral had been built back in Rome.

The people were told that this was the place of Saint Peter's death and so it was called St. Peter's basilica. He placed the running of the basilica in the hands of a new priest-hood and moved to the empire's new capitol city; as the head of the new order he could please himself and Justinian did just that.

The people knew that he was the head of this church even if he did not physically reside in it on a daily or yearly basis; but they knew his power emanated from it.

The church became an international business promising deliverance with the one hand and damnation with the other. Rome, in the form of the church, decided who would speak and who would be silent, what was right and what was wrong; what plans bare fruit and what should wither on the vine.

The Church decided what belonged to the Gods and what belonged to Rome.

Whether it was land or water, silver of gold, blood or honey they gave it freely; with the promise of eternal life in return.

All the people needed was a leader who was strong, a living god to whom they could supplicate themselves; they got this in the form of the emperor. Through his deeds and actions, in the working of his law, they saw he had access to and a personal relationship with God; indeed he had, but not quite in the way they thought. Upon Justinian's deathbed the emperor called his family to hear his last words.

They entered a small room in silence seeing him lying upon a large and comfortable bed; an old and weary man; who smelt of the tomb.

"I am about to die..." He said softly as oil lamps burned around the darkened room.

"...surrounded by the loves of my magical life. A dear wife, who has comforted me, and three delightful daughters; what more could a mortal man desire?"

He coughed and the four women shook hoping that these would not be his last words; they stepped closer and his wife sat upon the bed and stroked his head gently.

"Please father," one of the girls pleaded. "Don't leave us, not now, we need you so much."

"Fear not Comito..." the old man replied weakly. "...for as you know, death is just a door through which we must pass. I shall wait for you patiently on the other side."

"What shall become of us after you have left?" another daughter asked reaching for her father's hand and clutching the frail, withered fingers.

"Are we to be slaves of Mongolians or the whores to Barbarians"?

"Never!" the old man exclaimed breathlessly, clutching the girl's arm tightly. "The magic will protect you as it has all the years of your life."

"But how?" the girl wailed as tears gathered in her eyes.

"How can we work this magic when even spiders frighten us; how can we summon the demons from that box and not be terrified?"

"No," Comito said firmly. "We could never summon demons."

"I agree with my sister." Replied Theodora simply.

"We have seen you practice the ritual; seen the fire of heaven fill the room and heard the voices of the demiurge. I have always imagined you would be there to carry on forever; that the creator gods had made you immortal, I have never considered being a necromancer myself; alone or with my sisters."

"Necromancy, ha!" Justinian sniffed. "The voices you hear are not those of the dead, it is the voice of the eternal chaos. The practice of the ritual is not raising the dead. It is the art of conversation; conversation and negotiation with our holy guardians; they who created this world of matter and forever look over us. For good and for evil it is the practice of the great work which creates order in a chaotic universe. Without the demiurge's direction all this suffering would be for nothing"

Anastasia, his eldest daughter, stepped toward the bed and looked at her father coldly. She drew a deep breath before speaking.

"I shall take the box containing the book to Rome and hand it to your pontiff." She said proudly.

"If this is the wish of you all..." The dying man whispered weakly.

"...Even if you know this will end our dynastic power; the very power upon which this empire was built?"

"They know." His wife replied softly. "I know."

"Then take it." Justinian said." His eyes closed for a moment while he thought about the book and the magical name contained it contained. A name in four sections and twenty-two syllables.

He remembered how the rituals and working of the mystical arts had been shown to him. He remembered his initiation into the great work and all the insights he had gained over the years. Insights other men could not imagine.

Historically the sacred secret had been passed to the male heir of the Roman Empire but Justinian knew, having only daughters, this tradition would end with him.

He had taken the precaution of teaching his deputy in Rome how the ritual should be practiced and what it could achieve. It would mean that he would be the last emperor to magically lead Rome but that the empire would live on.

It meant his family would lose their control but the empire and the church founded upon it would remain.

"Take it, my dearest beloved, take the box to the Pontiff; he is well versed in its history and will use the magical power well. He will take care of you..." Justinian whispered weakly as tears welled up in his eyes.

"...even if it means the end."

"Perhaps for us?" His wife answered as a cool breeze blew through the window making the oil lamps flicker and the shadows of death dance upon the walls.

"But it will be the beginning for the pontiff and for the church."

"It will seal forever the bond between the state and religion. Wasn't that Constantine's goal; a unified world under the thumb of a unified church?" Justinian whispered softly.

"Are you sure he still protect us?" Theodora asked. "Once he has the power in his hands or will we fall under the onslaught of arms?"

"As long as the church remains strong you shall be strong; as long as the church remains prosperous so shall you. I made him swear this on the book."

"On the bible?" she asked with a curious expression..

"No, my dear child." he chuckled. "On the book, our book, as long as the great work continues the empire and our secret will remain strong"

With these words on his frail lips the old man died clutching an ornate box in his free spindly hand. A box decorated with inlaid mother of pearl and gem stones the box threw delicate colours around the walls and into the eyes of the women grieving around the bed.

His wife stroked the gray hair from her dead husband's eyes and closed them upon the world. Somewhere off in the ether, in that pale place between time and space, Abras Watermountain called across the abyss. His knotted dreadlocks were billowing in the wind and his blue eyes blazing like the sun.

"All those with ears listen up, Rufus is dead..."His voice stormed "...Long live Rufus."

TWO:

For what price a city is born

Waves of pale smoke, like shy ghosts, rose from copper incense burners that marked the four cardinal points of the room. A dark room, small but airy, it was painted red and gold; the colours of war and finance.

The room had no windows and the only source of light was the single candle that burned brightly on a golden altar situated in the centre of the room. The altar stood grandly in the swirling mists thrown down from the incense burners like a mystical castle rising from a lake of veil-like vapours.

To inquisitive eyes the room seemed no more than a host to the altar, protecting it like a cloak from gaping eyes. Protecting it from those who did not and never could understand its purpose; but without the altar the room would be nothing.

When the sulphur mist cleared, here and there one could see under the mists, a royal floor of fine marble; white with a black, green and vermilion inset. Two concentric circles were marked out; they encircled the altar and almost touched the legs of the incense burners as they towered from the floor. Between the concentric circles, the outer in black and inner inlaid green, contained letters and symbols cast in vermilion stone.

Strange and long forgotten the words glittered in the light of the candle; some of the characters were English and some were in a long and forgotten Hebrew script.

Some were in a symbolic language called Enochian; a language older then history itself said to be the invention angels, and given to the seer Enoch. Almost touching the sides of the innermost circle was inlaid a five pointed star and the altar was set in the centre of this. Upon the altar, next to the candle holder, was a fine wooden box; set with semi-precious stones; the box caught the light and appeared to sparkle in the twilight.

It sat upon a cloth of red silk beside a host of other expertly crafted tools. A sword beaten from steel and copper, inscribed along its blade with the words Orbit, Apdosel and imo. A goblet crafted from various metals, a short silver dagger with a black ivory handle. There was a short whip or scourge, a bell on a chain and a wand carved from hazel wood tipped at either end with magnetic iron.

These were craft-men's tools, handmade, with thought and with care. They had been handed down over generations from one craftsman to another. Outside the room, down a grand hall and out through a window could be seen a green and fertile estate of manicured lawns stretching out to a thick forest that led down a quiet bluff and a small stream.

Here sat a man, the owner of the estate, upon a wooden bench. He watched the water as it bubbled through the stream and played gently with the infant child on his lap. The man and his heir were content to do this from time to time; to play by the stream and listen to the song birds in the tree tops as fine white clouds floated in a deep blue sky above their heads.

Inside the Temple, the man thought, he was immortal, the lord of this world and the next and yet outside he became just a man. To walk among the living and vulnerable made him vulnerable too; easily destroyed, like the child upon his lap. The sooner the boy knew his destiny the better, the man thought quietly.

"David". The man said softly stroking the boy's hair. "One day all you see will be yours, my son. Not just the rolling fields, not just our house where you rest your head and take your food; but more than that. More then you could imagine."

He looked into the boy's eyes and saw reflected there his own continence, so fragile at that age and yet his own noble blood rushed through the boy's veins.

"One day you will reign over the entire world, sitting on a throne of gold and marble. The universe will be your dominion; you will walk with Gods."

"But Daddy?" the boy replied, "Does that mean I am a prince?"

"You will have kings and princes kneeling at your feet, Son." The man replied sardomically.

"With His name upon your lips, you shall be a king among kings. When you know the history of our family you will know the history of the world. All will become apparent. One day all will be clear to you. You will be shown the path and with this sacred knowledge in your heart and his name on your lips you will be a God among men."

"Has God got a name father, has he, like mine?" the boy asked simply. "One with which I can call him?"

"Everything and everyone has a name my holy son; even God. It's a long and complicated name but a name no less. One day you shall say it; I shall teach it to you and you shall know its power. Some fools call it the Tetragrammaton; but we are wiser."

"What does it mean?"

"All in good time, my son..." The man replied. "...It will take many years to teach you properly but one day you shall understand this mystery.

Let's just say for now that it's like a poem, a poem with four verses. In time you will learn all of them."

"A poem with four verses?" the boy said softly.

"Yes, my Son, four verses and twenty two syllables; with this knowledge you will possess the key to the universe."

"History, history! This is the most important thing!" David's father shouted as he stamped upon the toy train set the boy had been playing with. It was a New Year and his father had given the boy the train set as a gift; telling him not to play with it but to keep it in its box.

He was only to look at it, appreciated its beauty and value rather than play with it. It should have sat upon a shelf to be envied and marvelled at by the boy's friends. It was a conversation piece; something to treasure. The boy burst into tears as the toy was crushed.

"How many more times have I to tell you." The boy's father continued.

"History is everything, without history we are nothing. The day you learn this lesson will be the day you become a man."

"But father, I am only six years old..." the boy whined.

"...Can't I be a child and play. After all, I have no friends."

"So you are bored. I will engage a private tutor so you can begin to learn your alphabet and numbers. This fixation with childhood must end; your destiny is waiting."

Ten years later

"It has been some time since I saw you bathing?"

"Yes father, I am no longer the child you liked to bully." The boy replied drying his body with a towel.

"Good. I hope your mind has grown too because soon you will have to be ready." His father replied with a fixed stern look.

"Ready, for what?"

"All in time my son. I did not really bully you as a child; did I? I was trying to give you strength of character."

"It seemed like bullying to me. I mean, this house is so big and lonely I felt at times rather lost in it; our relationship was quite intense because of that."

"You forget the servants, how can you feel lonely with so many servants; it's not possible."

"They could never be my friends, could they? I think my childhood was rather sterile."

"It had to be that way; although things are about to change; first answer me three questions?"

"Oh daddy, do I have to do this now!" the boy exclaimed having heard this phrase so many times in the past and still not understanding why. He saw his father tense up and watched as the grey haired man's breathing quickened.

"Answer me three questions and you will be a king among kings, stamping nations underfoot do you understand? Now answer me, three questions that is all."

"You always do this and the answer is always the same. How can I answer if I do not know the questions?"

His father laughed and walked away from the shivering boy. He left the bathroom and walked to a window looking out at the grounds and in the distance the setting sun. His eyes glassed over, just for a few seconds, but then he pushed the emotion inside; pushing it all down. Repressing it deep within by throwing back his shoulders proudly. He didn't like to consider the future like that, face the truth of what was to come.

It troubled him greatly knowing that his son, his beloved boy, was going to witness in his lifetime, the destruction of it all. He felt a gently touch upon his arm and noticed the boy was beside him. Dressed in a white towelling gown, his hair neatly combed upon one side.

"Father?" the boy asked gently. "What are the three questions?"

"Not today, my Son. You must sleep and get your rest because tomorrow you have a new tutor to meet."

"A new tutor?" the boy said sounding a little confused.

"Surely my education has finished. I've had ten years of languages, arithmetic, English and Latin, what else is there to know?"

"The truth." The old man said wearily.

"In time all will become clear; let me tuck you in bed like I used too."

"Will you read me a story as well?" the boy chuckled.

"Not tonight."

After setting the boy in his bed the man rubbed his tired eyes and turned the room's light off. Pulling the door closed he crept away hoping that tonight the boy would sleep soundly.

He walked down a great hall and to the top of a sweeping staircase that led to the ground floor. Before descending he stopped for a moment and checked that the boy had not followed him and then continued. A valet was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him.

"You have a visitor Sir." The valet whispered. "A Mister Kiffer; I have shown him the gold reception room."

"Thank you, James." The old man said. He walked to the reception room doors and steadied himself before entering.

The room was huge and imposing, with a thick royal blue carpet on the floor and large golden tapestries on the walls. Mr Kiffer sat by a window watching the moon rise above the nearby hills into a starlit sky.

"Mr Kiffer, I trust you have not waited long?"

"Not long Sir." Mr Kiffer replied standing. "Your staff very kindly took my coat and hat."

"Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, that would be nice." He said letting a little Irish accent show.

"With some cake and biscuits; I am very hungry after travelling so far."

"Of course, James tell cook to prepare a late supper for us both."

"Yes Sir." James replied before leaving.

"I hope your journey was not too eventful?"

"No, not really..." Kiffer replied taking his seat again.

"...but I did not realise how remote your house was; one forgets that this country is so huge."

"Has the maid taken your luggage?" The elder man asked stepping to the huge fire and warming his fingers.

"I travel very light, Mr Stein. I have no cases, no excess baggage at all. In fact I am the epitome of the light traveller, sir; neither burdened by the weight of my past or packed down with dusty future desires.

Not fearful of losing belongings in the future I can be footloose and free to fancy whatever I choose; whenever I choose. You see what is owned, I believe, can only be lost. This is a lesson all of us must learn in time."

"A philosopher as well as a tutor; good, good; but you have books, I guess, study books, being sent to you?" Stein asked seriously, his brow wrinkling causing Kiffer's spine to run ice cold .

"A tutor needs books surely?"

"Am I being employed to teach your son the tree of life?" Kiffer snapped back defensively; pursing his lips and meeting Stein's frosty glare with one of his own.

"Yes, but..."*

"There are no buts..." He interjected. "...Life cannot be learnt in a book and so goes for the mysteries of the tree. I was assured you'd know this lesson Mr Stein."

"You come well recommended Mr Kiffer." Stein said. "I am beginning to see why."

"You live in this grand old house alone, just you and your son?" Kiffer enquired casually glancing around at the opulence that surrounded the two men.

"Yes, just me and the boy; oh, and the servants of course."

"Of course." Kiffer continued stepping closer to his host and smiling graciously. " Is there no Mrs Stein?"

"The boy's mother died in childbirth." The old man coughed and looked remote for a moment.

"I am sorry..." Kiffer said stonily. "...At least I will not have to cut any apron strings."

"Yes, there is that."

James entered the room with a trey of food and drinks which he placed upon a small table by the fire. Kiffer stood and walked towards it and as he reached Stein he watched the valet leave the room and close the door.

Both men looked intently at each other for a moment, eyes to eye. Cold dead eyes meeting an inquiring expression. The curved lashes and twisted brow sensing intuitively something unsaid; a psychic message permeated the mental environment so strongly is was as if the message had been shouted through a megaphone.

Suddenly a realisation dawned on Kiffer and he hurriedly stepped forward dropping to one knee in an act of profound submissiveness.

"Master." He whispered hesitantly. "I did not greet you properly. Forgive me; I am but a man with all his weaknesses and burdens; please forgive me sir."

It was early in the morning a few days after their introduction that Kiffer was due to begin teaching the boy. A thin layer of frost covered the grass that lay between the main building and a set of small, one story out-houses which verged the forest beyond.

One of these out-houses had been turned into a habitable abode for the new tutor. He had specifically asked for bare rooms painted white with only a red carpet upon the floor.

The rooms were always warm being centrally heated and the only piece of furniture beside a bed and table was an incense burner that hung from the ceiling and a large bronze gong. There was, of course, a good shower and it was supplied daily with a selection of clean towels.

After his morning shave and shower the tutor knelt before the incense burner; which had been loaded and lit with a sweet smelling root, he banged the gong four times and mumbled a soft chant.

Lifting his left index finger to his lips and beginning the gestures, Kiffer whispered:

"Ateth..." He then finished the chant with the motto of the cult.

"...Love is the law, love under will."

The tutor left his abode on the stroke of eight and stepped lightly across the green towards the main house. After climbing the back stone steps he entered and walked confidently through its great, imposing halls.

It had been three months since the boy's magical education had started; three months sharing the basis of a lifetime's work and knowledge. Still Kiffer pondered, he had a further five years to mould the boy's interests.

He approached the boy's quarters and tapped gently on the door to the room they had decided would be the classroom. After a brief interval a voice called from within and he was asked to enter.

"Good Morning Mr Kiffer." David said as the tutor closed the door behind him. The boy was sitting at a large desk having been washed and dressed, fed and watered by the staff. He looked very studious except, as Kiffer noted, for a comic open upon the desk.

"Good," the man sniffed. "Good for whom?"

He walked across the room and took a piece of chalk that lay upon an easel and started to scratch a word upon the board the easel held up.

After looking at the word for a moment the man turned to the child and whispered softly.

"Today we are going to talk about the Kabala." He paused and David thought he saw a smile cross the man's face but looking closer it faded into a snarl.

"You have heard of this belief system?" Kiffer enquired. "I know you father has a deep understanding of this system and I wonder if he has ever told you about it?"

"My father has shown me the Tree of Life..." David replied.

"...when I was a small child."

"And what did he tell you?"

"He told me about the Onion Theory." The boy answered before pausing awkwardly.

He never knew whether to continue or to give way to the tutor's greater knowledge at these moments. Especially when talking about the Kabala, his father had always told him that this was a secret known only to a few and that it should not be discussed in public or to strangers.

"Fear not child..." Kiffer said seemingly to read the boy's concerns.

"...There are no strangers here. I want you to tell me your understanding of this so called "Onion" Theory. So that I can properly estimate your understanding of the subject; pray continue."

"My father told me to tell no-body."

"Yes,

"And that this knowledge should only be known to a few. The initiated..."

"Well..." Kiffer interrupted. "...the mysteries can be known by anyone who seeks to find them, but only a few know how to use the knowledge.

This is one of the great universal laws; seek and you shall find. Now tell me, what have you found?"

"The universe," the boy said slowly, concentrating on each word as they formed in his mouth.

"The universe is constructed like an onion, a central core surrounded by nine successive layers or emanations.

Earth, being the densest of these spheres, is situated in the very centre, the core. We call it Malkuth. It is surrounded, like the core of an onion, as I said, by nine consecutive spheres or skins. These are emanations from the outermost, or infinite.

Each skin has its own density, name and character and the most external one, the very last, the tenth, surrounding the whole onion is Keather, or God Head.

The other spheres are emanations of this supreme whole."

"Good, continue."

"Kabala is essentially Gnostic..." The boy said confidently.

"...Unlike Christianity which is based on the relationship between god, his son and his revelation to man, Kabala does not rely on the esoteric for truth. We can find truth in god's word through the secrets of the Torah; the Kabalistic doctrine. Truth is encrypted in this great work and the Zohar is the key to this truth."

"It sounds like you have been reading a press release, David. Now, tell me what you have found yourself, what it the truth as you understand it to be?"

"Well." The boy continued. "Most people think that they can talk to god by going through his son Christ or his other prophets, but we learn from the Zohar that we can talk directly to god by understanding the route.

The route as defined by the Tree of Life. That there is a path between Malkuth, earth and Keither, godhead; knowing the correspondence between these things makes it possible."

"Keither, yes." The tutor said with a smile. Rather a nice sounding name don't you think?"

"It's a little like your own..." the boy smiled. "Keither and Kiffer; it is pronounced the same."

"True. So, there are no strangers here, do you trust me now?"

"Yes," the boy replied with a wide grin.

Kiffer smiled in return and asked.

Now, have you learned the names of the other spheres?"

"Malkuth, the earth..." The boy replied. "...it is our material realm, our earthly kingdom."

"Kingdom?" Kiffer sniffed quizzically, leaning towards the boy expectantly.

"My father explained about the correspondences as I grew." The boy continued.

"The correspondences between each sphere, or Sephira as they are traditionally known, and the twenty-two trump cards of the tarot for instance.

Malkuth corresponds with the Kingdom card because we are children of the kingdom, children of the earth; in a garden looking at a tree of knowledge, aspiring to climb to its apex and sit with the godhead."

"Your father is a great man and he taught you well." Kiffer mused.

"I know." The boy replied

Kiffer wondered what he was expected to do, being invited to share the house with a master, expected to teach a true master's son; a child who had high magic, the great work, born within his being.

Kiffer knew that the next step would be to take the child and lead him through the practical arts of ritual magic. Surely not, Kiffer thought, he must try to speak to Stein about what was expected of him as soon as possible; where the child's education should go. He looked at the boy and smiled.

"Well boy, don't daydream, the other names of the Sephira and their correspondences.

"Yesod..." the boy continued. "...The skin, sphere or emanation after Malkuth; It corresponds with the Foundation, for it is the foundation of our dream world. It is otherwise known as the astral plane. It is where we go in our dreams. Hod, this corresponds with Majesty, being the source of all creativity..."

That afternoon Kiffer left word with a member of staff that he would like to have an audience with Mr Stein. Soon after telling the valet his request Kiffer found the same servant summoning him to the master's office.

Kiffer followed his guide in silence carefully calculating what he would say to Stein once they were alone together.

Then before he had composed anything of any worth in his head the valet was tapping upon a huge set of mahogany doors and waiting to be asked to enter.

"Come!" Stein's voice rang out from within. The valet pushed the doors open and Kiffer entered respectfully.

"Ah, Mr Kiffer?" Stein said as the doors were silently closed behind his guest. "You requested to see me?"

"Yes Sir." Kiffer replied keeping his gaze on the floor. "I have found that your son possesses great knowledge."

"Of course?" Stein replied.

"Yes Sir." Kiffer said humbly. He raised his gaze and looked his employer in the eyes and saw burning in them, like beacons on a frigid winter night, ruthless understanding reflected back.

"I say so because I am at a loss as to where to begin. He appears to be well versed in all the basics and these were what I imagined I would have to teach. Today he told me that Keither was the initial emanation which produced the whole of creation; the Godhead.

I asked if he knew that man could travel from Malkuth to Keither and return again and he told me that this was possible upon the pronunciation of certain passwords; one for each consecutive sphere.

He told me that he knew all these passwords although he had never climbed the tree, is all this true?"

"It is." Stein replied. "I have taught the child our traditional knowledge since his conception."

"He is familiar with all ten Names of Power?"

"He is?"

"He said that he is waiting to be taught the one great word that unlocks all the spheres; The tetragrammaton?"

"He is. You seemed shocked." Stein smiled. He walked toward the tutor and whispered in his ear. "I am the keeper of this word."

" You cannot mean the supreme crown, that which allows man to be One with God?" Kiffer said softly. "I understood the Tetragrammaton was lost in time; that it did not exist today."

"But why do you seem shocked!" Stein repeated through clenched teeth looking perturbed by the man's ignorance.

"I had no idea that I was in the employment of such a great master. I knew you were the head of our temple but not that you possessed this power. If true then this boy could be my tutor, could he not?"

"Unfortunately not, Mr Kiffer." Stein said straightening himself up and walking to the other side of the room.

"You see the boy needs direction, he need to be led through the practice of the minor arts and rituals. He needs to be rigorous and tempered by instruction; it is dangerous otherwise.

I could provide this direction of course but I am too close to the boy and I may rush him. All fathers expect their children to learn at their pace rather than going at the pace of the child.

You are an outsider, you could be a better tutor then myself. In time, when he is ready I shall take him to the final step and then he shall receive the supreme crown of knowledge."

"You will pass the tetragrammaton on to your son?"Kiffer asked excitedly aware that his jaw had dropped almost upon his chest.

"As my father passed it on to me." Stein replied coyly.

"Master, could I not be told this great secret. I have dreamed of finding this lost knowledge all my life." Kiffer said rubbing his hands together.

"You will receive your prize..." Stein replied looking out a window towards the rolling pastures beyond.

"...only when the work has been done."

"Tell me Master..." Kiffer said as he began to leave.

"...How far do you want me to take your son?"

"To the limit, of course." Stein replied. "Take him to the limit."

David's personal valet had been thinking about the boy's relationship with his tutor. It was a relationship that was encouraged by the master of the house and appeared to exclude everybody else.

He had seen the tutor walk across the green every morning, always at the same time and always in the same clothing. It suddenly struck him that he hadn't seen the tutor that morning; in fact, when he thought about it, he hadn't seen him for some time.

He registered his dislike of the funny little man with a small sneer; wondering what on earth possessed the master to employ him. He remembered how angry he had been when, a few weeks previously, the boy had expressed an interest in buggery. When questioned further he had remarked casually that Kiffer has told him it was a way to perceive god.

Then the boy gave him a lecture about Tantric Magick, whatever that was. He recalled being quite sickened by this remark. When he asked the master if he could talk to him about the tutor he had received a curt response and told to leave the boy's education with the tutor.

He had become so concerned that he had followed the boy into his study one morning hoping to join them for the day. The experience had not gone to plan as the tutor had made it obvious that he was not welcome. Even though he had known the boy since he was a toddler; watched him grow and been his closest companion.

While in the study the valet had been amazed to find that it was arranged not like a classroom but like a temple; smelling of sweet perfumes and oils.

There was a large circle on the floor and David was lying in the centre of it seemingly unconscious; dressed in what looked like a roman toga.

He had run to the boy and tried to rouse him only to be verbally abused by Kiffer. He had left the study vowing to leave the house as soon as his affairs could be put in order.

The master had then summoned him to his office and had shouted at him at the top of his voice. He told him to pack his bags at once and to leave the building and reminding him that he had signed a legal document at the commencement of service promising confidentiality.

The master had said that the tutor was teaching the boy a Greek mystery play as part of his history lesson. To which the valet replied that it was strange the boy should be learning Greek when he was dressed as a Roman.

Dreams warm dreams, flowing images like a soft stream or creek, streaming past the eyes; the cold eyes, closed eyes, eyes that flowed. It was morning in the room but behind David's eyes it was quiet evening time.

It was the time when all is still and soft and flowing. The time when hearts stop still, in the twinkling of his eye, he was there watching. He saw a Roman centurion lying dead at the foot of his master, Agrippa, who was laughing like a madman; jealously caressing his treasure. Holding it tightly, kissing it, knowing that the world was his oyster; prizing it open. He had gained power to rule over all the men of the world; over the elementals; Now HE was a God.

Agrippa realised that the ancient tribe that had possessed this power before did not have all the puzzle; just part of it. It took a Roman to put the pieces together.

First he stole the four letters from the Jews, what they called Jehovah; Yod He Vau He. These and their correspondences to the elements of Earth, Air, Fire and Water had been known since time began. What had been lost were the missing constanants, the other 18 syllables which made up the whole poem.

He had dreamed of this moment ever since being told about it; this power that could lead any army to victory. He was told that an old man had possessed this knowledge before him and Agrippa had seen this man in his dreams. He was a supposed prophet who had walked among men; and he, Marcus Agrippa, had slain him.

He had sought to destroy them all, the ones who knew the power of this word. Every single one of them had to die before Rome remained alone, in control. In possession of this word, the divine name for the rest of time.

David's dream shifted again, he was there, watching another scene unfold.

"What of the man they call the Christos?" They had asked in the marbled halls of power. Their voices hanging in the air like a chemical smell, acrid, pointed and almost sharp on his nostril.

He looked at them knowing they had the solution on their lips. For indeed that man, the Christ was just a man, an insignificant insect of a man when confronted by the might of Rome.

He had no power behind his Words, Rome had plundered it all before he was born. From Abraham's Book of Law and all the way down; Roman armies had marched to every corner of the known world collecting their power.

It was a magical power which men could not comprehend. They were using it for one reason; one purpose, the Glory of Rome; a glory with which his clothes were now fashioned.

"Your morning shower has been arranged, Sir" the new valet said, gently waking David from his dreams. He was about to stroke the boy's head but refrained when the boy opened his eyes and fixed him with a steely look.

"One day I shall let you touch my hair." The boy said sitting up in bed and smiling. The smile made the valet feel distinctly ill at ease.

"Then I will have to kill you." The boy laughed.

"Very droll, I'm sure." The valet replied turning to leave the boy. He paused at the door and looked back.

"How will you kill me, surely not with your wit?"

"Oh come on, don't you find me amusing?" the boy countered as he got out of bed and walked across the room naked.

"...Even if I am being serious." He said under his breath.

He walked to the open bathroom door and pissed in the toilet sniggering to himself. The valet huffed and closed the door.

"I should shout it from the rooftops," the boy said aloud as he climbed into the shower.

"The staff do not find me amusing; what a fucking joke that is. You'd think the bastards would laugh at all my jokes; after all, what are they being paid for."

The valet returned with a batch of fresh clothes and walked to the bathroom to lay them on a table by the shower.

"What do you say to that?" the boy shouted.

"I've not the foggiest idea what you are talking about sir?"

He looked briefly at the boy sniggering behind the shower screen and said dryly.

"I suggest you finish your morning ablutions and get ready for your day's tuition instead of asking foolhardy questions."

"Oh, you do, do you?" David replied sarcastically looking around the shower screen in disgust.

"Well I propose you keep your fucking suggestions to yourself and know your place; you fucking shit."

"Yes Sir." The valet replied sarcastically, quite used to the teenage boy's language, and not frightened by it any longer.

"Tell me?" The boy said as he turned off the shower and reached out a hand for a towel.

"Do you believe in God?"

"God Sir?" the valet replied watching the boy dry his hair with the towel.

"Yha, God? Do you read the bible, church on Sundays and all that stuff?"

"Your father requires us to be here at work on Sunday mornings..." The valet replied.

"...As that's the case I do try to read the bible when I can."

"So you believe that God has a name, right, one which you can use to call him?"

"I believe the name is Jehovah, Sir. Although whether you can call him with it is debatable."

"Jehovah?" David repeated turning upon his heels and handing the towel to the valet so that he may dry his back and legs.

"Where does that name come from?"

"Jehovah Sir?" the valet replied standing to look the boy in the eye and finding there, in the valet's opinion, an expression so ugly and grotesque that it would frighten a horse.

"I've discussed this very subject with the cook. She and I spend some of our free time together and the bible is never far from her thoughts.

I have read in the front of King James" bible, in the preface, that when the book was first written all that remained of the great name of god were the letters Y.H.V.H. The name being so sacred that it was passed down word of mouth and over the course of time only these letters remain.

They were compared by the writers of the bible with similar words and they decided the actual name was Jehovah. Simple really."

"But the bible was written by a Roman Emperor, surely you know that? Let's say you were that emperor, wouldn't you keep the name for yourself so that the book had little or no meaning?"

"I don't know about that, Sir" the valet replied awkwardly.

"It's an interesting theory. Not one I would care to trouble myself with, I believe faith is just that, a matter of blind faith."

"But what about truth..." The boy replied getting agitated.

"...Because the truth is, the modern bible was translated from a Roman compilation.

This was the end of a well thought out plan by Emperor Constantine; a plan that still echoes today and is responsible for my power over you."

"A plan sir..." The valet asked, not really expecting a reply.

"...What plan would that be?"

"The plan?" The boy replied suddenly thoughtful and sullen. His eyes became vacant and the valet thought he noticed a slight quiver in the boy's voice as he said.

"Oh, just world domination; nothing more."

"Why would Constantine want world domination, the Roman's had dominated the world since the Greeks?"

"That's another story." The boy said softly.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying..." the valet sniffed."...It sounds a right load of rubbish."

"Does it?"

"Yes..." the man continued passing a set of underwear to the boy and readying his shirt.

"...You say Constantine kept the word, the real name of God from the bible, secret and that it today is responsible for your power over me?"

"That's right"
"But that was over two thousand years ago, surely it has no relevance today?"

"Suppose, just suppose that I told you that this secret was given to a pontiff on the last emperor's deathbed; that since then successive pontiffs have used its power to exploit the world in favour of the Roman Church; to bring about a new Holy Roman Empire?"

"But it's all ancient history, sir. It has no relevance today"

"You say that, but you are forgetting the Second World War." The boy said wistfully. "When the fascists got power during the late 1930s the Vatican shipped a lot of their most treasured artefacts here, to this country. My family has had possession of them ever since, what do you think of that?"

"A very interesting story Sir..." the valet replied.

"...Even if it does reek of blasphemy."

He cleared his throat half expecting the boy to lash out at his honesty.

"If you don't mind sir, I'll keep to ordinary rendition of the biblical history; better the devil you know..."

"Quite." The boy added. "Then the god you don't, eh?"

Five Years later.

"Thanks everyone." The young man said confidently. "Mr Kiffer, friends, this is an amazing surprise..." He looked coy for a brief moment revealing his inexperience of public speaking; but then the coyness was gone being replaced with a wide, almost manic grin.

"...and a special thanks to my father." He said turning to face the elderly man at his side.

"If it wasn't for him, none of this would be possible."

The elder Mr Stein held his shoulders back proudly and placed his right hand upon the boy's back.

"There only remains one thing..." Elder Mr Stein announced to the small group of people assembled in front of the dais upon which they stood.

"A man reaches the age of twenty one only once in his life; a woman may reach it many times..." he quipped.

"... but for a man it is a special age; an age where dreams can come true."

He paused for a moment and looked around the room at all the familiar faces staring back at him. They were like a big, happy family. None of them were related, except in their traditions, but they were closer than any other large family.

"Reaching this very special age," Stein continued with a benign smile.

"has a magic all of its own. It's a special magic that can open doors; even doors which lead to other worlds. And..." he added casually.

"...if you want to open a door, you need a key."

The small group sighed as the elder Stein placed his hand across the younger Stein's shoulder and thrust his other into the boy's hand; shaking it vigorously. The small group broke into applause.

"As is customary in our small, tight family..." Stein announced over the clapping.

"...Before my son, my only beloved son, can take the key all the ladies must vacate this office. You'll find a handsome buffet in the adjoining room." A valet shepherded the women out the room and once the door had closed behind them the men gathered closer around Stein and his son.

They hung their heads and clasped their hands at their groin as if in silent prayer before a gong was struck four times. Its shrill sound echoed around the room and announced the entry of a man dressed in a gold and white tunic. The man stepped towards the group with a clockwork motion stamping his leather-clad feet together when he stood in front of the Steins.

He raised his hands and in his palms was a small red cushion upon which lay a small brass key.

"Splendid." The elder Stein whispered as the bells in the local church tower started to ring out across the valley beyond.

"As is traditional, in this family of ours..." He said humbly.

"...Reaching the age of twenty one has a duality about it that others fail to recognise but is clear to us assembled here.

Not only is this the day my son gets his own house key, but it is also the day he gets the key to our inner circle.

This day he rises from the grade of Adeptus Major and takes the grade of Praticulus. Hail, our new Praticulus!"

"Hail Praticulus!" the assembled men echoed. The old man looked in silence at the boy and thought about his future.

He knew the boy was destined to kill him. As soon as the old man's office was over the boy would have no more need of him and the great plot would begin.

He knew this was to be his end because they had told him; the very creatures the boy was about to master.

"Before I hand the key to my office to my beloved son..." the old man sighed.

"...Let us look back at my guardianship. Back over the years of peace and success I have wrought for you and this great country of ours.

It really has become a place where dreams can come true, a place where In God's name we trust.

I praise Him for the secrets He has revealed to me."

The assembled prayed for a moment in silence. Each one visualizing his own notion of what God meant. This was done blindly as none had ever, of course, conversed with him like their host apparently had. Some pictured images of a wise and old man with long hair and white beard sitting upon a throne of ivory; wearing a golden crown with stars in his hair.

Still others saw only gnashing of sharp teeth and savage bloodshed under a blazing sun. Sharp swords cutting imagined enemies in two.

Some saw visions of spittle rise like semen from their groins; spurting as Godhead over their panting chests; seeing within this divine action a sense of well being incomparable to any other.

Then their host set His vision among them, visualising it filling the room and each of those gathered within it. This caused them to shake and panic and sweat and tremble as his thoughts entered their brains like quick acting poison. The saw visions of cloven hooves stomping across the sky, mad horses whose teeth blazed with lightening and thunderous flashes.

They were chomping on the ashes of man, thrashing his remains into the earth. It was a vision of germs, bacterial assault; it was that heat wave deception. That black cloud and fireball turning the heavens into a furnace. It was the gnashing of sharp little teeth and long ripping nails tearing through cold human flesh.

It was a vision of cloven hooves stomping on human faces for eternity; this disturbed and delighted them.

"David, My Beloved Son!" the old man said at last turning to the boy. Seeing the confident smile of a man reflected back at him. Just as he had been led to believe it would happen, the final chapters were now unfolding before his eyes.

"Take this key and use it well; the key to my office. I have had advisers over the passing years, these great gentlemen have been a source of comfort to me in my lonely hours.

They have pledged their lives to you and the working of our law. Use them well my Son, preserve the old traditions and have mercy on me; forgive my failings. Today I am just a man. Are you ready for this?"

"I am, father. I am ready." The boy whispered, taking the key from the shaking hand of the old man.

"Then I am ready to die."

"I wish I knew what they got up to when they're alone together?" One of the women said to another over the buffet.

She stopped briefly to stuff another caviar puff into her mouth then continued spraying puff pastry over the food.

"Men, can't live with then, can't live without them."

The other woman said nothing and moved on swiftly.

"Damn the lot of them." The woman exclaimed stuffing a chicken leg into her mouth exposing her loose dentures.

"You shouldn't say such wicked things about our hosts." another middle-aged woman replied. She was wearing too much dark foundation and it smeared across her stretched face like bronze plaster.

"After all, it's his birthday and he seems such a nice boy."

"He's the fucking devil." The woman spat sending a piece of chewed chicken across the room into another woman's drink.

She swigged back another large gin before placing her empty glass on a valet's trey and picking up another.

"The kid gives me the creeps." She added with a hiccup.

"Come now..." said another old girl who was dripping with pearls.

"...Try not to be ungracious; we are ladies are we not?"

"I'm a lady..." the woman replied. "You're an old crow. Why I let Teddy drag me here to this mausoleum every year I do not know. It's like visiting the Munster's house."

"Don't you think you've drunk enough tonight, Mame." Said a uniformed flunky as he took the woman by the hand and forcefully led her towards the door.

"Perhaps a lay down is in order?"

"Get your fucking hands off me." She screamed as she was marched toward the door.

"I can't stand these crows when they can't hold good liquor." another old girl said loudly. She twisted the pearls around her sagging throat with withered fingers as she watched the drunk woman being removed.

"His father is a monster and the boy is a devil..." the drunk shouted from beyond the open door.

"Enough!" boomed across the room as elder Mr Stein entered followed by the other men.

"Whoever that woman came with needs to deal with her, She is spoiling the ambiance..."

"The staff have put her in one of the spare rooms." A man whispered into elder Steins ear.

"Good." Stein replied in a hushed voice.

"This project is too near completion. Whoever you are, you know what you have to do."

"Yes, Sir." One of the men nodded before he left the party looking agitated.

He walked down one of the great halls and into a small anti-chamber, which led up a small flight of stairs, and into a darkened room. She was there upon the bed in a rather undignified condition having been hurriedly undressed by the maids.

His wife lay sleeping in her silk stockings and kickers; her bra hanging loosely at her chest. In the half-light of morning she slumbered peacefully unaware that he had joined her.

He moved silently towards her like a cat. Finding nothing about her the least bit endearing the man wondered why they had been together for so long.

He realised that he hated her slouch, hated the way she carried herself. He hated her nostrils and the air that was being sucked loudly through them; he found it all, the whole sorry package, sickening.

He lifted his fingers to the dim stream of light that came through the curtains and closed them plunging the room into darkness. Held delicately in his other hand was a small syringe.

He pressed the plunger and a stream of liquid spurt across the room. He paused for a moment before pushing the thin needle into her goose flesh.

He watched a small mound appear just beneath the skin as the liquid entered her body; then she stirred.

"What the hell are you doing?" the woman shrieked sitting up on the bed clutching her neck.

"Just watching you sleep dear." The man stuttered.

"Don't give me that crap, what's that in your hand?"

"Nothing dear."

"What's going on Teddy..."The woman whispered looking at the suspicious gaze in her partner's eyes and worrying about why he had it.

"...Tell me you fucking son of a bitch. Why are you in this room?"

"Can't a husband visit a wife in her room?"

"You've not done so for three years, so why do so now?"

"I just wanted to say goodbye." The man said placing the syringe on the bedside table for his wife to see.

"What have you done to me?" The woman said weakly as she tried to get off the bed and reach the door.

She stumbled and fell to the floor dragging the bedclothes behind her.

"Why, Teddy, why now?

"Because..." he answered softly as the breath left her lungs in shallow gasps and the whites of her eyes glazed over.

"...Because you were never like her?"

"Like who?" she said with her last gasp.

"Like her, the great she-wolf..." Teddy whispered.

"...she who howled into the heavens, and bayed at the crescent moon. Where is she now, that great beast of Babylon, whose call could bring down the stars from the morning sky? Where is she now, my love, with the flesh of the wild on her bloodied lips? Dressed in Violet and Purple she rode a beast and trod the innocent into the dry earth. At the midnight scream, the suckling teeth

of young warriors are smeared with her blood. Where is she now the sacred mother of Romulus and Reemus ? Our blessed Scarlet Woman who roamed under a black sky hunting the warm flesh and tight sinus of death. Tell me where

There's no blood upon those lips of yours, those blood red lips. A harlot's lips painted vermilion now cold like the hunted dead. I wanted a huntress, a wolf, a mirror of Diana, but instead I married a fox.

Why were you not like her, Mystery, Babylonia the Great mother of Whores? Why? Instead of a tiger I woke to find a tart, instead of a warrior I woke and you were a fat, bloated worm.

Because of you our children are waifs and vagabonds, destined to beg for falling crumbs from our master's table. You have diseased my blood with your family's cowardice and wanting.

In your death throws I feel nothing for you but hatred; nothing but vulgarity. Your vomit tinted breath repelled my love and made it hard like stone. To kill you has been the only honourable act of our marriage. "

We find older Mr Stein and his son in a car with tinted windows. There is a screen between them and the driver, which is closed. The old man is reading the financial news while his son looks out the window perplexed.

"What is it we are doing today?" He asked his father.

"I'm going to introduce you to the staff at the office and give you a feel for the job. Running an international company like ours takes a lot of thought. Are you ready?"

"If I'm not ready now," the boy answered thoughtfully. "...I guess I never will be. Tell me father; what's your take on what we do?"

"Now let me see..." the old man replied lowering the newspaper and composing himself.

"...We do lots of different things son; in the past it was coffee and tea production but today we are mainly information providers. In the old days, before you were born, that was primarily with newsprint but today we are at the forefront of information technology.

Our search engines provide information free at the point of use to over a billion people worldwide."

"So how does that free service generate cash?"

"It's about collating information as well as providing it. We have over three hundred data storage units in thirty-five countries that do nothing except collect information and store it. Information is power, my son."

"So we collect information and then give it away free, how does that translate into dollars and cents?"

"We are the spiders in the web." The old man replied rubbing his eyes.

"You see every time someone uses our search engine we send a cookie to their P.C identifying its location and who is using it.

If they search our data base ten times or more we know who they are, their age, their religious beliefs, their hobbies, their friends, their sexuality and all manner of other bits and pieces.

This information is then sold to other interested parties; mainly advertisers. So if someone searches for cooking sites we may have a producer of cookbooks who can then target that person for their product. That's the top side of what we do."

"Oh yha?"

"We also collate information for government agencies like the D.E.A. They want to know who is researching underground chemistry or ordering the stuff needed to make precursors; the base chemical elements used to make other, more lucrative chemicals.

We can give them that information. That's just at home. Overseas, governments want to know who are researching, say, democratic change; we have that information too. In fact the more sensitive and focussed the information they want the more we can charge to give it. It's all done with mathematical algorithms."

"Doesn't having all this stored information make us vulnerable to cyber attack; how do we protect ourselves?

"We do this by collating information about our users; if you know everything, or everyone, you can usually nip things in the bud.

Remember, our service users are not just the general public, they're government departments, diplomatic embassies and even presidential appointees. We have information on all of them."

"Cool. No wonder we are making several hundred dollars a second. So, as the man at the top of the company what would you say your most important job is?"

"Well David..." The old man thought for a while then looked into his son's eyes.

"...I would say it's got to be hanging on to the position.

There's a lot of hard bastards out there who want our revenue stream and I pay some very bright people to make sure we hang onto it. As long as you keep your eye on the ball you'll be okay."

"Thanks Dad."

One month later

David opened his eyes and looked around his bedroom. He gazed at the dresser, the chair, at the curtains and at the paintings. It all appeared as it had the previous evening; but in the twilight of that morning something had changed.

The sun's spiked fingers stretched through a crack in the drapes and reached across the room towards him. He placed one hand between his legs and felt warmth glowing; he rubbed gently, unable to resist the growing monster down there.

A loud rap came from the door and attracted his attention, he stopped what he was doing and looked as the door was flung back. A valet entered carrying a telephone.

"Sorry if I woke you Sir," the valet said softly.

"But the vice president is on the line."

"Really..." David replied with an air of distaste.

"...Why do these idiots phone so early in the morning?"

"He has phoned twice already, but I did not want to raise you too early, Sir."

"Quite right too." David said taking the telephone from the man and placing it to his ear. "That will be all now." He sniffed at the valet who quietly left the room.

"Hello, David Stein here."

"It's me." Replied a muffled voice at the end of the line.

"Yes?" David asked impatiently.

"Our friends have done as you asked."

"Good." David replied rubbing his crotch furtively.

"You will keep your end of the bargain?" the voice asked expectantly.

"In time..." David replied sucking air through his nose.

"...In time."

"But how long?" the voice asked with a ting of panic. "Your father would have done as requested immediately; there are other interested parties waiting. You don't realise, I'm the only Dove beside the president, left. The Hawks are closing in.

They think it's all been foretold somewhere and they're crazy, I tell you, crazy as hell."

"I am not my father." David spat.

"I will have to give them a timescale." The voice added hesitantly.

"Is there any way you could hurry things up a little; please!"

"Why don't you try begging?" David said with a small smile.

"If that will help I'll fucking beg, just tell me how I can move this along?"

"Who can move the stars?" David replied sarcastically.

"Who can hurry the planets?"

"Look Stein." The voice said angrily. "Don't get fucking esoteric with me. We are talking serious business here. You asked us to do that thing and we did it on the basis that you would do our favour in return.

The ball is in your court now and you had better start playing right or this could turn ugly. Ugliness unlike the world has ever known. These people think God has ordained it. Please, do something; tell us what to do, and fast"

"Or what?" David shouted sitting up in his bed and gritting his teeth.

"Don't you forget who you are dealing with. I am going to act, but in my own fucking time; now stop worrying."

"Okay." The man said. "Sorry, but I'm worried about a leak."

"Don't" Stein said abruptly as he began to rub his crotch again with more force. "Just leave it to me." He added breathlessly.

"Are you feeling okay?" The voice asked as the telephone connection was cut. Stein then threw the bedclothes back as warm spurts came across his belly, he dropped the phone onto the damp bedclothes and sighed.

"Never felt better." He sighed.

As he wiped up with a tissue, picked from a box on his bedside table, the telephone rang again.

"Hello?" he whispered as he placed the telephone to his ear.

"Good morning Mr Stein." The valet said on the other end of the connection.

"I have a state officer on the line. He would like to speak to you, Sir. I understand the matter is important otherwise I would have directed him to the office switchboard."

"A State Officer..." David asked softly.

"...A State Police Officer?"

"Yes Sir."

"Put him through."

The line clicked softly before a deep, gruff southern accent asked. "Mr Stein?"

"Yes?" David replied hesitantly.

"I have some bad news I am afraid." The voice said without any sign of emotion.

"You are about to tell me that my father is dead?"

"Yes Sir," the voice replied obviously curious about the man's statement.

"I am."

David thought he could hear a slight awkwardness in the officer's tone before the silence was broken by a question.

"Was that a premonition?" the officer asked.

"No, the vice president has just called to offer his respects."

"He did?" the officer said with a surprised tone. "News travels fast it seems; tell me, how did he find out?"

"As you say, officer..." David replied throwing the tissue into a nearby waste paper bin.

"News travels fast."

"Of course you will have to arrange for someone to do a formal identification." The officer continued. "Then give permission for an autopsy. Would you like to know what happened?"

"Not really." Stein said arrogantly before adding.

"My father's solicitor will contact you later today"

Then he cut the line.

At a smart reception in the banqueting hall of a five star hotel the guests are clapping as a little, bearded man approached the rostrum.

"Thank you all for being so generous this evening." He said with a smile.

"Let me introduce a man, without whom, all this would not have been possible. The man whose generosity has enabled this mere group of mortals to do what god found difficult..." this small quip was followed by laughter.

"Let's show this man what the Jewish people think of him, come a round of applause, join us please, Mr David Stein!"

Stein stood and was lit with a spotlight. He bowed his head modestly and joined the man on the rostrum before hushing the audience with his open palms.

"Thank you friends..." He said as the clapping died down.

"...As you know my father, before his recent tragic death, followed the cause of Israel for many years and was happy to put his money where it did the most good. I know you were worried that this funding may stop following the sad news. But now it has been shown, beyond any doubt, that his killers were acting under a Jihadist flag I have come forward to take up the banner.

There is evil in this world, an evil force blackened by hatred and jealousy. I understand that the dispossessed, our enemies, covet what we have. They may say they hate our wealth, they hate our jobs, they hate our women, they hate our way of life. But it's all lies.

Really they want all of these things of ours, these freedoms, for themselves.

They eat dirt every day and the taste of blood on their lips makes them full of resentment. Every moment of their pale lives they seethe with hatred and jealousy, they say they hate our ways but they want it, they plot to steal it from us.

This is what they want. Well, let me tell you this; our way of life cannot be stolen or held to ransom, it cannot be bartered and it is not for sale, to anyone!"

The crowd stood on their feet and clapped hard.

"Today Jerusalem is ours, as God intended; with his merciful guidance our enemies will be eating dirt for another thousand years. Their Prophet has led them to this, to starvation and beyond; until they get on their knees and beg us, yes us, not some vague idea of Godhead; but us. Until they prostrate themselves at our altar and beg for our mercy we must make sure they continue to eat our dirt forever."

This brought another round of applause from the ecstatic crowd although at the back of the room an elderly, white haired man smoked a cigarette and smirked.

He was used to the rhetoric and made his own destiny. He played with a ring on his wedding finger, a gold band with a gold cross set in a black stone, thinking about his next move.

This conference was just a part in his bigger plan. He stubbed his cigarette out on the carpet and pulled his mobile phone from his breast pocket. After pressing a number and waiting for an answer he just said one word before disconnecting the call.

"Endgame!"

"Good morning Mr Stein." A uniformed security officer remarked as he opened the rear door of the Rolls Royce. Stein stepped out of the vehicle into the bright sunlight of a spring day. Resplendent in a dark wool overcoat and navy blue suit, which was set off by a white silk shirt and red silk tie, he purposely followed the security guard across the pavement and held out a small plastic card.

The guard ran the card through a magnetic strip reader placed at the side of an amour-plated door, which buzzed and then slid open.

"Thank you Roberts." Stein said as he entered the building having taken possession of the plastic card and placing it back in a leather wallet. The door closed silently behind him. A few seconds later the inner door, which prevented Stein from going any further, clicked and opened.

"Good morning Mr Stein." A pretty girl who sat behind a reception desk at a computer terminal smiled.

"Have you come to open your father's safety deposit box?"

"You've received the required paperwork?" Stein asked slipping the wallet into a breast pocket.

"Yes Sir, your father's solicitor's office sent it over this morning," the girl replied. "Everything is ready for you."

"Thank you." Stein said, feeling his palms sweat a little.

The girl noticed that he appeared anxious but put it down to the sudden death of his father and the responsibility the man had acquired. She had read about the death of the richest man in the world the previous week and had thought at the time that someone was going to become very rich, very quickly.

Knowing how much pressure inheriting a vast amount of money could bring; she didn't know if she envied or pitied him.

The father's death was tragic, she thought, having been the result of a badly maintained Lear jet. It was ironic that the man would still be alive, she considered, if he didn't have the wealth to own such a plaything.

Placing a gold coloured, plastic card, which hung from her neck on a chain, into a card reader the girl looked at Stein.

"Could you enter your sixteen digit security code please?" She smiled. Stein did as he was asked.

"Thank you, now would you go to the door over there and answer the security question."

Stein looked to where she indicated and saw a small microphone that was situated next to another door in the far wall.

"Please speak slowly, Mr Stein." The girl said as he approached the microphone.

"The voice reader is a little temperamental."

"State your name for voice identification." An electric voice asked as he stepped to the door.

"David, Elohym Stein." he replied slowly. There was a brief pause before the door buzzed and slid open. He entered a long, windowless room as the door closed noisily behind him.

The room was grey in colour and bare except for two cubicles that sat along one wall; above one of them flashed a small orange light. Stein walked to this cubicle and stepped inside. A glass door slid closed behind him and he became aware of the noise of his own breathing.

In the wall was a small metal shelf, which had a keyboard and card reader set into it. A red light above the card reader flashed and David removed the card from his wallet again and placed it in the card reader. An electric voice issued a command.

"Enter your five digit P.I.N please." The voice buzzed. Stein tapped the five digits into the keyboard and waited.

"Accepted." The voice said.

There seemed to be an endless wait before he heard a hum and the wall, which had appeared to be solid, clicked and a square hole opened.

Through this a silver coloured, steel box slid onto the shelf. Stein felt his anxiety fade as his bony fingers reached toward the box and clicked the lock. He lifted the lid slowly, savouring the experience.

He now had it all, the house, the money, the business and now this, the key to power; his treasure. He could feel light emanating from within the box and it invisibly shone out like a beacon, filling his being and shining out further beyond his gaze. He could feel the universe glowing in honour of its power.

Stein carefully removed the treasure and placed it in his breast pocket with a small conceited smile. He had no need to remove its dust cover to check that it was really what he had been led to believe it was; this was confirmed just by the tangible energy flowing from it.

It numbed his fingers and hand and in his pocket he could feel it glowing, warm and soothing. It was a sensation that gave the treasure authority and immense potential.

Glancing momentarily inside the steel box before closing the lid Stein was surprised to see an unexpected manila envelope. Upon closer inspection he saw that it was embossed with the legend:

"Three Questions, that is all"

His mind went back to that day after his bath when his father had poked him in the chest. He had poked him with those sharp nails and even sharper tone of voice. He remembered the confusion and realised that he still had no idea what his father had been getting at.

He remembered his father saying that when he knew the answers to the questions, that day, he would inherit his father's office.

He removed the envelope and tore it open. It appeared to be empty and Stein frowned for a moment before a small card slid from the envelope and landed on the steel shelf.

He picked the card up and smelt the distinctive aroma of sandalwood. The card was edged with gold and printed in the centre was three simple sentences etched in black ink.

WHO WILL KILL

Said the first.

WHY WILL THEY KILL

Said the second sentence.

WHAT WILL THEY KILL,

David?

Stein shuddered as he read his own name and realised that his father had known all along. He had known that his life was to be ended by his own son. That his mother had also been killed; albeit in childbirth, by the same person and that they were to be the first of many.

He had the power to kill millions and Stein realised that this was his destiny; the power and authority had been given to him by birth. It was now in his pocket throbbing gently.

He remembered an old saying that Kiffer had repeated after lunch on day.

He had looked over his glass or wine and whispered softly:

"If you kill one person you are a murderer.

If you kill hundreds of people you are a tyrant.

If you kill everyone, you are a GOD..."

Kiffer had laughed out loud and David had thought the man was weird; now he was beginning to understand what the saying meant.

Stein spoke slowly into the telephone receiver. It was morning and the birds were singing loudly outside the bedroom window but this did not interest him. His face was tense and focussed.

"Did you get the payment?"

"It arrived today, thank you for your support."

"Will you be able to move now?" Stein asked softly.

"Enshala, God willing."

"Good, no one must know of my involvement."

"My lips are sealed."

Stein hung the telephone up and thought for a moment. Then the telephone rang again; he picked the receiver up.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously.

"Do you have an answer for me yet?" the voice on the line pleaded urgently. It was a bright spring morning and David was sprawled across the bed once more speaking to the vice-president.

He had become tired of these persistent demands for action from those that served him; especially when they called early in the morning. They did not realise that he had to take some time before coming to a decision; no matter how much they demanded. He had a plan.

His education had shown him the futility of impulsive behaviour. These things could not be rushed and he needed time to prepare; he did not want to risk causing injury to himself or others; because it would only be safe when the time was right.

"Patience..." Stein replied softly into the telephone.

"...Patience is a virtue; didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

"Look Stein..." the voice on the end of the line shouted.

"You and the old man have just about murdered this administration and I'm telling you, if we go down then you and this whole set up will go down with us.

The President and I are fighting the Hawks just to stay in office; is that what you want?"

"Not really." Stein replied, his voice cold as ice and as barbed as a rose bush.

"I am sorry for being emotional..." the voice continued.

"But, don't you understand? You have been telling us that you will give an answer in time. You said that you'll honour your promise to help us. But we haven't got any more time; time has run out and now we are in a crisis.

If you cannot give us the answers we seek the administration will take steps; it will be out of my control and you know what that will mean?"

"You are really beginning to annoy me." Stein replied.

"But the economy is disappearing up your fucking arse-hole..."The vice-president shouted. "...How many more times do I have to say this? Time has run out."

"Let me correct you..." Stein interjected coldly.

"...It's you and your fucking lousy administration that is disappearing; time has run out for you. It never ceases to amaze me how short sighted you and all those other losers in government are. You and the other lot; you're all simpering insects. I could stamp on the lot of you."

"Mr Stein, please, I'm begging you!" the voice strained. Stein listened and heard the distinct sound of a grown man weeping; he smiled.

"Stein, how much time?" The man whispered.

"Mr Stein, if you don't mind." David snapped. "There is no time like the right time and patience, not panic, will help it materialize."

"I see."

"...If that is all? I have other business to attend too." He clicked the telephone off and smiled broadly.

The telephone line went dead across the other side of the city and a man holding the other receiver cursed under his breath. He looked at the telephone as it began to ring again; his knuckles turned white as he picked up and slammed the receiver down.

"Is there anything wrong?" asked another man who was across the room being fitted for a new suit. The tailor said nothing and pretended to be deaf as he busied himself with chalk and pins.

"Is that arsehole playing hardball with you?"

"No, Mr President." The man by the telephone lied.

"Everything's in order."

"Come on, I'm not a fool." The man being fitted replied.

"What's with this guy; doesn't he know what he is risking?"

"He's our best contributor..." The man replied.

"...But just a coffee dealer?"

"A rich coffee dealer; and that's not his main revenue source. He also has the I.T businesses"

"Oh yes," The president replied. "I'd forgotten about that. Coffee, cocoa, computers; it's all the same in my book." The president looked at his reflection and smiled.

"Don't let the bastard get you down; after all we could just kill him and take everything. If it's a choice between us and him, if one of us has to go, well, there's no choice."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Stein closed his eyes and thought deeply. His fingers massaged the sides of his temples and a ray of sunlight sparkled behind his head; bathing him in a warm glow.

On the other side of town the man in the blue suit cleared his throat and left the room. He walked briskly down a hall and into a garden at the rear of the building. He lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke into his chest. Then he noticed a small bird on the grass in the centre of the garden and spat; he didn't like cute things and his ulcer was paying up.

The bird seemed to be looking at him and this made him uneasy; then he noticed another bird. It was behind him near the door.

Something didn't feel right but he was having a cigarette and this was all that mattered until another bird joined the one on the grass.

He sucked in another puff of smoke and looked up. It was just in time to see the edge of a wing and the tip of a beak.

"Mother fucker!" he spat as the beak collided with his eye.

"What the fuck was that?"

He stumbled backward and tripped as another huge black bird, a raven, struck his head. He gasped as its claws scrapped down the side of his face and his head collided with the stone path. The force knocked him out cold and the birds were free to do as they wished. First the soft fleshy skin around his eyes was pecked and then their beaks went deeper.

They dug into his eye sockets and into the brain beyond. He didn't flinch as the blood oozed from the wound in his head. He did not see them flying off with bits of his brain in their beaks to feed their young.

Back in the office the President was speaking to another man who was holding a telephone.

"How could the other administration allow this to happen?" the President said.

"...Surely they could see this would eventually come about?"

"The future looked a long way off." The man replied holding a hand over the telephone.

"They didn't realise that we'd be fighting two wars on two different continents; that our resources would become so critical."

"It's common sense; God damn it!" the president answered pushing the tailor away from him and placing his suit jacket on. He stepped over to the man holding the telephone.

"If you allow one company to become so big and amass so many assets, sooner or later it would start to effect every part of the economy.

It's basic maths one-O-one, for God sake. I don't understand why they didn't put the brakes on his father's finances as soon as a monopoly developed. When this situation first became evident?"

"His father?"the man replied.

"Yes, what about his father?" The President replied.

"I read somewhere that he'd agreed to put half the companies' assets into the economy and that would reduce the overall interest accrued to a manageable sum? This whole crisis would have been averted."

"His death may have directly led to this situation."

"Still, I thought the son would have agreed with his father's wishes.

The president took the receiver from the man in the blue suit and placed it to his ear asking.

"Has he reneged on the agreement or is he stalling?"

"Sort of, he's playing games and..."

"...The balls in his court." The president sighed.

"The fucking shit."

"I tell you." The voice on the phone said anxiously.

"This bastard has my balls in his fingers and he's squeezing them hard, when this bull is finally sorted heads are going to roll."

"Rubin?" Stein said into his intercom.

"I'm going to my private suit for the rest of the day to do some private work."

"Yes Mr Stein." The voice on the intercom replied.

"At around two am I would like you to bring me a light meal; do not come in just place the tray outside the door and leave it."

"I understand Mr Stein."

"If anyone should call please take a message. Tell them I am unable to take calls or receive visitors."

"What if it's Mr President?"

"I don't want to be disturbed by anyone; do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Sir."

"Tomorrow morning at nine A.M I will want a hot bath and some more food. Please have a full breakfast prepared and left outside my room. I will collect the tray after I've been to the bathroom; then I shall be busy for the rest of the day. I am not to be interrupted by anyone."

"I understand Sir." Rubin replied.

"Thank you."

Stein stood and went to the door of his study. He opened it and walked into the long hall that swept away down the side of the house. He stopped halfway down and looked out the window. There was a small bird on the window ledge, a thrush. He smiled and the bird flew off. Stein made his way to his private suit and unlocked the door.

He paused before he entered, thinking back to his childhood and how he wondered what his father did behind this door. Now it was his domain and in it he was the master of this house and the Universe. The feeling of power made his heart beat faster.

A small suit of rooms lay beyond, somewhere safe and warm where he could retreat to escape the pressures he felt in the rest of the house. Here he was away from the snooping eyes of servants and cleaners, which exist in every other part of the great estate.

He closed the door behind him and locked it before climbing a small flight of stairs, which opened, into a lounge. It was comfortable with soft furnishings and cushions. He turned left and went through another door and into a room, which had a wardrobe and bed.

There he undressed and carefully folded his clothes upon the bed. When he was naked he walked to the wardrobe and stared at the full-length mirror that was in the door. Looking closer at the reflection of his eyes he noted the changes. Although clear and bright the lids looked heavier and there were faint lines appearing in the corners.

He stepped from the bedroom back into the lounge and collected a small silver snuffbox from a mahogany table along one wall. He carried the box to the centre of the room and sat upon an Indian style cushion.

There was a remote control on the floor that he picked up. Music flooded into the room from hidden speakers, the volume was low and he used the device to turn it up a little.

He placed the remote control on the floor and opened the box. Inside was a small piece of plastic tape about an inch square with a small blue/black dot in the centre. The blue of the dot contrasted with the clear plastic that surrounded it in an interesting way; the hard and the flexible, the dense and the solid.

Closing the silver box and placing the clear plastic on its lid he rested on his knees and touched his forehead.

"Ateth" he whispered visualizing a white beam of light entering the top of his head and penetrating his skull.

He lowered his fingers to his stomach and touched his navel imagining the beam of intense white light shooting from his scull to his groin.

"Malkuth" Then he touched his left shoulder and whispered.

"Ve Gedulah." Touching his right shoulder he whispered.

"Ve Gebulla." Before resting his folded hands in his lap and intoning the words.

"Le Olhem." In one long and intensely deep hum.

Once this traditional prayer had been said Stein imagined the white light spreading throughout his body; bathing it in strong iridescence.

Through the veins and capillaries the light vibrated; from the top of his head and down to his toes.

He then took the small square of plastic from the box lid and placed it upon his tongue. He bit into the plastic and a bitter taste flooded his mouth. The light pulsated now; he could feel it shining out through his pores and illuminating the room with its power.

He imagined it getting brighter, visualized the room filling up with light, and shining like a blazing star; a morning star. He could force the light through the walls and into the suit of rooms outside. With every breath he sucked more light in through the top of his head and whenever he exhaled it thrust out.

Onward he shone, until he could feel the bright, white light of consciousness filling the estate. Then he visualised it filling the streets beyond the estate's walls. Filling the cities and byways and across the night sky with its white, hot power.

It shone through the universe beyond and then the bitter taste in his mouth tainted the whiteness, filtering out of his body, into the streets and the skies above. Tainting it all with a bitter blue chemical and the boy's determined will. His fixated and hideous reckless WILL.

The sky shuddered in chemical bitterness and the blue, acid taste infected everything in the universe; and even the stars and the cosmos beyond became tainted; into infinity.

Stein exhaled a bitter chemical taste. He relaxed his body, slowly focussing on specific areas from his toes up; soon he was instructing his face muscles to relax, feeling the tension leave him. His breathing slowed to a casual, gentle pace, soft and rhythmic.

He noticed that his mouth was dry; parched like a sandy lane.A snake-like forked tongue darted between his parched lips; cracked but rose red. Frozen petal lips in a forest of a face.

Although he was alone he was aware of something. Or was it someone; he could feel its presence in the room; around him, alongside him. Perhaps it was his loneliness, that thick, grey solitude he had known since childhood. He opened one eye and spied the room; it was then that it happened.

He could feel his pupils dilate, his breathing become more laboured. He had to stand and stretch; oh, that felt good, he thought, as the tension left his aching limbs. He picked up the now sparkled silver box and walked to the side table from which he had retrieved it earlier.

Placing the box upon the table he saw a candle in a silver holder and he picked this up with a chuckle and took it back to the cushion.

There was a tune playing that he liked. He didn't know the name but the melody seemed familiar; he smiled broadly as he lit the candle and sat down again. He looked into the flickering flame and thought he could see something. Something that intrigued him; it was a colourful something that drew his attention.

The room was dark now and the flame lit his face with a dancing beam of multi coloured light. It was a white light in a black sky; a star in a universe of moons. There was something about the light, it flickered on his skin like an oil; flickered on oil like his skin; his pupils dilated further.

There it was again, darting between the blue and the red; was it a colour, he thought? Pinhead big and elephant small it sparkled like a star of sapphire; a little world within the flame; so small it could be the dominion of angels.

He laughed aloud.

Through letterbox eyes he saw the sapphire grow pulsing with radiant energy. Small insects attracted to the light danced in and out of the flame leaving translucent trails in their misty wake.

The insects were weaving in and out thin strands of fine silk or cotton. He became transfixed to the image, curled by it into a lattice, a twisted framework formed before his golden eyes. These were the eyes of a king.

He smelt the vibration before it actually hit him, a bitter, chemical smell that was blue in intensity. The floor shook violently and he held the cushion to keep steady as a gust of cosmic wind blew over him violently.

It was ear splitting and it made the carpet shine with intense lattice waves and colours. His breath left his lungs and he became lost in the waves, they were overwhelming him; Stein could only give into them, he drowned in their textures.

Closed, the eye of the mind sees further, a voice whispered in his ear. It was his father's voice on the wind speaking to him softly.

Closed, the eye of the mind sees with more depth, more clarity and thus, it understands what it sees.

He shuddered as the light brightened his face; his thick oily face, dirty and colourful. It was intense, he shielded his eyes from it and hissed a long slow breath. I must remember to breath, he thought.

There in the centre again he saw it. What was that, he wondered, was it gold, silver, bronze, iron, copper, lead, quicksilver, platinum or iodine? It bends like a metal under heat, a tangle of multi texture fingers dancing across the spiral of light. Like spiders in spacesuits. Glowing in spires and distorting, sliding on oil, slipping on pools of slippery face oil.

It was screaming now but silently; he was silent now but screaming, not wanting them to hear him. Not wanting them to know he was there; he was where? Stein secretly shouted.

There was a sky above his head but it was not his sky, it belonged to them; he was just visiting and would have to leave some time or another. It was a grey sky, a blue sky, a bitter chemical sky of plastic.

He was only visiting them, those red-necked cockroaches. Like swollen bloated fish the clouds burst and he was standing in a seafood shower; a shrimp of a man in an ocean of a universe.

There it was again, a taste in his mouth that was bitter lemon, sour lemon and powdered. Clear now the colour invaded those colourless places; those stranger-less places. Those places where dreams are made and constructs dissected.

He was a species of spider, leaving faint trails of web like silk; traces of dew on the faces he knew, they burned in the flame of his mind.

He was losing his mind; or was it just poetry?

He remembered a funeral, the wreaths of remember-me flowers and waters of weeping mourners. The gun, the blood splattered field of daisies, gold pieces on a silver platter, paid out in spaced out hogweed.

They were the diamond splinters that sparkled. That shone in the sky that day. Shafts of light shine in silver, they shone his way and silver, that day; the day his father died.

Electric spasms in the womb, he remembered the womb of his mother, it was warm there. It was acrid and bitter like blue lemon. It was like Armageddon. The day they cut him from her bloodied belly was an image fixed to his memory.

There were dazed images, blurred images, they spin and turn in a matrix; spin and curl around the centre, he was fading in there, boy, he was fazing into their boy; the boy who killed his mother.

A mirror cracked and crashed to the stone floor, the glass fragments cut into his flesh and he saw ribbons of blood there, like her womb. It was his mother, his long dead mother, that she-wolf mother of Rome. He was transfixed to the image, transfixed to that burning icon, fixed and yet unfixed. He was a shiny beast in fox fur and ermine, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Someone spoke his name.

"David?" the creature hissed. "Your time has arrived."

"I got up at two in the morning to take him some food." Rubin said with a sigh.

"Two in the morning, I tell you, then when I went to call on him at nine, the food was still there; exactly where I'd left it the night before."

"Was it?" the cook replied looking intently at an open cookbook.

"Yes it was." Rubin replied. "The food I'd taken to him at two in the morning. I don't know why I bother sometimes."

"He hadn't eaten any of it?" cook exclaimed folding her arms across her chest.

"Not a single bite." Rubin continued. "Then I ran a bath, as he asked me to, this morning at nine..."

"Yes?"

"I knocked."

"Yes?"

"And no answer. I really don't know why I bother."

"Shame on the boy." Cook sniffed looking back at her book.

"He didn't say if anything was wrong with the food then?"

"I didn't speak to him, like I said." Rubin replied with a vague tone.

"He didn't answer."

"Shame on him..."Cook said looking up briefly.

"...You get used to their strange ways. You should hear the noise sometimes coming from his room."

"What, all that screaming?" Rubin asked.

"That's it." Cook replied looking at the valet intently.

"His father was the same. In the middle of the night you'd hear nothing but screaming. Sends your blood cold, it does."

"I've heard it." Rubin replied looking at the floor. He thought of the walk he'd made to his master's suit at two in the morning. How dark the house had seemed. How quiet too; how spooky.

He recalled turning down the very last corridor and walking slowly to the door Mr Stein had wanted the food left outside. He remembered lowering the food to the floor, as requested, and listening to the keyhole to see if he could hear voices. He heard something alright, it was a soft muttering, like the sound of crickets in the evening air.

He heard the soft mumbling of a verse, over and over again, a familiar verse. Perhaps even a rhythm like the sort of rhythm you'd learn in nursery school; over and over in one long monotonous tone.

"I've heard him." Cook said snapping the valetfrom his daydream.

"But not like last night; it was really frightening hearing him screaming like that."

"I didn't hear him scream, just mumble." Rubin replied.

"My room is just across the way, you see, I can hear it all from there."

"Really, I only heard a mumble, when I left the food."

"Well I heard it all." Cook said. "It wasn't no mumble. It was screaming I tell you; like he was trying to raise the dead."

"Frightening." Rubin said softly.

"Best not to say nothing..." The cook continued. "...The last valet who said something was kicked out. So, it's best not to say anything. Still..." she whispered in confidence.

"... I always thought that boy would turn out strange; not having a mother around. It isn't natural."

"I don't know how you've stood it so long, if you're not happy?"

"You have to keep your nose clean and get on with your work." She replied slamming the book shut.

"That's what we are paid to do, and that's exactly what I do. Look at the time; I suppose you should go and see if he's eaten his breakfast."

"No need to." Rubin said abruptly.

"What do you mean?"

"He never came out for his bath."

Stein was awake and quiet, thinking deeply. The window was open and a soft breeze was blowing into the room causing Goosebumps to raise on his white flesh. He closed his eyes.

One the other side of town the President was in his motorcade on the way to a reception at the Marriott hotel. He had an aide sitting beside him instructing him on the ethics of post war modernisation. They were discussing persuading the Arab Emirates to pay for this reconstruction instead of dipping into their own depleted budget.

To enable them to do this he needed facts and statistics which would bolster his argument without looking like they needed financial help.

The president nodded as the aide showed him graphs that outline the facts in an easily digested fashion. He was used to getting hecklers shouting out unscripted questions and wanted the information to rebuff any criticism that may be thrown at him.

The car pulled up outside the hotel and the security man in the front seat got out and stepped up to the rear door.

"Are you ready?" the aide asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Let's do this." The aide nodded at the security guard and the door was opened.

The aide stepped out and looked at the thin line of police that held back a small crowd of well wishers. They cheered and some held up cameras. The president slid across the seat and pulled himself out of the car.

"Hello," He smiled as people pushed forwards into the line of policemen snapping photographs. A woman held up a baby and called to the president.

"Mr President, a photo with my son?"

"You've got a minute or two." the aide said. He stood behind the president and they approached the woman as she handed the child over the shoulders of the heaving policemen.

The president took the child and smiled as the woman held up a camera.

"Smile..." she shouted. "Smile for the dead children of Jerusalem. Allah Akbar, Blessed be His Name!"

The president felt the air pressure change and, as if in slow motion, a wall of fire enveloped the whole scene.

A huge force then vaporised him, the child, the policemen, the crowd and the aide. It blew the bombproof car into the air and across the street.

Then there was chaos.

Stein looked out the window and saw a small cloud of smoke rise in the distance. He noticed the birds had stopped singing and that the gardens around the house were strangely quiet. He knew that his plans were working themselves out and that there was just one thing more to do.

He stepped into the bedroom and pulled open the wardrobe door. Inside, behind the suits and ironed white shirts he found a large box, which he dragged out and placed upon the bed.

He lifted the lid and looked at the costume the box contained, it was not a dressing up box. Instead it contained the ritualistic robes that belonged to his father. Each piece had its own meaning and power. The pieces fitted together like a jigsaw and created a representation of the Cabbalist tree of life on the wearer.

There was a crown of gold in the form of a serpent entwined around a frame, in the front were three pentangles and the centre one was fixed by a diamond stud.

The crown represents the attainment of perfection and the three pentagrams represent the holy triad or tau, the beginning, middle and end. The serpent represents godhead, eternity, and will channelling power from above through the wearer.

Under the crown was a hooded robe made of silk. It was blue on the outside and lined with green. Along the hem was a curled serpent again channelling power through the wearer's body.

The robe represents silence and is a physical manifestation of the wearer's aura. He was still hallucinating strongly looking at the flashes of blue and green that crashed across the silken robe as he examined it in its box. He pulled the soft costume out and laid it on the bed.

He hadn't realised just how beautiful it was, the gold thread along the seams and at the neckline had small silver stars woven into it and they glittered against the sky blue silk.

Dressing in the robe and placing the crown over the hood on top of his head he examined himself in the mirror.

He then made his way out of the bedroom and through the lounge. He stumbled halfway along the room and had to hold onto a small Chippendale chair that sat next to the table for a moment. His mouth was dry and he was so wrecked he could hardly walk. The walls were almost folding in on him; he managed to straighten himself up and stumbled further to the far end of the lounge towards a tall, dark timbered door. It was the door to his father's secret office.

Stein reached into the neckline of the robe and pulled out a gold chain that hung from his neck, on it swung the key his father had given him on his twenty first birthday.

He placed the key in the lock and turned. The door opened with a slight squeak and he slid through the gap, into the room, across the marble floor; slamming the door behind him.

The floor felt cold beneath his bare feet. It was like a mausoleum in there. It was like a tomb of a monument; a relic from the past. He considered the past and of the time that had elapsed from Augustus to today, all the history he was about to conjure and repeat.

This ceremony had real history he thought, from Agrippa in his Greek temple, to Constantine and Justinian. He thought of the Pontiffs who had followed them, building the Roman Empire into the modern age. Knowing that beneath the sacred walls of Saint Peter's Basilica was a room that was bricked up for a whole generation.

A room only opened once in a hundred years. The room where they practiced The Sacred Ritual and was designed exactly as his own.

The ritual was now his. He recollected how, as the fascists rose in power in 1938 the Pontiff of the time, worried what would happen if the Nazi's got hold of this relic. He knew they were looking for it. They would have been unstoppable.

He remembered how it had been shipped overseas in secret and that Rome had expected it to be returned once the war was over. How wrong they were, now that room in the basilica has been bricked up forever and Stein stood in an exact replica that had been built by his father.

He walked to the centre of the room and there on the altar was a small broach made of gold and inset with white stone, diamonds and rubies. The broach, a white cross on gold with a red rose in its centre, was pinned on his robe.

He placed the index finger of his left hand to his lips and hushed himself, hushing the room; creating stillness in his mind that calmed his coloured thoughts. He knew from his education how important these gestures were.

They focused the mind, opened the subconscious and tuned in his astral self. Then Stein mouthed the traditional prayer.

"Ateth..."

After completing the prayer, the Cabbalistic Cross, Stein walked to each of the four cardinal points marked out on the marble floor. He lit the huge incense burners which stood at each of these next to a small table.

Closing his eyes he visualised each cardinal point's guardian angel as astral beings and summoned them.

"Adonai!" He shouted to the south.

"Oriens!" He shouted to the east.

"Eh,ei,He!" To the west and finally, with an almighty roar, Stein steeped to the northern point and screamed "AGLA!"

The incense smoke floated from the burners and flowed down to the floor like a thick mist. The smell of sulphur filled the room. Then he entered the circle, set out in black and green marble on the floor. This represents the infinite and affirmed his identity with such. He walked solemnly and approached the altar.

Upon this sat a scourge, dagger and chain with a small bell on its end. These implements represent the principles of fire, water and air or sulphur, mercury and salt. Again they represent the holy triad or a state of pain, death and bondage.

Next to them is a wand made of hazel, a great sword and cup. The wand represents the will or the power of its owner to form his own destiny; or his triumph over fate. It corresponds with the sephera of Chokmah on the tree of life.

The sword represents reason and is made of the metals of Mars and Venus, steel and copper. It corresponds to the sephera of Daath.

The cup is made of a fusion of seven metals and represents understanding. It is imagined to be full of the seas and thus an ocean of understanding overflows from it. It corresponds with the sephera of Binah.

The bell or gong is made of silver and has the ability to stop time when it rings out across the universe. Solemn and majestic the bell enables the user to disturb the infinite.

Stein understood all these correspondences and hidden meanings from his years of training in the ceremonial use of ritual. Lifting the great sword, with inlaid rubies and sapphires, Stein raised it above his head. He swept it too and fro, marking out the form of a star, a pentagram and visualised it shining silver above his head.

Tracing the star in the air with the gilt point of the sword his imagination filled it shining with bright, white light. Then he gently placed the sword by his side and reached out for his treasure. The possession that made all this possible. The two thousand year old relic that had been passed from father to son, pontiff to pontiff, emperor to emperor through generations past.

Now his, after collecting it from his father's safety deposit box, unaware if it had been used in his lifetime. Merely possessing it had ordained upon him the power of the demiurge; the hideous god of creation who demanded blood sacrifice in those Jewish temples of old.

He sighed as his fingers caressed the soft blue velvet dust cover. He opened the cover slowly and devoured the experience, before his eyes he saw the faded leather binding, swallowing hard.

It was here, he thought momentarily forgetting the ritual, here in his little world that God had chose to reveal himself.

"Huc per inane advoco angelos..." he chanted softly, remembering every word of the Lower Ritual, taught him by Mr. Kiffer all those years ago.

"Sanctos tererum, aerisque..." he continued placing his palm on the unopened relic. "Salve Raphael, Salve Gabriel, Salve Michael, Salve Ariel nam tellus et omnia..."

Steins vision became blurred as the incense in the burners filled the room with acrid mists. The vision became distorted, liquid; as with his audio senses, fazing slightly and echoing about his eyes.

He was tearing through each word, his lips and mouth gaping, the words came now at breakneck speed; bleeding like a wound in his palm.

"Non accedet ad me malum cuiuscemondi quoiam angeli sanct cusodiunt me."

The words filled the room like vapour, resounding from the marble floor and into the arches of the ceiling. He visualised the waxing and waning moon, the ebbing and flowing tides, the coming and going of the seasons; the cycles of life. He saw himself fading into the picture, turning through it and becoming part of the natural cycle.

"ATETH! MALKUTH! VE GEDULAH! VE GEBURAH, LE OHEM!

AMON!"

A silence worthy of the grave descended on the room; it was desperately grieving a celebrated mystery; a secret hidden from the eyes of those who celebrated.

Stein closed his eyes and it seemed as if the marble beneath his feet shuddered. He imagined the root of power thrusting through his body and crashing out of his head, his fingers and his toes; he was shining like a torch at midnight.

"EXCULATORES," He screamed. "In nomine Gabriel,

Exculatores, in nomine Raphael. EXCULATORES, in nomine Michael, EXCULATORES! In nomine Urial."

He picked up the leather bound book and clutched it to his heart before ringing the great bell that sat upon the altar. He rang it twenty four times in all, each chime ringing through the never worlds; all the worlds that could be imagined, for he was the ringer of the bell; having power over heaven and hell.

When the last chime had faded into the swirling darkness it seemed like the gates of eternity had clicked back their locks. Stein opened the book and prepared to meet the Architect of the Universe.

He gazed for the first time at the fist page; a page made itself from leather; etched upon this was a gold seal, the seal of Abraham, woven into the leather with gold thread.

Its beauty entranced him and he found it hard to concentrate on the deed at hand. Each gold strand was woven to create a lattice of the finest workmanship, and each lattice was constructed of finer gold threads into infinity.

The symbol was a cross of gold crowned in the centre by a blazing red rose. Each petal being a delicately woven shade of red gold, each one a different shade to the next, arranged on ever decreasing concentric circles.

They got smaller and smaller into the centre, in ever decreasing sizes into the infinite.

He was mesmerised by its shimmering beauty and the shape was burned into his mind so that if he closed his eyes it was still visible, proud on the back of his eye lids. Cautiously and curiously he lifted the page and turned it over.

Then it was there, the first syllable of the word, woven into the leather page in silver thread. He recognized the Enochian symbol immediately having learned the language from his father when was still in his crib.

He knew its pronunciation and the syllable rolled from his lips slowly, like a prayer, in a long quivering note. He turned the page and pronounced the next syllable and the next in one vibrating tone.

Then the next page and the next until the word was vibrating around the room in echoes. A vibrating rhythm began to form under the main tone and a harmonic could be heard.

Filling the room with a tempo and rhythm the distinctive chant was weaving itself into a lattice.

He could feel the word forming on his lips and this vibrated around the room and back upon itself in a resounding harmonic note. Like strands of gold and red thread, weaving itself into a lattice; an infinite tangle of harmonic intensity.

The first round ended and he swiftly began at the beginning again without taking a breath. Back to the first syllable and onward building the textures, the harmonic tones of sound, into a thick lattice of mesmerising harmony.

The twenty-two syllables fitted together perfectly, they scanned like the best piece of poetry ever written, sounding beautiful and perfect the echoes rose with each reading.

The lattice of sound was filling the room with gold and red sounds of infinite beauty and complexity. The lattice of noise they created formed infinite harmonics that rose with the incense into a thick swirling wholesomeness.

Blue flashed here, vermilion there, silver on the floor and pitched yellow. He was spinning into the textures of sound and was swallowed by it.

Consequently he did not hear them at first; their goat hooves thrashing across the sky, their tails flaying the air and their bat ears flapping.

Stein continued with the pronunciation of His name, demanding His presence, summoning Him to appear in a form Stein could communicate with. As his swollen and bloodied lips formed the last syllable, of the last round of sound, he noticed a pillar of fire had stormed from the ceiling and had filled the whole room with blazing ferocity.

The star he had traced over his head reached down like a glowing shroud of glass and protected him from the licking flames. He looked closely and in the flames he saw them.

Small creatures such as no man's eyes had ever seen. They walked around the circle and tried to push their talloned fingers into it; only to snap their bony digits back sharply.

They were small, dark imps with red beady eyes and sharp cloven hooves that knocked upon the marble floor. They appeared to be mocking him although what was coming from their sharp lips could not be recognized as a language, it was more like the sound animals made in the slaughterhouse.

He heard mischievous taunts and jibes that filled the room with coldness. He tried to ignore them knowing, from his education, that they were the vanguard for their master.

Then a sharp judder shook the room and the imps darted in every direction. Stein was amused to see that some sought safety by ducking their sharp heads beneath the drapes; leaving their pointed tails sticking into the air.

Then a creaking sound like splintering wood echoed out causing the smoke rising from the incense burners to sway in soft ripples. A few impish faces looked through the smoke and their red eyes darted to and fro in fear and anticipation.

Then a roar rang out; it was like the roar of lions when they call one another in the African darkness.

It was a throaty roar, dense and deep, echoing in the night. It seemed that a thunderous flash of lightening shook the room and He was there; a windswept boy naked upon a sandy beach.

He had sweet droplets of water hanging from his wet brown hair and his brow shivered slightly as if caught by a chill.

With a vulnerable look the boy bit his lower lip and smiled.

"Come, join me..." The youth whispered seductively. "Come, join me beyond the circle. The water is refreshing."

"I have summoned you to serve me!" Stein shouted. He could see storm clouds rising on the horizon behind the boy; ominous black clouds that bellowed and flashed with lightening.

"Temptation will not draw me from the safety of my circle."

"Come," The youth whispered again provocatively stroking a smooth finger across his lips.

"Let us bathe in the warm waters. Come join me."

"I will not be manipulated." Stein shouted picking his sword up and pointing the blade at the youth. "Dispense with this frivolity, be done with it and show your real face."

"Thy will, be done." The youth whispered as the image faded to be replaced by a loathsome creature bathed in shadows. It was breathing heavily and in the darkness Stein could see saliva dripping from the creature's lips.

A nauseating smell filled the room and Stein felt himself becoming intoxicated by it.

"You called me name?" the creature hissed as its face left the shadow briefly and light caught its awful eyes. It had lizard skin, wolf's teeth and great horns rising from the crown of his head. Stein looked down and saw a pair of legs clad in thick black fur with brown hooves scratching the marble floor.

"Tell me, what should I do?" Stein asked. "What is the next move in this game we are playing?"

"Do as time has ordained." The creature replied licking its black lips.

"They say people are starving, governments are falling and that a revolution will ensue."

"There must be famine." The creature hissed changing into an old man with a long white beard and sackcloth robe.

"There must be bloodshed, governments will fall but you shall remain strong. It is ordained by time."

"What is ordained?" Stein asked confused by the statement. "What has time ordered?"

There was a ringing in his ears and the sword became heavy in his hands. He looked at the black line that encircled him and it appeared to be fainter in parts where the mist had become sand.

"They are waiting for a prophet to lead them, he can be manipulated to take them down the path time had ordained." The old man said wearily.

"I have been working to make the time right and now you have to make it happen."

Stein became dizzy as the sound in his head grew louder and seemed to be spinning around his skull. The persistent whirling became ear splittingly deafening.

"I do not understand?" Stein called out. Then he noticed the old man had gone to be replaced by a young woman, her beautiful red hair hanging in flaming braids around her shoulders.

"Nana, is that you?" He stuttered.

"Come David, join me here." She smiled patting the wooden bench she was sat upon. He remembered a far off vision.

It was a time when he was just a toddler and his Nanny was always with him. She was the only significant woman he had ever known, again an employee of his father.

They sat in the warm summer sun among the oak trees on the estate watching spring lambs suckle their mothers. It was a time of joy and warmth, a distant land that had faded with time in his mind.

He wanted to leave the safety of the circle and go to her, to let her brush her slight fingers through his soft hair, to smell her again.

"Come, my boy, join me."

"Do not vex me so!" He shouted. "Playing these games with my emotions. Tell me what time has ordered."

The vision faded into an old crone sitting on a three-legged stool. In her hands were two silver shapes; a crescent moon and a star.

"I can never get these things to stick together..." The old crone croaked with a thick irish accent. Stein looked at them and saw a vision of a mosque in the midday sun, the crescent moon sparkled on the apex of the highest minaret and the star came from the sky to join it there.

"Can you get them to join?" the crone asked. "They are ordained by time."

"I don't understand." Stein said as the old crone turned back into the horned creature.

"Power, money, lies..." It hissed. "Use these for the sake of time. I will be here waiting for thee."

Then the vision was gone, he was alone and the room was empty and void. He placed the sword upon the altar and repeated the Cabbalistic Cross. The incense burners were full of cold ash and rays of sharp daylight beamed through cracks in the drapes.

Stein closed the leather book and folded it up in its dust jacket. He then left the circle and blew out the last piece of melted candle that he had lit the previous evening.

"Good morning Rubin." Stein said into the intercom on his desk. The machine crackled for a second and a voice answered.

"Good morning, Mr Stein..." Rubin replied. "I hope you are well, we were worried as we had not heard from you for so long."

"I'm here now." Stein said abruptly. "You can bring my breakfast and tell cook that I wish to have fish for dinner tonight."

"Very good, Mr Stein." The intercom crackled. "I will bring a breakfast to the dining room shortly."

"Oh, and Rubin..." Stein added.

"Yes, Mr Stein?"

"Would you get Mr Martin on the line."

Shortly after the telephone on his desk rang. Stein lifted the receiver and a voice on the line said "I have the White House for you, Sir."

"Mr Stein?" A voice asked. He did not recognize it.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid Mr Martin is dead. He was killed in a freak accident last week. I can't go into detail but it throws any plans you had with him into confusion."

"Ah, we'll it's good that we had no plans."

"Do you know about the assassination?"

"I have not been informed." Stein replied. "Please continue."

"The president and half his staff were blown to pieces a couple of days ago.

We have traced the explosives to a middle-eastern consortium. The new administration is taking it as an act of War. I believe they were waiting to get some guidance from you."

"Is the new man in office?" Stein enquired.

"He's right here, would you like a word?"

"Of course."

The line bumped and crackled before another voice came on. The man sounded depressed and his voice was that of a heavy smoker, gruff and course.

"Mr Stein." He said clicking a ring against the receiver. It was a gold band with a black stone set in the centre with a gold cross.

"Congratulations." Stein replied. "If that's the correct term."

"Never mind about the formalities." The man replied coughing into the receiver.

"You know, Mr Stein, all this has been foreseen."

"Has it?"

"Yes," the man continued. "Famine, earthquakes, bloodshed, it has all be foretold in the Book of Revelations.

The assassination was a direct response to our funding the demolition of the Dome on the Rock. Our Israel-development section said something like this would happen if we helped Israel take Jerusalem.

It had to happen before the rest of the prophecy could come about. I know you were funding that particular project; I saw your speech at the Israeli American Lobbyist Group.

The last administration were too cowardly to make the tough decisions that we feel HAVE to be made. Although I grieve their loss, particularly Martin, he was a good man, but I know it is a matter of destiny that we have reached this position today."

"I agree." Stein said.

"Mr Martin wanted a financial route out of the mess the economy was facing and so I understand why you were stalling him."

"Good, I'm glad you understand."

"Now, we know that the endgame is inevitable, that we have identified the Prophet of war who comes in peace, the lamb slayer. Now we can see the pieces falling into place; we can mobilize our forces against his people. You know what I'm saying here don't you?"

"I'm familiar with the Book of Revelations; I'm behind you all the way, time has ordained it." Stein replied.

"The act of aggression we saw this week is all we needed legally to go ahead."

"You are talking about Red Sun."

"I am, even if Christ doesn't come down on a cloud and lift us all up, even if this isn't the dawn of a new Heaven on Earth, I am going to fry those bitch heathens if it's the last fucking thing I do.

I know there will be collateral damage but change is always difficult particularly if it's unavoidable. "

Stein thought about this for a moment and gently tapped the desk.

"How long will it take for the bunkers to be ready?" He asked softly.

"A couple of days I suppose." The old voice croaked. "I have family in Europe, I would like to wait till I can get them back before it happens."

"Red Sun can only be a success if we forgo any considerations; don't you believe that all will be raised up when the lord returns?" Stein replied with a wry smile.

"You're a man after my own heart." The voice crackled at the end of the line. "I will give instructions for the clock to start ticking. God bless you."

"God led us to this decision," Stein added. "He helped me personally see this is the only way; collateral damage or no."

"It is written, this future was foretold long ago." The old man stuttered, holding back a tear. "I feel blessed that it will unfold in my lifetime; with my help."

He hung up the telephone and the old man looked across his desk at the ten men who faced him. Some wore military uniforms and others smart suits. The nearest suit to him shook with disbelief.

"You have got to be fucking joking." He said abruptly

.

"Have some balls man." A uniform replied sharply.

"But we thought we had a future with this administration." The man sobbed.

"We do, just not one you anticipated." The uniform spat. "I'll get the troops primed. We can go to Def-Con four in under an hour!"

"So this is it..." Another suit said looking about the room at the others who passively accepted the situation. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a crucifix.

"...armageddon?"

"Fucking madness, you're all fucking mad!" the sobbing man cried.

"Was it Dante?" The old man with the crucifix ring said as he stood and leant forwards on the table to address them properly.

"Was it Dante, quoting Virgil, who said through me you'll find the city of despair?"

"Please," the crying man pleaded.

"What about my children? My sister in Brittany, she's expecting her first child."

"Through me you'll reach the region of the lost..." the old man continue.

"...justice was moved by my high architect,

divine omnipotence created me, transcendent wisdom and primordial love,

before me only endless things were made and I shall endure without an end."

"Think of the children." The man whispered into his hands.

"...You that enter here." The old man replied. "...Abandon Hope!"

The network of tunnels that made up the bunker was prepared for the guests. It had taken twenty years to build them and they were capable of sustaining life underground for an indefinite period.

There were stores that ran for miles and contained every conceivable consumable from tins of Cape tomatoes to electrical fuses and cable.

The bunker had been specifically designed to contain, sustain and aid human life. There was a hospital wing and schools as well as churches and places designed to look like parks.

There were communal halls, television networks and radio stations. Places were set aside for lectures, social meetings and information dissemination.

There were halls of residence, which were furnished in the style of the most expensive hotels. Air was provided, having been pumped in from the outside and cleaned with filters, so that the ambient temperature was comfortable. Water was delivered by means of underground spas and springs and was tested regularly for cleanliness and mineral content.

Everything was recycled, from the piss in the lavatories to the paper people wiped their noses with. Nothing was wasted and even sewage was used to generate gas, which powered the heating manifolds.

Some wastewater was directed to the underground gardens to feed the plants and trees, which grew, under sodium lights, as well as they did on the surface.

There were at least ten of these underground cities spread around the globe and their existence was kept secret until the time they were needed.

Now that time had arrived those with tickets were called to assembly points and taken to their allotted bunker. Those who were not invited saw the groups and vehicles leave but never guessed that a party was being thrown and they were going to be served up as desert.

The people came in droves, long processions in shiny black cars and limousines, their boots packed with fine cigars and liquor, cases stashed with family heirlooms and gold bars.

Bankers, bishops, business men and industrious men of fortune, the most important of them took their whole families from the eldest old Grandma to the youngest babe in arms; all chosen to continue the human race and contribute to the genome.

Many had no idea why they were being called to assembly but knew it was important and that if they didn't go to the drill their places may be lost forever.

The only instructions they were given was that they would meet at dawn and bring with them only what they would need if stranded on a desert island. Therefore some brought gramophone records and compact discs others high heel shoes and bathing costumes. Even paintings were unframed and rolled into neat tubes to be transported into the unknown future.

Some women were dressed as if going to a ball, their stretched faces clad in thick make-up and gems strung from ears and necks flamboyantly.

Others wore comfortable house clothes as if they were expecting a long flight and decided that comfort was better than fashion on this occasion.

The children wore school uniforms and hung from parental hands like bewildered monkeys. Some ran through the halls and rooms of the bunkers wildly excited by the adventure.

Then there were the men in dark suits, some had expensive cashmere coats and talked in hushed voices on small mobile telephones. They guessed something was afoot and only the strained look of concern flashed in their eyes to give the game away. They could feel it in their bones but did not want to believe.

The arrivals, once their identification had been checked and names ticked, were ushered into elevators and taken deep below the surface; reassuring themselves that no executive order would have been given and they were only taking part in a drill.

Some were surprised to discover friends they had previously lost touch with and conversations broke out intermittently.

"Hay Joe," said a middle-aged man to another in the elevator as his wife held a baby to her chest. "Fancy seeing you here?"

"Bob, I'd like to know where they got the money from to build all this."

Once underground the people were shown their living quarters, which were private for the most important families and shared for the clerks and secretaries. The quarters had items that would fill every need, somewhere to sleep, somewhere to wash, somewhere to eat somewhere to feed the kids somewhere to relax and, of course, somewhere to get information.

Televisions sat blank in every apartment waiting to spring into glorious life and broadcast their first transmission; a transmission so they were told, that would include a presidential speech which would explain everything.

"Excuse me?" a fat Spanish-looking lady asked a steward as she was shown into a shared apartment. "When will we be allowed to go home?"

"At ten PM the presidential office will broadcast a speech on the internal network; all your questions will be answered then."

"I'm hungry..." said a kid at her side.

"Food will be served shortly in one of this level's canteens. I've checked your ticket and you have entry to service canteen two, down the hall and to the left."

People ate and drank, talked and relaxed acting as if they were guests at a garden party given by a distinguished host. Indeed, their invitation was at the request of The President and this, in itself, was an honour.

The guests appeared unconcerned that the garden party was not in a garden but in the belly of the earth; a thermally controlled bunker specifically designed to protect them from Nuclear weapons.

They socialised politely in small groups around strategically placed monitors, which were broadcasting music and cute pictures. The air-conditioning made the people feel comfortable, as if they were enjoying a late summer evening in the park with their families. Only the hiss from the ventilation and the sodium lighting detracted from this image.

The television monitors suddenly burst into life as the same transmission flashed across every screen. A postcard snap of the Whitehouse at night was displayed to the sound of God Bless America droning in the background.

"At last!" a woman said stroking her hair before adjusting her seat to see the screen better.

"Let's hope we can get this over with now." Said another anxiously waiting to hear what was happening.

Anticipation swept through the bunker, down its miles of corridors, passages and gardens. It crept through its canteens and restaurants, over its crop-halls and living quarters. Silence replaced idle gossip and thousands of inquisitive eyes looked towards the flashing screens.

The camera scanned the podium and a voice announced the president of the United States. One person remarked that there hadn't been an election so legally this person was not the President.

This remark was lost in the conditioned air as the old man walked to the microphone and held it tightly with both hands. His gold ring flashed in the spotlights.

"Friends." The old man said as his craggy face filled the bright screens. "Friends."

He cleared his throat and peered intently into the camera before continuing.

"You have been called to these places tonight for what was called a drill." He looked around the room he was standing in, toward the director and soundman before the auto cue was rolled on further.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "This is not a drill."

A woman in a silk evening dress dropped her glass of wine and the blood red liquid splashed her white gown sending glass splinters across the floor. She raised her hand to her mouth and gasped.

"Not the gulf?" she whispered to no-one in particular.

"It's not the damned gulf..." a man said at her side. "This is the fucking deficit; you watch."

"I am sorry to bring you this terrible news," the president continued. His voice seemed weary and his craggy face appeared more miserable then usual; whether this was real or not they couldn't decide; but this made him appear more human.

"For reasons of national Security I cannot go into detail." The president said. "But, we have the support the international community and every other alternative was explored before a military option was looked at. Sometimes there isn't any other choice except the military option.

This country has tried hard to avoid conflict but it hasn't worked. We can't just let these people attack our people, our way of life, our freedoms and take it sitting. Sometimes you have to fight, especially when that fight is the right thing to do."

"It is the gulf." A man hissed looking away from the screen briefly and remembering his children on holiday in Jordan. They were probably already dead he thought.

"I gave the executive order this morning under the code name Red-Sun. We anticipate Europe being the first to be affected and that the disorder will spread across the globe from there. I have ordered us here now to be in readiness in case the disorder spreads faster than anticipated.

After our first strike against Iran they will strike at Israel and then again at European targets. China has pledged to support the Gulf States and so we could come under attack across the Pacific or the Atlantic. We are prepared for both possibilities..." He cleared his throat and drank a sip of the water on the podium by his side.

In the captive audience a sense of shock spread like the disorder he was talking about. Some people trembled thinking about their loved, ones who were not there, with them.

Others wept softly wishing they had stayed at home with their pets while yet others giggled nervously thinking that biblical prophecy was being played out at last; just like the preacher's had told them.

"What about the people up top?" a woman said aloud wondering about her elderly relatives. "Will they get medical attention and help?"

"Who gives a shit." Another man said loudly while swigging from a champagne bottle.

"War produces casualties and I'm sick of this country taking it up the arse."

"Don't be so wicked." The woman replied as she turned towards the screen again.

"God bless America." A man shouted.

"Tonight..." The president went on.

"...Let us pray for those caught up in the conflict unfolding above our heads. Let us remember that they die for our continuing freedoms and that once the ashes have cooled; we will continue.

Everlasting Peace will be hewn from war. Death will enable life. Our civilisation will go on, this is not the end; just a beginning of the new paradigm."

As the great bells of Notre Dame tolled Eleven O'clock fire fell from the sky. Sleeping babies opened their eyes just in time to see the world destroyed; their tiny lives wasted.

People dancing in nightclubs along the Rhine wished the music would go on forever unaware that it would go on for eternity.

A drunken German raised his glass and toasted the fireball as it burst above his head, spreading fire and radio-active brimstone.

In the valleys of the Brittany a young couple grope one another through their soft summer clothing; hot and alive with the first pangs of youth. They hoped this feeling would last forever; never dreaming that it would.

In Antwerp a young lad lays still upon his bed clutching a crucifix to his heart. The windows are flung wide to the warm evening air as he sees an apparition on the horizon. The boy sits up as it creeps across the sky and fills the room with light. He melts with joy.

FLASH WHITE FLASH

WHITE HOT HEAT

Burning, searing, roasted, toasted, flaming futures. Cracking splitting bloated maggot-ridden features.

Death rides the vortex.

A thousand cloven hooves stamp across the sky, trampling the cities to dust and dancing upon the destruction...

Part 111

The road To Glory

"Go prostrate yourself

at the knee of your master

be a plaything of men

and wander a painted harlot;

ravishing with sweet scent

and Chinese colouring in the streets.

Darken thou eye pits with kohl

thou hast tinted thou lips with vermilion;

Thou hast plastered thou cheeks with ivory enamels.

Thou hast played the wanton

in every gate and byway of the Great City.

The men have lusted after thee

to abuse and to beat.

They have mouthed golden spangles of fine dust

Wherewith thou did bedeck thine hair.

They have scourged the painted flesh of thee

with their whips

And you have suffered unspeakable things.

But I have burned within you as a pure flame

without oil.

In the midnight I have been brighter than the Moon,

in the daytime I have

exceeded utterly the Sun.

In the byways of your being I flamed and dispelled any illusion.

Therefore

Thou art wholly pure before me,

therefore

thou art my virgin unto eternity."

( _Kindly reproduced from: A.C The Holy Books:Liber 4_ )

The Planet looked pale and stormy as it spun on its axis in the twilight of space, between the sparkling stars and other revolving planets. Nothing had changed up there; it was still, dark, cold and empty; infinite. But down there nothing would ever be the same again.

Earth had changed forever, now a twisted ball of radioactive dust, floating like a human cell in the universal bloodstream. She was a cell on the verge of cancerous malignancy, crashing through the heavens in orbit of the Sun, a tumour of caustic blue. Trailing death in her wake only the angels knew her true face.

Dense radioactive clouds battled through the deep valleys and open plains leaving only stinking death and destruction behind. The Sun's rays were filtered by the clouds, so only the ultra violet broke through, to the surface of the scarred planet.

The savage landscape, the murdered landscape held few living things, it was the wasted time. It was a period where history died having no one to record it properly; a second dark age. Only, it was, so much darker.

The bombs were followed by a cold period, short by the planet's age but lengthy, too lengthy if your ribs showed through your tight skin and your mouth was dry and cracked.

Too lengthy if your parents were dead or dying and your childlike eyes had never looked for food or warmth or water. Ashen, the ground iced over and the cold winds blew snow across the frozen bodies. Fierce strokes of lightening shocked the skies and announced the fall of acid rain. Yet, in all this chaos of rotting flesh and disease, life hung on tenderly.

The desolate sphere, once gloriously blue and green, spinning among the stars now ashen and grey; could still give birth to life.

Not just on the burned and scorched, cold and windy surface. Deep beneath the scarred soil encased in steel and walls of stone, breathing filtered air and smoking cigarettes; eating hamburgers with fries on the side.

They were seen every now and then, these elusive creatures, emerging from their underground lairs like rats in white plastic suits. They took samples and tested the water before sneaking off, thieves in the night; with their bounty tight in plastic containers.

They knew they were being spied upon, that behind rocks watched crooked eyes in faces of stone. The red skins as they were called, those who had not melted, or turned to vapour. Those former humans, whose humanity was seared away, in a flash of burnt-flesh-seconds. Their charred faces, hairless heads and septic sores, festered with all manner of infection.

They watched and waited.

Yet these things managed to feed themselves by banding together in small supportive groups; petty tribes. They scavenged for food, for clean water, clothing and other necessities like insects have always done; as humanity found a way to survive.

While they forever kept watch for those underground mysteries; being vigilant in case they should emerge to cause more violence. To bring more terror and more pain into that scarred world.

Sometimes, as the months turned to years, the Under Grounders, as they were called, would appear from their tombs in small raiding parties. They were seen carrying strange weapons that would stun their redskin prey into animal submission.

These redskins were taken underground to become slaves, or worse, behind the silo doors. Never to be seen above ground again. Some did escape, as the years passed and they told of their ordeal to gasping crowds around starlit bonfires. How those who refused to work were tortured and subjected to surgical experimentation. The under grounder's seemed fascinated by the mutations caused by years of radioactive exposure.

They filled in long questionnaires about sources of water, food and clothing. They researched and studied what illnesses radioactive poisoning caused; or weather mutations produced immune responses? Asked questions, probed and poked, prodded and pushed.

If they found a young child they were eager to dissect the sample redskin to gauge internal mutations. They did not care that the sample was a pitiful life, which was cherished and loved by other pitiful specimens.

The years became decades and the decades became centuries as the march of time turned wood to dust and the Earth healed herself. The burned and poisoned landscape slowly turned into fertile plains and grasslands.

Great forests breathed new air into the atmosphere and around the silo doors, small animals inherited the earth where moss and ivy grew.

One day a redskin boy, while minding his own business left his village for a walk in the cow pasture. He took off his shirt in the warm summer sun and relaxed upon the moss covered stone that he had known since he was an infant.

It was a big rectangular stone that looked at odds with its environment. Among the moss and twine-weed was what appeared to be a hatch of some sort although he had never seen it open and wasn't even sure if it could.

As a child he was told the stone was the door which led to the bowls of the Earth and from where demons and spirits could enter their world. He was told it was a bad place and should be avoided. Curiosity had always made him wonder why it was bad and what could be so wrong with a stone, after all?

He liked to sit and look at it, particularly on hot summer days when the village seemed crowded and noisy. There was something strange about this stone that fascinated his enquiring little mind.

It may have been its shape, or the way it was made and the material that was used. It did not appear to be made of the same stone every other rock around it.

It also appeared to be new although he was told rock was ageless; there since the creation of the universe. He had been told that if he misbehaved the creatures that inhabited the stone would come at night and drag him away; never to be seen again.

He smiled remembering these stories and how the myths used to scare him. There was a particular story his father used to tell. It was about the night of fire. It was a terrible time when all the women of the village were struck down with some sort of swamp fever. Struck down in the night by a monstrous virus that did not affect the men. A night when lives were wasted and great cries of grief rang out through the village. Flashes of lightening cracked the heavens above and all the world was gripped by chaos.

These people were nursed by family members who called their disease "Death Rot". It may have been another mutation but differed from the others in that it stuck people suddenly and only affected girls and women.

The first symptoms were mild, a sudden headache, dry mouth and skin complaints. Then a tremor began in the arms and legs. These progressed into mad shaking and then the rot set in. The skin burst into sickening sores which oozed slime and a foul smelling liquid.

If you dabbed the slime it pulled the skin away down to the bone and eventually the whole body turned into a thick sludge while the person slowly died. The disease had not been seen before and not been seen since. It struck on the evening that he had been born. The villagers were convinced that the fire and the Death Rot were caused by the same thing, but his father had more to think about.

He had to bury his wife, the mother of his new born child before worrying about unexplained phenomena. The child was unexpected but would be loved; being born without any mutations or defects except for a small mark upon its forehead. As the fire burned and the rot spread, somewhere deep below the surface a man looked at a small computer screen and sniffed.

"What the fuck is happening up there?" Another man, dressed in a crisp white shirt asked as he leant over his companion's shoulder and inspected the screen.

"There's been some overheating around the ventilation ducts."

"Oh, is that what's caused the conflagration?"

"Yes..." the man replied. "...The guys in the labs vented their fume hoods and because they were venting genetic material they followed it with a blast of heat. The foliage up there was too dry and it caused a fire."

"Any collateral damage?"

"No." the man replied. "There's a village nearby the vent and they may have experienced some genetic damage but nothing to worry about."

"Good, keep up the good work." The man said walking away to a desk and sitting behind his computer monitor.

The boy though about the story of that night and wondered what life would have been like if his mother had not died. He was happy, the village was pretty and clean, with good water and food. The river was supplied by a spring and it ran into a lake which had good fish to eat.

They also grew crops of rye and wheat which his father made into flour for bread or cakes. They hauled their ploughs with horses and collected wood for the fires. Some people had resurrected the old metal furnaces and so good iron tools were available for barter.

As he sat on the rock and thought about how beautiful the field and pastures looked in that warm summer sun, the boy heard a sound.

He listened closely and realised that it appeared to be coming from where he sat. Jumping up with a start he ran a little before curiosity took over from the initial panic. He stopped and hid behind a small bush, looking back towards the place he had been daydreaming.

The sound, a clicking, became more pronounced until it became a buzz and this became a whir. Then among the moss and twine-weed a crack of light appeared around the square in the rock. A door was opening and the boy felt himself fill with dread.

He was unsure why, perhaps it was the stories he'd been told about the monsters that dwelt in these places; he was overtaken with a panic such like he'd never felt before. Then he saw them. Several ghosts emerged from the rock dressed from head to toe in white plastic suits; they had no faces just blank black squares where their eyes should have been. These were the monsters he had been told about. Once again his curiosity overcame his fear and he stood on tip-toes to get a better look.

The one in front held a rod in one hand and appeared to be looking at a box held in the other. Another seemed to be collecting soil samples and placing them in a strange looking contraption and taking note of the readings it gave.

Then the one in front lowered his wand and started to unzip his head. The others appeared to be studying him and, to the boy's surprise the monster pealed back the black square to reveal a face. These were not monsters after all, they were men, men with masks on.

The face was deathly white with large grey eyes and a mop of dry grey hair. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile.

"It's okay, men." He said to the rest of the party. "I'm reading a pollution level of 00.6, well below the level we expected."

The others took their hoods off and the boy saw that some were young and others were women. They were all very white skinned and seemed relieved that they could breath the air.

The elder man looked at the group and continued to address them.

"At last..." he said. "We can come out from our underground prisons and live in the light of the Sun; today history is being made. Today we can rise up from our pits and take our place in the new world order we have created. Today we can become kings of this land and rule again, in the name of our God."

Upon hearing this, the boy turned and crept away from the scene, hearing the others clapping in the background. He crept through the trees like a scared animal running from a predator; in fear of those white faces and those grey steely eyes.

He ran as fast as he could back to the village. He did not understand quite why but he knew he wanted to get away from them, to gather his belonging and find some remote place he could hide away. He ran and as he did so a mighty roar filled the catacombs beneath his feat; a cheer rang out among the steel and concrete, the Under grounder's were coming up.

A farmer was tending his crops in the field a short distance from the village when he saw something strange coming toward him.

In the distance there was a line of people, he became stiff with fear seeing the strange way they were dressed and their deathly expressions.

Some carried small boxes which they held in front of themselves. They made noises or lit up and seemed to be giving the strangers indications of what was around them; digital readings of air pressure and pollution levels.

Then they were upon him, one gripped his hand tightly in a terrifying grasp that made his fingers hurt; shaking it violently as the others formed a circle around him.

"Friends," the deathly white stranger said with a snarl to the assembled group.

"I have led you triumphantly from the grave into this new dawn of civilisation. We have spent too long amongst the rotting flesh of our ancestors, too long in the cradle of warfare; forced to feed upon the scraps we could harvest without benefit of sunlight.

Never seeing or hearing the birds flying above our heads in the sunlit clouds; never feeling the chill of the wind on our faces. We were cursed to live in the tunnels of our forefathers; but no more. Never again."

He looked at the man whose hand he was shaking and smiled.

"Look at this savage. He and his people have waited patiently for us to come and show them what can be done with this world.

How man can manipulate its bounties and reign over its dominions. We have risen, like our Lord did millennia ago, and we are here to take our place on the throne of this kingdom. Today World Order has arrived."

The assembled crowd was getting bigger and bigger as more people joined him. They roared with approval and some clapped his words which only made the farmer more nervous. When the white man eventually let his hand go the farmer shirked and pushed his way through the crowd and ran back to the village; frightened out of his wits.

"There goes the real hero!" the man continued. "In the eyes of that savage you can see the suffering his people have had to contend with. We must be gentle with them; it will take them a while to get used to our ways but in the end it will be worth it. Where are the armed men?"

"Here, Mr President." A soldier from the rear shouted. He pushed through the crowd with several others and they cocked their weapons in readiness.

"That savage and his ancestors, those that burned in the fire of our miss-judgment, they will take time to come around. All we can do is promise not to repeat the mistakes of our forefathers and add with that promise a sincere wish to restore the world to its former glory.

We shall organise his people and bring civilisation. We shall restore our empire and bring about a new Rome on this planet; in the name of our Father, Amen. Now..."

He added smugly while lighting up a cigar.

"...Let's show these fuckers whose boss."

Four Years Later

Deep within a forest far away from any others a house stood. It was a house built with love, single story, made of logs and shingle roof but with a warm hearth and all that was needed for comfort.

The man who built it planned to farm the land in time but, for now, had just catered for himself and the small boy he cared for. This was the boy who had once hid behind a rock when the strangers emerged from their deep underground military bases. They had gathered their things; and they had run here to this place.

A well had been dug and a lone pair of hands had watered the small crop which was sown. In the thick forest a farm now grew from the land; they were happy there, the boy and his father.

"Son!" A voice echoed through the trees.

"Niets, my boy, where are you?"

"Here father." Niets answered. He looked up from where he was sitting towards the hut in the clearing beyond. "I'm here, with the goats."

He saw the top of his father's head come over the small hill that separated him from the hut. As his father approached he thought about the time that had passed since they had arrived in this lonely, beautiful place.

He had been eight years old and his father had carried him on his shoulders most of their journey to that place. He remembered how they had lived in a tent until the logs for the hut had been cut and the well dug.

How great it had seemed to at last come in from the cold and light a fire in the hearth, how safe he felt there. He remembered, in the mornings he would open the hut door and find wild animals in the yard, visiting the new residents of the great forest and was amazed at how tame they were.

The only thing that had disturbed his happiness was the memory of the day he had seen them come from beneath the earth. Those white faced monsters with their plastic suits and machines.

Now, the only time he saw them was in his dreams, he would wake up frightened and his father would have to comfort him back to sleep. In his mind he saw them amidst strange symbols and echoes of dreams which he did not understand.

Sometimes, when he was daydreaming he would remember one of the symbols and in his mind's eye wonder what it was; he knew it was familiar but from where confused him.

"Niets, snap out of your day dream." His father said when he reached him. "There is wood to be collected and I have made you some food. Eat and then do your chores, the goats can feed themselves."

The boy stood up and patted the nearest goat upon its head before following his father back to the hut. He looked up at the giant of a man, the man who had raised him since the night of the Death Rot, the night his mother had died.

#He followed trying to keep up with the large steps his father was able to make but never being able too without tripping. Eventually they were home and sat at the table his father had crafted from four planks of wood and ate the food placed there.

It was a rabbit stew and it tasted good. His father had cooked it early that day in the big pot they had brought with them from the village. The smell seemed to fill the whole hut and it smelt as good as it tasted.

"This is lovely." The boy said wolfing it back.

"It's amazing what the forest provides," His father replied.

"If you know what you are looking for. One day I'm going to clean one of those goats and make a real meal, a roast or something."

This made the boy stop eating. He knew by saying clean his father meant to kill and butcher the animal. The thought of eating one of his pet goats filled him with horror. His father smiled and laughed aloud.

"Don't worry, I won't take any of your precious animals yet, but one day we may have to. Get used to the idea."

Beside two beds and the table the hut had just a dresser with drawers for their clothing and a comfortable chair his father snoozed in when the fire was blazing. Next to the table was a hole cut into the wall which served as a window. It was secured in bad weather by means of two shutters that seldom served their purpose; blowing open frequently and being no defence against hard rain. Still it was comfortable and provided the pair with security and a roof over their heads.

As they continued to eat, Niets looked over his father's shoulders, and out the window. He peered towards the row of trees in the distance and the mountains beyond them.

The sky seemed huge, even through the square window, and was alive with birds and clouds. He imagined himself there rising in the air, high above the trees and looking at the hut far below.

He felt himself fly like a bird, or better still a spirit; restricted by no mortal constraints. Unchained and flying far above the world into the stratosphere beyond until he could wrap his arms around the universe.

Then, in the mist of this vision he saw a face staring back at him out of the blackness. He saw a face that could destroy everything.

"Snap yourself out of your dreams boy!" his father snapped.

"I've never know anyone so dreamy before, the way you drift off into a trance every time you sit still for a few minutes. Look how cold your food is getting; I'm sure all this vagueness can't be good for you."

"I have nothing else to do," the boy replied. "Except think and I like thinking." "Your food has got cold again," His father said. "Do you know that in the village there are people who would murder for such a feast; and cold at that. You have been spoilt."

"Yes father." The boy replied trying to place that face in his mind; where had he seen it before, was there a name that matched it?

"You've always been a daydreamer, ever since you were a child. Off you would go and I'd never be sure if you'd come out the other side. Perhaps if you had a mother..."

The man looked at the boy and smiled sadly. Niets looked back and smiled too.

"I hear they are rebuilding a city where the village used to be..." He said through a mouthful of food.

"...One of the Great Cities from olden times."

"Madness," his father replied. "They said that the land was contaminated and that no crops could grow there; although crops have grown there for years. Good crops at that.

Then, when the farmer had been tufted out they decide the ground can be built on. What, I ask, about the man and his family that depended on that land. What about them?"

The old man looked over at the boy and said.

"Anyhow Son. How do you know about the cities from the past, surely I've not mentioned them?"

"No father." The boy replied. "Before we came here I'd heard people tell stories about them."

"What stories?"

"You know." The boy said collecting his thoughts.

"A long time ago there was a great civilisation, where people had machines which flew and others that replaced the horse. They had great power but it was used to destroy them. There were ruins near the village and we used to play in them; my friends and I."

"They had power..." the old man said with a snarl. "But they were stupid and greedy. Some people ate gold while others ate dirt. In time this gold poisoned them." The man sighed and rubbed his chin.

"All they left behind was stone and rusting steel..."Niets interjected.

"... even that will turn to dust in time. Then there will be nothing left to remind us of their stupid civilisation."

"If only that were true." The old man said with a long sigh.

"People make a civilisation and if they are building the cities again then they are building the system that previously destroyed them. People never learn."

"I've seen people." The boy said with a cheeky grin.

"I've talked to them.."

"What?"

"I've seen them from time to time in the forest. Travelling people; I don't think they liked what was going on and have moved away like we did."

"Why didn't you mention this before?" His father asked with a note of concern.

"I thought you'd be angry that I'd wandered off so far..." The boy replied softly.

"...I wanted to tell you, really I did, especially because of the news I heard."

"What news is that?" his father asked placing his spoon down on the table and looking at the boy intently.

"I've heard them say the white people are forming an army of slaves."

"So you have spoken to these people, these strangers?"

"Yes."

"Didn't I tell you never to speak to strangers?" his father bellowed.

"It's dangerous."

"I'm sorry father but I was interested to know what was happening outside this forest."

"What did they say then, these people?"

"They talk about the white devils having weapons and using them to enslave the villagers. They call us redskins, they stop them growing food and make them buy it with coins which you can only get if you work for them. They say their land has been taken and then they are charged to return to it. It sounds..."

"All too familiar." His father interjected. "Please tell me if you see any others, boy," the old man said thoughtfully.

"It could be important."

A few days later Niets was walking in the forest. It was another hot, humid day and he was looking for a perfect place to sit and ponder the beauty of the world. There was so much to see, the moss creeping up the side of young oaks, huge crab-apple mushrooms and green vines everywhere. In trees, over the rocks and among the lush grass on which he stood, nature's beauty was everywhere.

He had travelled quite far and was thirsty when he came across a clear fresh-water pond. It had a small water fall at one end and was surrounded by a thick fringe of reeds. He stripped off his clothing and stepped into the water to escape the high mid-day sun.

Diving forward he was swallowed up by the refreshing fluid. He felt it caress his skin like a film as he held his breath and swam. All was silent in that other world of fish and stone.

Then he was rising for air as his lungs could be held stiff no longer. He shook the water from his hair and looked back towards the bank.

His clothes, which had been left folded were now strewn around in a mess although he could not see anyone. He stood erect and looked more closely but there was no-one there, not even an animal.

Stepping cautiously from the water he heard a sharp crack come from the tree line and this made his stop suddenly.

"Is anyone there?" he shouted. His voice echoed in the clearing and died out on the whistle of a soft breeze. "Who is that, answer me?"

He stepped from the water and quickly pulled on his pants and lifted a rock to defend himself. "Who is there?"

There was a rustle in the nearby bushes and a shadow moved. Niets looked closer as a small boy emerged. He was dressed in rags and had no shoes on his feet but his eyes were clear and his skin red so Niets did not feel frightened. He noticed the boy had the same coloured hair and was about the same height. He smiled gently, and walked to wards him while dropping the rock to his feet.

"Hello." Niets said.

"Hello," the boy replied. "My name is Adam, who are you?"

Niets looked into the boys clear brown eyes and saw something that indicated friendliness, a certain frailty, something in the sparkle of his pupils that made him feel at ease.

"My name is Niets." He replied.

"What are you doing in the forest?" The stranger asked excitedly. "Are you wanted by the cops?"

"The cops..." Niets replied. "...who are they?"

"You know," the boy laughed. "The cops, the police. Surely you know who the police are?"

Niets looked blankly at the boy and shrugged.

"They're after me, I'm an enemy of the state, that's what they call people like me, you know, thieves."

"Thieves?"

"Yes, thieves. I stole an apple and that makes me a thief. The cops can lock you up for stealing so I ran away. Did you run away?"

"Not really." Niets replied putting his shirt on.

"My father and I came here to live some time ago."

"Your father, you have a father?" The boy said eagerly.

"I had a father once but the cops killed him."

"Was he a thief too?

"Yes," the boy replied wide eyed. "But he didn't steal apples, he went after their weapons. He thought the cops would leave us alone if we had guns."

"Did they..." Niets asked softly. "...Did they leave you alone?"

"No," the boy said softly. "They killed my father and tried to kill me." The stranger looked about with a wide look in his eyes before asking.

"Do you live in a tree house. If I lived in this forest I would live in a tree house. That way you could catch birds and fry their eggs for breakfast. Do you catch birds and fry their eggs?"

"No." Niets answered. "We have chickens and we cook their eggs."

"Can you keep chickens in a tree house then?"

"We don't live in a tree house, we have a proper house."

"Really?" the boy said excitedly. "You're lucky, I wish I had a proper house. Is it near here?"

"Not far."

"Me and my parents had a house once, when I was a baby. They pulled it down and started to build Europa on the land."

"What is Europa?" Niets asked.

"You're funny." The boy smiled. He picked up a stone and tossed it into the pond. "Europa is the city they are building; it's a long way from here. Everyone knows."

"Is that where the cops are?"

"Yha, but I think they are following me. We'd better look out because I don't want to be locked up. That's what they do. My father told me before they killed him, they'll lock you up and throw away the key."

"You said you had parents, two parents?"

"Yes?" Adam replied looking at Niets with a half smile.

"Like, a mother as well as a father?"

"You are really funny. Of course I had a mother but I had to leave her when my father was killed. She was taken by Whitey, that's what my father called them; the devils with the guns."

"The cops?"

"They're white too but the others have guns as well and they are not cops. They say we have to call them da boss. If you speak to them, you have to say yes boss, no boss. Like that; understand?"

"I think so."

"The whitey work with the cops." Adam explained. There followed a tense silence where both examined each other.

"I've got a great idea." Adam exclaimed. "Why don't we swap clothes, then if I run into the cops or whitey they won't know if it's me or not. They'll not know what I'm wearing."

"You want me to give you my clothes?" Niets said nervously; knowing that his father would not be happy if he gave his clothes away, especially his shoes.

"I couldn't do that, my father would..."

"Tell him you gave your clothes to me." Adam said cutting Niets off in mid sentence.

"If you tell him why we had to swap I'm sure he would understand."

"I don't know."

"Look, have this as well, it's my only possession." Adam pulled back his sleeve and on his wrist was a thick band made of twisted leather. "A girl gave it to me. It's a love token."

"A love token?"

"Yes, that means she loved me." The boy took the band off and passed it over. Niets looked at the band closely, it was frayed and stained and was not very strong but the way it was weaved intrigued him.

"Okay." He said simply.

"I liked her but I didn't love her, she was a mutant. Have you got any mutants around here?"

"No."

They started to undress and change clothes while Adam told him about the mutants that lived in Europa. He said that there was a whole area that only mutants could enter and even the cops wouldn't go there because they were afraid.

He said that if he needed help he knew some who would hide him for a while or feed him if he was hungry. Then with a cheeky smile the boy whispered something.

"My mother died too."

"Really?" Niets replied.

"Yha, a long time ago, before I was born."

"Oh."

The he was gone leaving nothing of him behind except his dirty rags and the thin leather band. Niets walked through the trees until he started to see things that he recognized. As the hut came into view he thought back to his meeting with Adam and wondered what the boy was doing now and where he had gone.

It occurred to him that they were very similar, both without mothers, both lost in the new world order that had been created since the under grounder's had come out of their lairs; both outsiders.

He felt as if the boy was closer then he should have been, like a brother of sorts and this feeling made him happy.

His father was sitting in his old chair beside the glowing hearth. He looked tired and old having probably been cutting wood and looking after the animals since the sun rose. He opened a wary eye as the boy closed the door to the hut.

"Where have you been all day?" the old man asked. Then he sat forwards and looked at the rags Niets was wearing.

"Where are your clothes, and your shoes?"

"I met a stranger in the forest and he needed my help."

His father stood suddenly and grabbed the boy's shoulders.

"Where are your shoes? It took me ages to make them from our leather. What have you done with them?"

"He was being chased and needed to change his clothes so that he could escape. He gave me this..." Niets held up his wrist and the leather band that was tied loosely around it.

"Bhaa!" The old man spat. "You have been conned. Look at these rags, I can't believe you gave your shoes away having seen how long it took me to make them. Now, where am I going to get more leather to make you shoes?"

He sat down and looked at the fire before saying gently.

"You're too good, people will use you."

"I'm sorry father."

"The stranger." His father said with a sigh.

"Yes?"

"You said he was escaping?"

"Yes?"

"From what, what was he escaping?"

"He was a boy like me." Niets replied.

"He said he came from the city and his father had been killed. He said he was hungry and took an apple. This made the cops angry and they were looking for him."

"You foolish boy." The old man said wearily. "It sounds like he spun you a yarn to deprive you of your shoes."

"It's true." Niets said.

"He told me that the cops have weapons and they use these to make people work for them; that they kill you if you don't do as they ask; or throw away the key, whatever that means."

"And you let this boy con you?" the old man replied grabbing the boy's arm.

"Tell me, did he ask where we lived. Did he see what direction you left in?"

"I don't think so."

"It's important, we don't want them to find us do we?"

"Who father?" the boy asked.

His father let go of his arm and smiled gently.

"There's food over there, on the table. After you have eaten we will..."

He stopped in mid sentence and listened hard.

"What is it father?"

"Hush your mouth boy..." His father listened carefully and gazed towards the window. Then he took the boy in his arms and walked to the bed. He stooped down and pushed the bed up a little before stuffing the boy under it.

"Not one sound." He said holding his finger to his lips.

His father arranged the bedclothes into a curtain so that they covered the space under it. Niets heard his father shuffle about in the room and wondered what was going on, he closed his eyes and listened hard and then behind the sound of his father's movements he heard another sound.

At first he thought it was the wind blowing through the trees. Yet it appeared to be a single note, like a pipe of something being blown. It was a sound he'd never heard before and it was getting louder.

Then the faint note became a hum, a clear deep hum in the distance. It was the sound of a machine and it was getting louder and more intense. He heard the sound of his father open the door and step into the twilight beyond as the summer sun slowly left the sky. It was a sky blood red with omen.

As the door opened the hum became a loud buzzing and it reverberated about the room like the sound of a banshee; splitting through the warm air, rancid and frightening. Niets lowered his face and pressed it into the floorboards hoping they would swallow him up.

His father walked into the yard beyond the hut and knew in his heart that their adventure was over. A cloud of dust was being thrown into the night air over the hill and as it came closer his heart sank.

They were then upon him, a convoy of three motorcycles and outriders followed by a large square truck. They spewed black exhaust gasses into the clean air as they turned the last corner and the smell got into his nostrils and made him feel sick.

When they had pulled to a halt by the hut their riders turned off the deafening engines while the driver of the truck kept his running and throttled the engine occasionally. The air became tainted with the smell of diesel fumes. A cloud of dust settled around them as the first rider got off his engine and approached the old man.

His hair was long and greasy, there was black engine oil on his face and his breath smelt of dead fish. He smiled wickedly walking around the old man before taking a long baton from his belt and smashing it against his hand.

"Identity papers?" He spat.

"I don't understand..." Niets' father answered. "What are identity papers?"

"Are you a fool or something old man; give me your identity papers."

The others got off their bikes and approached them and he trembled more seeing the large iron bars they carried menacingly.

"I've been in this forest for several years, I don't have any papers."

"Don't lie Old man," the first rider said poking him in the gut with his baton.

"There was a census last year, everyone was given identity papers, a number and passbook. Only thieves and criminals didn't get registered. What are you a thief or a criminal?"

"I've been in this forest for well over a year, I haven't seen anyone in that time, I wasn't part of your census."

The lead cyclist looked at his fellow riders and turned slightly before swinging round and smashing his baton in the old man's face. This sent him sprawling across the floor.

"You think you're clever, don't you old man?"

He looked at his friends and one of them gave him a piece of paper.

"We're looking for an absconder, a mutant boy, if I find you are hiding him you'll be in serious trouble."

"I'm just a simple farmer, I've done no harm to you....." he watched as the lead rider pushed past him and stepped to the hut door.

"...No keep out of there..."

It was no good, the group entered the hut and started to throw the furniture about in a frenzy. Then one of them pulled back the bed and Niets was left exposed.

"As expected." The lead rider said pulling the boy to his feet by the scruff of his neck. He dragged him outside.

"Give me the description?"

"Male, boy?"

"Check."

"Fair hair?" The other said.

"Check."

"Five two approx.?"

"Check."

"Brown eyes?"

"Check."

"Utility suit No: 321?"

The rider pulled back the boys neck line and read the number printed within.

"Check, this is the little bastard."

"What about the scar?" the other rider asked.

"Where was it?"

"It don't say. Just see if he has any distinguishing marks."

The rider pulled back Niets" fringe and looked at the scar he had on his forehead.

"Yha, this is the little cunt."

He threw the boy to another of the riders who clutched him tightly in a hug. Then he walked to the old man still prostrate on the floor and spat.

"I told you that you'd be in trouble if you were harbouring a mutant. What have you got to say before I pass sentence?"

"Believe me." The old man cried. "He is my son, we have lived here since he was a child. Please do not take him."

"He's your son?"

"Yes."

"Then why were you hiding him?" He gestured for the others to put the boy into the truck.

"Father." Niets cried out as he was dragged away.

The last thing he saw before the back of the truck was closed was the lead rider lift his baton and bring it down in a mighty arch into his father's scull.

There was a loud crack and blood splattered up the baton. Then there was blackness as the door was closed.

"Father, what are they doing to you?" he screamed.

Then a loud shot rang out in the night. It was as if a cannon had been fired into the vehicle for the sound bounced from steel wall to steel wall in an every decreasing echo.

Niets then realised that his life would never be the same again, it was the end of his blissful childhood.

That single loud clap announced the dawning of a new era, a time for him to feed himself, wash his own face and mourn the memories of old. Why, he thought, as the truck rattled into motion, throwing him against the steel doors.

Why, does life have to be so hard, when all he wanted was to live in peace? Why does life insist on being so difficult?

He thought about what the riders had said. Was he a mutant? Surely this was not true, he had eight fingers and two thumbs, two eyes in his head, two ears. His legs and arms worked properly.

The mutants he had seen in the distant past had problems with one or all of these things. No, he thought, they were clearly speaking about Adam, after all, it was he that they sought.

The truck rumbled on and on and on. Never ceasing it's incessant shaking, sometime lurching to the left, sometimes to the right, the van occasionally appeared to stop suddenly throwing him across the floor.

It was on one such occasion that Niets heard the driver shout at the top of his lungs that they were nearing their destination, Capitol City.

Here we come, the driver announced, as the van tumbled down a steep incline and over a rocky path. He wondered what this could mean having thought they were taking him to a place called Europa, wasn't that what Adam had called it, all those bumpy hours ago?

Then with a further roll and creek the van shuddered to a halt and the noisy engine was switched off. The motion had got into his bones and he was left feeling quite sick having not been use to such reeling and rolling. He sighed and lifted his frail body as far as his knees in silence, in darkness, listening.

He could hear many voices outside the truck, like they had stopped in the midst of a flock of geese. It was hot in there and he was thirsty, his lips parched and dry cracked as they desperately sought saliva from his dry mouth.

Then he heard a sharp clap on the side of the van that made him start with fear. He looked towards the back of the truck and hearing a scraping lock being pulled the doors swung open flooding the interior with light. Niets looked up through squinting eyes and saw his father's killer smiling back at him.

"You, in there..." The man screamed. "...Stop acting like a baby and make your way forward; here boy, here, quickly."

Niets did as he was told picking himself up and made his way towards the light, shielding his eyes from its intense glow; hiding the tears that had collecting in them.

When he stepped down onto the greasy dirt he found himself in an enclosure. There were people everywhere and most of them looked like the man now holding his arm tightly. With long greasy hair and weapons strung about their shoulders. Some though, were like him, dressed in the same rags and of a similar build and age. This puzzled him.

He was led through a thick doorway which not only boasted a sturdy wooden frame but also an iron gate both of which were secured behind them after he was pulled through.

He was dragged down a darkened hall and then led into a small room. Several doors were set into the wall that faced them; notable only by their ugliness and apparent strength.

Each door, being equipped with no less than four heavy bolts and two solid looking padlocks, oozed strength. The boy wondered if these were intended to keep people in or to lock would be thieves out; he realised that soon enough he would find out.

"One on, Governor." His guard called. Then, from an opposite door a sound came. It was more of a sullen groan then a reply and was followed by the rattle of keys on a chain.

The door opened and with a creaking of floorboards a huge beast of a man entered the room. He was dressed like the others although his long hair was tied back revealing a scarred and burned face and his costume was covered in ageless stains.

"Let's be having you." The monster croaked as he stepped across the room to a bolted door.

"I have 321, for you." the boy's guard stated. "It's the absconder, you know the one, his keeper will be collecting him soon enough."

"I'd better look after him then." The monster replied.

"I go' a lovely little room for you 'ere," he spat.

"It wi' suit ye good. Step this way litt'un."

Niets did as he was asked and became a prisoner behind the huge door that was slammed behind him. He listened as each of the four bolts swung back in place securing the door.

Niets cursed under his breath thinking that he would have howled out loud if the situation hadn't been so desperately sad. It was slightly amusing that the monster would think the boy could break even one of the bolts. After a while in the warm and stuffy room the boy felt sleep begin to overtake him. A hard wooden bench was the only piece of furniture in the room and even that felt comfortable after his long journey. He lay on it and closed his eyes.

Waves of relaxation swept over him and he slipped down gently. Into the night he slept, into the void of sleep and into the valley of dreams.

Down the valley beyond he flew and across the sweeping field of trees to his old home. The one his father had wrought from the forest floor.

There was the old man sitting beside a glowing fire in his rocking chair. The hut was washed in a soothing glow that made the boy heart feel happy again.

Niets peered into the hearth and saw within the flickering embers another scene. A man stood within a circle of fire engulfed in flames and shouting strange names to the wind. His dark hood and flowing robes shone scarlet and blue in the light from the fire.

The man raised a sword above his head and cursed the clouds as they rolled by. Then his eyes turned and the two faced each other across a void; an abyss of flowing magma.

"321. Rouse yourself!"

Niets sat up upon hearing the voice cut through the thick air in his cell, he found the door had been opened and his jailer towering over him.

"Get up, litt"un," the monster spat. "You're leaving."

"Where am I going?" Niets asked softly.

"You'll soon find out." The monster said before turning on his heels and rattling the keys on his chain.

He followed the man outside and was led to another gate along a dingy corridor. Here the monster took a set of chains and wrapped them around the boys ankles.

He then led him by the chains down another hall beyond. The only sound to be heard as they made their way was the deep, asthmatic wheezing of the monster and the clanking of the chains on the stone floor.

When, at last, they came to a huge wooden door encrusted with steel bolts the monster directed Niets towards a three legged stool and told him to sit.

"Am I to be collected?" The boy asked as the jailer sorted though his keys looking for the one that fit.

"Collected?" the monster laughed as he tried another key in the lock only to find it did not fit.

"Not collected, litt'un..." he repeated looking for another key to try in the lock. The lock at last clicked and the door swung open.

"You're to be sold."

The corridor filled with noise and light as the monster let out a huge laugh pulling the door back to revel a courtyard crawling with activity.

The monster waved the boy through the door before locking it up afterwards.

Niets found himself in a large round courtyard full of people walking in an ever decreasing circle. Once they reached the centre they joined the outside of the spiral and did the walk again.

"What do you mean..." the boy asked the jailer. "...what do you mean by sold?"

"I mean litt'un," the monster replied leading the boy through the centre of the spiral towards another gate on the other side of the yard.

"That your previous master has been dune with yo'. You been offered up for auction."

"That can't be." The boy said as he looked up at the ogre.

"I'm not a slave, I've never been owned by anybody."

"Save yo' lies for the scum in the auction cellar." The jailer said as he tugged the boy forward.

"But it's true." Niets screamed. "I was living with my father, I met a boy in the woods and we swapped clothing; it was him that was running away, not me."

"Oh, yes..." the jailer laughed. "Yo got some front, no wonder the last won waz fed up wi' ye."

Niets was finally dragged through the far gate and into another small dingy room. There was another door which faced the door he entered and next to it sat a small wooden desk with another guard sitting studiously behind it.

"One on Sir." the monster said to the other guard as he placed the boy in front of the desk. "An a right lil' brat he is too."

"Is this the absconder?" the guard at the desk said as he lifted a clipboard and attached a form to it.

"That be right." Said the monster as the other guard put a small tick on the form he held.

"Right," he said sternly. "I want you to empty your pockets and place their contents on the table.

"I haven't got anything in my pockets." The boy replied.

"Okay then," he said with a snarl.

"I want you to take off your clothing and place everything in this box." He indicated a box too his left.

"Start with your shoes."

"I haven't got any shoes." Niets said softly.

"Oh," the man said ticking the box.

"Well start with your socks."

"I haven't got any socks."

"What?" the guard huffed.

"I tol' ye, he be a right one." The monster smiled.

"Well," the guard behind the desk snapped. "Put what you have got in the box and stop messing me around."

The boy removed his utility suit which was his only piece of clothing and put it in the box as directed. Then he stood there waiting for the next order feeling the chilly air rattle against his bones. He folded his arms in front of his chest in the vein hope that it would stop his shivers. It didn't and so he stood there trembling.

"He looks like a healthy lad?" the guard said to no one in particular after scribbling a note on his form.

"I've seen plenty of you lot pass through these doors but none so fit as thee.

Miserable wretches normally, each and every one of em jus skin an bone; not you though. Who's been feeding you?"

"I lived with my father in the hills." Niets replied shivering intensely.

"You wait till ye 'ere this." The monster laughed. "He's a one alright."

"It's true." The boy pleaded through clattering teeth.

"I lived in the hills with my father."

The thought of his father brought tears to his eyes and he stood there thinking about the hut and the forest and the animals that he had loved.

He remembered the smell of pitch being boiled in the huge pot they had to put on the roof in the winter. He remembered his father's voice comforting him in the mist of mid-winter snow- storms.

How strong he's father's arms felt when he lain beside him sleeping. In the middle of dark winter nights he was comforted, while the bats and wild dogs called from beyond the window, he was safe there and felt wanted.

"He's a good'un at keeping a story." The monster laughed again.

"Truth was, somebody harboured him."

"Just as I thought." The guard behind the desk said.

"These boys lose weight when they're on the run. This one's as strong as a dog; did they shoot the pig that hid him?"

"Think so." The monster said with a shrug.

"He wasn't a pig," Niets screamed through his tears. "He was my father, and I loved him."

"Stop babbling and put this on..." The guard said thrusting a dressing gown across the table at the boy.  
"...and then follow me."

He led the boy through the door by his desk and down a further darkened corridor which had secure doors set into each side; each identical to the next.

When at last they reached the end of the corridor the guard took his keys and unlocked the furthest door before pushing the boy into the cell and slamming the door behind him.

"I'm thirsty." Niets shouted. "I want to drink some water."

The words faded with the sound of the door slamming as he listened to the sound of the guard's footfalls echoing away from him.

He was in another small, hot room that was bare of all furniture except a small chair that sat alone in a corner looking as uninviting as it could.

Niets needed to lay down, feeling tired still and so he stretched out on the stone floor and rested his head on his folded arms.

It had been a long day, a long and miserable day. Why, he thought, did his life continue to be so tough; he was concerned about his present situation and worried about what the future might hold.

He stretched out on the cold floor and felt the chill in the stone bite into his back, why, he thought, was it like this for all small boys?

He drifted into a light sleep and once again saw there, projected onto the back of his eyelids, the figure of a man.

A brown skinned man with blue mud caked over his body with hair like the roots of a tree. The thick black locks spread out from his head with fire burning in them.

His eyes were red, blood red but shone like the sun's reflection on an ocean wave. The man raised his left hand and placed the index finger to his lips.

"Silence." He whispered. "I will show you the mysteries of the stars; the answers will then be yours."

Niets saw behind the man's right hand, which was raised to the heavens, a bright moon glowing in beautiful glory. Behind the silver disc shone a brilliant sun-burst which shot lines of blinding light through the heavens.

An eclipse occurred, the moon became a black circle and the boy felt like he was being sucked into the centre of that dark hole. It sucked him from the cold floor into the dark matter surrounded by radiance; through a door and into another realm.

Once there he saw a bright green field and shocking blue sky; fluffy white clouds bobbed on the horizon as a huge rainbow arched above them.

Then he saw him, a man just like himself only older, inverted, but as himself.

"Wake up, you!" a voice shouted like thunder above in the sky. He felt a sharp dig in his ribs and opened his eyes to find it was now the following morning.

A guard towered over his prostrate body and his foot gave Niets' leg a sharp kick.

"Get up boy." The guard shouted.

"It's your turn."

Niets stood and pulled his gown around his body in a vain attempt to get warmth from the thin material. He wondered what the guard had meant by it being his turn, perhaps, he thought, they were going to feed him.

He followed the guard back into the long corridor and back down to where the other guard still sat behind his small wooden desk. He was filling out another form attached to a clipboard.

"One off, Sir!" The boy's escort said to the guard behind the desk who proceeded to make a small mark on his form.

"Get dressed." The guard said throwing him the box with the boy's rags in them.

Niets did as he was told and then followed his escort on through a further gate and down another long corridor. The only other sound beside their foot falls was the clinking of the guard's key chain which rattled with every step. The boy noticed this place had a bad smell, a dark and unpleasant odour which left an acrid taste in his mouth.

Niets held his breath and hoped that they would make it to the end of the hall without the need to breath in case he choked on the stink. The guard was unaffected by the odour has if he's become accustomed to it over many years.

Eventually they went through another secured gate at the end of that dark place and the boy let out a huge sigh, gasping for the fresh air that permeated there.

They were in another room but this one was busy being populated by several hundred people. They looked at his thin frame and rags with an air of sullen disinterest before continuing in their previous activity.

Some looked at the floor, others chatted amongst themselves while others paced back and forth furiously. A guard smoking a thick black cigar looked at Niets and then towards the guard.

"Is this 231?" the man asked. The other guard nodded and pushed the boy towards the fat cigar smoker.

"Right," he said in a puff of smelly smoke. "All you have to do is walk through the door and stand where the cross is marked on the stage."

"Will I get a drink of water" Niets asked through cracked lips.

"If I do as you want."

The fat guard clapped him across the ear sending a puff of cigar ash into the air where it rained down like grey snow.

"Cheeky cunt." The guard said. "Get the fuck out there and stop pissing about."

He pushed the boy through the door and he found himself on a thin stage raised above the heads of a crowd of people who he could just see through the glare of a spotlight.

"Lot 321." An electric voice echoed out.

"This one's got plenty of years of service left in him, no dental problems or scurvy, will make a good bed warmer or vent scrubber, any bids please?"

Niets looked into the blinding spotlight and cupped his hand over his eyes to shield them from the intensity of the glare.

"No history of mental illness..." the voice crackled.

"Eyesight good and hardworking. You'll find this mutant boy loyal and we expect him to grow into a strong man; who'll give me two hundred?"

"Two hundred for that scrap!" a voice in the crowd laughed. The boy became aware of a further group of people at his feet, they were looking up at him with pale white faces and inquisitive eyes.

He was dizzy and thirsty, the light blinding his eyes made him feel sick and weak. Faintness crept up on him and he wobbled slightly.

"That boy's ill." Another voice shouted.

"He's not worth above ten coins."

"One hundred and fifty." The electric voice cracked.

"Come on people, that's a bargain."

"Has he ever used his Psych?" another voice shouted.

"No record of psychic terrorism," the electric voice replied.

"Come on people, one hundred?"

"Seventy five." Another voice shouted.

Niets felt the faintness creep from his toes into his calves and up his legs to his groin. He stumbled forwards.

"I'll give you eighty..." another voice shouted before adding.

"Only if he's not violent, is he?"

"Just an absconder." The electric voice replied.

"But keep him in a neck chain and he'll behave himself. Now, any higher then eighty?"

"Ninety." Said a soft female voice. It was a soothing voice and it left a quiet void amongst the crowd.

"Ninety-five." A male voice shouted with a sniff.

"One-hundred, and be damned." The woman returned.

"Have him, then." The male voice spat.

"I could buy a horse for that price."

The room erupted in laughter just as the boy fell to his knees.

"You have a horse." The female voice said softly.

"And I'll have this boy!"

"Sold." The electric voice said excitedly.

"Can someone bring him to my coach?" the woman added.

Niets was scooped up in the arms of the cigar-smoking man who took him from the stage and into the room he's been in previously.

"Very good price." The smoking guard said through a mouth full of cigar smoke.

"You're lucky boy," he added. "You're going to a good home."

"I'm thirsty." Niets whimpered and the guard sat him on a stool in the crowded office. Someone handed him a metal cup which was full of lukewarm water.

He gulped it back before noticing that it had a film of scum floating on its top. He was so thirsty that he didn't care, the water filled his mouth with bliss and tasted like the best liquid he'd ever drunk.

"Where am I going?" he asked softly to no-one in particular.

The guard with the clip board was taking notes and he looked up briefly to say.

'ignorance is bliss.' before continuing to write on the form in front of him.

"321?" another guard shouted as he entered the room.

"That's the bugger." Said the guard behind the desk.

The new guard was dressed in a similar uniform to the others although his was clean and pressed. It had shiny buttons and metal studs on the collar. He looked at the dishevelled boy and tutted loudly.

"Boy?" he said loudly. Niets looked up at him and tried to concentrate.

"Your new mistress will collect you shortly. She is a good woman but she won't take any crap, if you run away it will be the last thing you do, understand?"

"Yes." The boy replied softly.

"That don't mean the whip, boy." He added. "It'll mean the chop, do you understand, comprendi?

Niets nodded. There was a sharp tap on the door and another guard walked into the room.

"Madame Leigh Sophia!" he announced as a beautiful woman entered the room behind him.

She was dressed in a floor length gown made of a shining material that filled the room with light. Her soft red hair hung on her shoulders like flaming embers and he saw that she had clear green eyes that picked him out on the other side of the room filling him with anticipation.

"Is that my boy?" she asked pointing a delicate finger that was adorned with fist sized jewels.

"Sign this, madam." The guard at the desk said.

"And he's all yours."

For the first time since his father had been killed the boy did not feel frightened. He was led from the building into the morning air which, after all the stuffy dark room seemed cold and bright. There was a dark vehicle waiting which was being driven by a man whose sole purpose was to drive Madame wherever her whim dictated.

She sat in a compartment behind the driver and placed the boy opposite her so he was back to back with the driver. The vehicle began to move and they started their journey; in silence.

Every time Niets looked at this woman he noted new things he hadn't noticed before. Her smell, for instance, travelling along in that small compartment he caught a sniff of her scent on the air. It was musky and heavy, with a delicate touch of rose; flowery, it gave her an invisible aura.

"Don't be shy, boy." She said smiling at him. Niets looked at her green eyes and saw emeralds in snow, they glittered like beautiful beasts, seductive yet mysterious.

Her fingers were long and smooth, with huge rings and gem stones on each one, tipped with magnificent nails painted red and white. He looked out the window and saw that they were driving down a mud road, there were tents and shacks of every description imaginable pitched on either side.

Flags flapped in the wind above each one and he saw groups of raggedy people standing beside open fires. Black pillars of smoke rose into the sky turning it a foul grey and now and then the smell of sewage filtered into the car. He saw a dead body laying in the ditch which followed the road and noticed that death seemed everywhere.

Dead dogs rotted in the fields, dead cats filled every turning, there were dead horses and dead donkeys; death was all around them and made the city stink. Yet inside the vehicle only the soft scent of flowers lingered.

"Have you always been so shy?" she asked. The boy glanced back at her coyly. He noticed that the wide brimmed bonnet she wore obscured her eyes occasionally when she tilted her head.

"Or are you just shy of me?" she added with a smile.

"You have nice hands." Niets said awkwardly.

"So do you." She replied softly.

"Certainly not workman's hands; you have the hands of a artist; tell me..." she smiled.

"Do you paint of play music?

This direct question made him feel even more awkward. He didn't know what to say. Not wanting to say the wrong thing and upset her. He just looked at her and bit his lip indicating his sense of comfort.

"Ah, a boy who does not like to talk..." she said.

"...will not tell tales. My secrets will be safe with you I think."

The vehicle rumbled on over the bumpy road towards its final destination. Niets saw beyond the windows tents and shacks giving way to trees and fields.

Farm animals and crops appeared and he started to feel more comfortable hoping that he might see something he'd recognise.

Occasionally he saw small encampments along the side of the road that sprouted out of no-where. Here, thin and dirty women greeted the car,

With sickly looking children in their arms they were holding out thin hands begging for food or money. Each camp appeared to have its own distinctive flag.

He noticed that although they all had differing designs they all bore a small motif in their centres. It was an elliptical circle made up of two concentric lines and centred by a white eagle's feather.

He also noticed that sometimes the encampments had a mud wall built around them which bore crudely dubbed slogans; in paint or in chalk, even in mud. The slogans broadcast a message.

HE IS YOUR REDEEMER

The slogan's yelled.

HE IS YOUR SAVIOUR

HE IS YOUR BROTHER

HE IS YOUR FATHER

Niets was intrigued by this and for a moment even considered asking his host what she made of them. When he looked up at her she seemed to be deep in thought and so he declined to do so. She looked at him and smiled again, a fruity smile that was caressed by a smooth red tongue.

He looked back towards the passing landscape and secretly wished their journey would come to an end in the hope that he might be fed. He had not eaten for ages and his stomach felt small and tight.

Eventually his wishes were answered. The black vehicle rolled through a sturdy set of iron gates, set in a red brick wall, and down a long gravelled drive.

In the distance he could see a large white building looming ahead of them.

It was the largest structure he had ever seen and it filled the boy with wonder. It was four floors high and was topped with a huge dome that was covered in copper sheeting.

In front of the building was a large portico with a sweeping flight of white stone steps. There, at the bottom of the steps, was a man and a woman who waited patiently for the vehicle to stop.

The man, wearing a stiff blue suit, opened the door for madam Leigh and when she had left the car Niets followed her. The man looked at the boy with an air of confused disgust.

"Cook?" Madame said to the woman who was wearing a white apron over her blue suit.

"Yes Madame?"

"Take this boy and give him a good scrub."

"Yes, madam." The cook replied looking at the boy intently.

"When he has been scrubbed dress him in a clean uniform, feed him then bring him to the blue room."

"Yes madam."

"He is to be my valet."

The cook took the boy's hand and led him away to a door beside the stone steps, he noticed above the door was a stone motif carved into the door frame. It was circle with a feather in its centre; shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.

Niets was tugged by the old maid into the basement staff rooms and found his eyes bulging from their sockets to see the grandeur of it all. The floors were marble and the walls covered in teak panelling, over his head a vaulted ceiling stretched from wall to wall.

He was led up a wide oak staircase which had oil paintings on the walls. Here and there were pieces of finely made furniture inlaid with brass fittings.

After being led through another set of swing doors he found himself walking past a bronze statue of a boy playing pan pipes, the statue was larger than him with features cast so lifelike that you would have thought the boy alive.

"Charity?" the cook shouted as she pulled the boy into a room which he recognized as a scullery.

"Fix up a tub, we have a guest."

Niets saw, attending to some pots, a thin black girl at a large white sink, her back was to him and when she turned he saw that she had only one eye in the centre of her head. It glared at him menacingly making the boy avert his gaze.

Although she was clearly not very old her face was lined with years of worry and pain. She wiped her hands on the apron at her waist and tucked her brown hair into the scarf tied around her head leaving long tuffs hanging about her ears.

The one eyed girl took an iron tub off the wall and walked off with a bucket towards a steaming copper on the other side of the room.

While she was doing this, Niets felt the cook's thick fingers tugging at his utility suit; pulling it above his head until he was naked.

He was not embarrassed by his nakedness being too interested in the girl as she filled the bucket with water and walked to the tub. The steam from the water seemed to bother her eye as she poured it; he was fascinated with her.

"She's one of your kind." The cook said noticing the boy's interest.

"Ugly as sin and dumb as a duck."

The cook threw his suit at the girl before shouting.

"Burn this before it infests the place."

The girl picked the suit up and on her next trip to the copper opened a small door at its base and threw the suit into the flames that burned there. She then collected more water and walked back to the tub which was sitting next to an open fire.

"Come on then." The cook said tugging him over to the steaming tub. "We got to wash that stink off you boy."

Twenty minutes later he had been scrubbed and soaked, soaped and dried. His toes had been attacked with a small thick brush and his face and ears rubbed red with what seemed like wire wool.

Cook wasted no time in smearing a thick layer of soap from the top of his head down to his ankles and scrubbing it into his skin. When she had done her best to make him sparkle she instructed the girl to pour cold water over his head and then she lifted him from the tub wrapped in a thick towel.

Both women then dried him off before a clean vest was pulled over his head and crisp clean shorts pulled over his feet.

"Where does she get them from?" Cook asked no-one in particular as she ran a comb through the boy's hair.

"Dirty little urchins."

"She bought me." The boy replied while a shirt was being pulled over his shoulders and buttoned up.

"At the market, for a hundred or something."

"You can talk then?" the cook exclaimed as a shiver rippled through her ample chest.

"Goodness, and there I was thinking you were mute like her. Well," she huffed.

"If you can talk you might as well tell me your name if you have one."

"My name is Niets." The boy replied.

"Newts, what, like a tadpole? What sort of name is that?" The woman said pulling a pair of socks onto the boy's feet.

"I was named by my father, he was killed by the cops."

"I see," she grumbled.

"Did he like tadpoles or something?"

"It's got nothing to do with tadpoles." Niets said sharply.

"I think it was the last thing my mother said when she gave birth to me, then she died."

"Oh," the woman nodded.

"Delirious was she? So your father..."

"Yes."

"he must have been a criminal; they don't kill you for nothing, not like some sorts."

"He was not a criminal, they killed him for nothing." The boy shouted.

"But why should you believe me, no one else does. I've told loads of people and they all think I'm a liar."

"Well if that's true..." cook responded pulling up a pair of trousers.

"...You'd be best advised to keep it to yourself. You don't want them to think that, do you?"

She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, admiring his transformation.

"You wouldn't think it was the same boy. Hungry are you?"

"Yes, yes I am." He replied softly with a small smile. The cook smiled back.

"Get some cold meats and some bread for the boy." She shouted at the girl.

"And a nice, hot cup of tea."

"When you are hungry we will feed you." Madame Sophie said softly. She was sitting behind a large desk and peering at him over a sheet of paper upon which she had noted his name and the few other details he had given her.

"If you are thirsty you will be given water, tea or juice if it's available." She continued.

"Your uniform will be cleaned once a week and you shall wear a clean shirt every day, after you have bathed;

I must insist that you bath every day. The cook will be your superior in the house and I want you to serve her without complaint; do you understand what I have said to you?"

"Yes Madam." Niets replied, bowing his head respectfully.

"I will not tolerate violence in this house and so you will not be beaten; consequently I hope you will not run away.

If you feel a need to do so please come and speak to me. If you have a problem I will try to resolve it for you.

If cook has a problem with you I will ask her to send you to me so that we can discuss the matter.

I will endeavour to be fare in my dealings with you as I am with all the staff. For your bed and keep I expect you to work.

This work will mainly be in my service although cook may wish to use you elsewhere from time to time and she will direct you on those occasions. Your hours will normally be from five in the morning until nine in the evening, after which you will have free time.

During your free time you will tidy your room, bath and eat. You are not allowed visitors and you will not leave the house unless you have arranged this with cook or myself; do you understand?"

"Yes madam."

"You will have your own room at present although this may change if we get other staff. Finally, one day each month you will have free time during which you shall learn to read and write; cook will speak to you in more detail about this later. Have you any questions?"

"No madam."

She gave him a gentle smile and tapped her delicately manicured fingernails on the desk momentarily.

"That will be all, dismissed."

The boy looked at her awkwardly and shuffled on one foot and then the other.

"That's code for you can go now."

"Oh," he stuttered before turning on his heels and strutting quickly for the door. The cook waited on the other side.

The woman beckoned him to follow her through the hall and up a flight of narrow stairs which eventually led to a small room. She opened the door and Niets followed her inside.

"This is your room, good night." She nodded before leaving and closing the door behind her. He wondered if he should ask how he was going to wake in the morning but thought he'd better not upset her as the cook's mood had changed for the better.

The room was not unlike the last one he had slept in although better furnished. It was small and cramped with a bare stone floor. A handsome bed sat against one wall and it had a silk quilt draped over it neatly.

A mound of cushions was piled at one end of the bed looking as comfortable as a soft summer cloud. Facing the bed was a small square window which had dark curtains, through them he saw the moon drifting lazily across the night sky and it made him realise how sleepy he was.

Resting his head on the soft cloud of cushions he felt the tension of the day leave his body and he sank into the comfort. His mind wandered, through the cloud of softness and he remembered a hot day somewhere else.

It was a hot midsummer afternoon that lived somewhere in the dark recesses of his memory. A hot day when he was younger, a humid hour that smelt of wild flowers and honey; it felt like twigs and dry grass over a sun scorched field.

He was walking barefooted through the buzz of busy bees amid the flirtatious calls of young sparrows; in unknown woodland, into the trees and rising mist.

He came across a small brook that twisted its way like a golden chain through the grasses; reflecting in its rippled mirror the tips of trees and diamond splinters of sun light.

Diamond glittering sparkles gently washed the fish and lilies as the brook bubbled through the trees. The boy jumped across to the other side landing with a soft bump. The grass was higher over there and he rose on tip-toes to peer over it. He held his breath as he peered over the swaying tops of greenery towards a further clearing of sorts.

Being without trees it stretched into the distance as far as he could see; it consisted of proud stone stumps that lay in neat rows to the horizon. Stumps of white granite laying in neat white rows in a grid that criss'd and crossed; white patterns in the sea of green.

Niets stepped from the rushes and tall grasses and walked to one of the nearest stone stumps finding it flat and smooth on the face and back. He rubbed the collected dust and moss which had made its home there and saw beneath an inscription boldly carved.

DEATH IS NO END

It read simply. Hearing a twig snap in the distance made Niets drop to his knees suddenly filled with terror. He hid himself behind the stone monolith and peered cautiously back from where he had come. A lone man was walking through the grasses at a brisk pace towards him.

The man peered straight ahead as he strutted forwards taking no notice of potential dangers at his feet. He was heading towards the boy confidently as if he knew the place well and followed a well worn path.

Niets stooped lower as the sound of foot falls became louder, holding his breath and wishing the ground would open and swallow him up. His eyes were tightly closed but he became aware of a tall shadow falling across him.

"Niets." A familiar voice said. "My son!"

The boy looked up into the bright sun light and saw a man towering over him. His head was eclipsing the sun and this gave the appearance of a bright golden halo around the man's head.

Niets was unsure if it was his father because the man was not old, not life worn and hunched. His hair was not grey and his face was shaved. He was looking up at a man in the prime and vitality of youth.

"They killed you." Niets stuttered through quivering lips.

"Didn't they?"

"A body is perishable, it is raised imperishable, it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory, it is slain in weakness and is raised in power."

The boy felt his father's hand gently brush through his hair and within that light stroke a great sensation washed over him. Like drunkenness the sensation filled his body and mind with soothing rays of light.

"They killed you..." the boy cried out, unable to hold back the tears that filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks in faint droplets.

"...I saw it with my own eyes; heard it with my own ears."

"What did you see?" the man whispered.

"What did you really hear?"

The boy thought about that terrible moment and remembered something, a sound, a word, a sentence that faded in and out of his consciousness.

It was a poem that he knew but did not, could not know. A lyric to a song that someone had once sung to him, but who, but when; he could not remember.

SON, YOU NEED NOT ASK WHY

WHAT WAS DONE, WHAT CAUSED ME TO DIE

IT IS A PLAN WHICH YOU'LL PLAY A PART

IF YOU PUSH WITH YOUR MIND AS WELL AS YOUR HEART

SUFFERING IS YOURS, TEARS CLOUD YOUR EYES

BUT You'll ESCAPE AND CAUSE ITS DEMISE

THERE IS A PLAN, A KING YOU SHALL RISE

TO CROWN ALL MEN KINGS IN THEIR EYES

ON FATES WINGS YOU BATTLE THEIR CRUEL DEEDS

I GUIDE YOUR HAND AND HELP IT WITH EASE

WHEN ALONE, YOUR BATTLE HYMN SUNG

I'LL TEMPER YOUR SWORD, I'LL AIM YOUR GUN

THE NIGHT IS BEHIND, IN LIGHT YOU WILL SHINE

IF YOU PUSH WITH YOUR HEART AS WELL AS YOUR MIND

A MESSAGE TELLS, PREPARE, COMES THE FIGHT

WEAR TRUTH"S ARMOUR, DO WHAT IS RIGHT

THE LIGHT IS BEHIND YOU BEWARE OF THE NIGHT

THE SYMBOLS GUIDE YOUR DAGGER TO STRIKE

THE LAW IS YOUR WILL UNDER LOVE YOU MUST DO

IF YOU PUSH WITH YOUR MIND I'LL PUSH WITH YOU

"Come now boy!" a voice shattered his dreams. "It's time to get up and have your breakfast."

Niets opened his eyes and saw the face of cook peering down at him. He was warm and snug in the bed and was awful having to get up; but he did as he was told.

She seemed pretty determined to make sure he did so quickly. Tugging at his quilt with her thick fingers the cook added.

"The bath is hot, if you get in it now it will wake you up properly. Come on!" she tugged again. "You haven't got all day."

He roused himself and had a bath before dressing in a crisp white shirt and new blue uniform. Looking at himself in a mirror in the hall as he made his way to the scullery Niets couldn't believe how different he looked.

The material that the uniform was made from was a tight weave of blue cotton. The brass buttons shone and his white shirt was the colour of freshly fallen snow. He looked and felt as bright as one of those buttons; for the first time in a week he smiled.

Examining his eyes he noted lines around them that had not been there the previous week. Lines that were the consequence of too much pain in too short a period.

He thought that just because things were better, in that his clothes were clean and new and he had a warm bed to lie in, it would never be as good as when his father was there. He was still alone in this world.

He walked to the kitchen following the smell of cooked bacon that hung in the air and found the girl and cook busy making toasted bread and frying eggs. Sitting at the table were two people he hadn't met before, they looked at him intently when he entered the room

"Sit down boy." The cook said turning to look at him. "Charity will give you some cereal."

He sat at the table opposite the two strangers as the girl placed a bowl in front of him and poured milk over Its contents. He looked across the table at the two people sitting there eating fried bacon and eggs.

They both wore a uniform but different to his. Theirs were grey and had wooden buttons. One was elder and one was a boy like himself. In fact he looked like he could have been a brother, having the same coloured hair and eyes and height.

In fact they were both so similar Niets wondered if he should know the boy. He reminded him of Adam; a strange feeling came over him.

"Haven't you been told that it's rude to stare?" the boy said abruptly. He looked over the table directly at him and Niets noticed that the boy had a thick scar across one cheek that descended to the boy's throat.

"Sorry," he replied tucking into the cereal. "I didn't mean to..."

"leave the boy alone." The other stranger said.

"Can't you see he's uncomfortable enough. He looks tired, if you ask me."

"That's the truth," cook said as she waddled her large frame to the table and placed a cup of steaming tea at Niets' side. "This is Jed," she added pointing at the man. "He works in the house and does a bit of gardening."

"That's why I've got my old gear on today." The man said as he munched on some bacon.

"Don't want my new uniform getting dirty in the garden."

"And that's Isaac." Cook continued pointing at the boy.

"He's in the house too, but giving Jed a hand today."

"This uniform is so itchy." Jed said pinching a piece of The sleeve between his finders.

"They make us all look the same although this one isn't very smart. I was wearing the other one when you arrived yesterday."

"Were you on the steps when I got here?" Niets asked.

"Only, I don't remember seeing you."

"I remember seeing you." He said with a soft smile.

"Any more meat for me?"

"You love your food." Isaac added as cook brought a frying pan to the table and deposited a couple of rashers on Jed's plate."

"So would you if you'd been as deprived of food as I had in my early days."

"Same here." Isaac interjected.

"I'd not even tasted meat till I came here."

"Yes..." Jed mused. "...I guess we are all the same really."

"Yes!" Isaac replied softly. "We are all exactly the same."

Niets thought about this statement for a moment wondering if they had lost their father in a similar way and had been sold at auction.

"Did they buy you too?" he asked the elder man. Niets picked up the mug of milky tea and tasted it.

It was hot and sweet and fantastic. It had a wonderful aroma and melted on his tongue before sliding down his throat. He greedily sucked some more from the mug.

"Why? Did they buy you?" Jed asked looking surprised.

"I thought you only got sold if you were a criminal or some sort of vagabond. A loose and low down crim' who didn't warrant shooting. What on earth had you done to get in that mess?"

"Don't say another word." Cook snapped swapping Niets' bowl for a plate of eggs and bacon.

"It's none of his business. Let's just say that you're here now and that it. Okay?"

"My parents were killed." replied Isaac and he suddenly looked very vulnerable.

"My mother died when she was giving birth to me and my father died of the water."

"Your mother died giving birth?" Niets said looking up from the delicious plate of food.

"That's what happened to me..."

"There's a lot like you two." Cook said placing her hands on her wide hips and staring at the table.

" Orphans I mean, a lot of orphans. Yes, they called it the Death Rot or something. Apparently all the pregnant women got it at the same time, a virus they said.

It affected the womb so that when the baby was born the mother just rotted, terrible it was. Well, a lot of the men couldn't cope and they either gave the kid up or killed it. Some hung on and brought the kid up, but not many."

"My father kept me." Niets said softly recalling the last time he saw his father and feeling a well of grief welling up from within.

"Funny thing is," cook continued thoughtfully. "All those kids look the same, like they all had the same father. I mean, look at you two."

The three adults looked up at the two boys, Charity from the kitchen, cook from the stove, Jed from his bacon and stared.

"You could both be brothers."

"Have you got the mark?" Isaac asked. "Not like this one." He said pointing his fork at the scar on his face.

"The birthmark; my one is on my arm."

He rolled up his sleeve and there just above the elbow was a small round mark.

"On my forehead..." Niets replied excitedly. He lifted up his fringe and showed the rounded mark he had had there since he was born.

"I thought I was the only one."

"No, we all have them." Isaac said with a broad grin.

"Bless me." Cook exclaimed coming closer to inspect the mark, first on Isaac's arm and then on Niets' forehead.

"Isn't that strange?"

"They say we can..." Isaac's voice trailed off as the group's attention was drawn to the kitchen door. It had just opened and in had walked a huge man.

He lingered in the doorway in silence. Dressed in a thick woollen jacket over a thick woollen shirt the man had a blur of frizzy hair and a scruffy beard.

His fists looked like brown leather balls as they hung limply at his side. He tried to talk exposing a mouth void of teeth except one in the front but instead of a word only a grunt emerged.

"Mongol's here Jed." Cook stated softly. Then she raised her voice slightly and slowly asked if the man wanted food.

"Are you hungry?" she said pointing at her stomach.

"Food, belly?" she pointed again, firstly at her mouth and then her large belly, before shrugging.

"I'll get him going." Jed said as he stood rubbing his stomach.

"That was a good breakfast Cook." He huffed with a wink. Then he looked at Niets.

"You got to know how to speak to a woman boy." He added with a cheeky smile.

"If you flatter them they'll always do a good breakfast."

Jed noticed that the boy was not listening and was looking intently at Mongol.

"Don't let Mongol scare you." Jed said warmly. "He's harmless."

Niets had only looked at the man they called Mongol for a second but found himself transfixed by the sight of his huge hands and thick neck.

Mongol had a wild, untamed look in his eyes that filled the boy with dread and rooted him to the spot.

"We'll be off then." Jed said going to join Mongol by the door.

"Bout time too" Cook huffed and puffed rubbing a clean cloth over the spot where Jed had been sitting.

"Charity..." she shouted. "Come and take Jed's plate and wash it up please."

Jed and Mongol left the room closing the door behind them.

"You really stare a lot." Isaac smiled. "He may seem frightening at first but you'll see the beauty in his eyes when you get to know him."

"Where are they going?" Niets asked as his empty plate was taken away by the one-eye girl, to be washed in the sink.

"They're cutting a tree down." Cook said as she wiped the table in front of him.

"You're helping them Isaac, so off you go."

"Why are they cutting it down?" Niets asked to no one in particular.

"Is it ill or something?"

"Don't be so stupid." Cook exclaimed.

"Is it ill? What a stupid question."

"My father only cut dead trees down when we lived in the forest." Niets said looking at the woman intently.

"Or if we needed to build something."

"You lived with your father?" Isaac asked enthusiastically.

"No!" Cook said with a clear loud voice. "Madam Sophie wanted the tree cut because it obscured her view of the moon at night.

That tree had been there for over a hundred years, a handsome tree which had rooks nesting in it, blocked the view of the moon rising. The moon's important to Madame Sophie."

"Isn't that the truth." Isaac nodded before burping loudly.

The room filled with laughter.

A soft bell rang and cook looked behind her towards the wall above the door. There was a row of small bells and each one had a number marked above it. The one marked six was tinkling.

"Number six?" cook said hesitantly.

"That's madam. Do you know where to go?" she asked looking at Niets.

"Who, me?" the boy replied.

"That's right," the cook huffed wiping a bead of sweat from her brow.

"You're her valet."

"Right." He said standing and pulling his uniform into place.

"Get your boots in motion..." she said with a smile.

"...and do some valet-ting. Number six is her bedroom, don't knock just enter. Isaac?"

"Yes cook?"

"You go with him to make sure he don't get lost, Jed Plank will have to do with Mongol till you come back. Well, what are you waiting for?"

The two boys exited through the door under the bells and made their way through the house.

"You'll get to know the place," Isaac said on the way. "It took me about a week to find my way about alone."

"Have you been here long?"

"A couple of years." Isaac replied.

"You said your father died of the water...Niets asked as he followed Isaac.

"...what did you mean?"

"Don't you know?" The boy replied earnestly, stopping in his tracks and looking at Niets.

"Know what?"

"You really have led a sheltered life, haven't you?" Isaac said.

"When the white people came back they did something to the sea, pollution I think it's called.

Anyway, this meant that the rain became poison for a while and this made the river undrinkable. It was alright if you drank from a brook, because that water comes from down below. It gets filtered by the rock and it bubbles back up. But river water; it killed thousands."

"You know a lot about it."

"Well, once they found out it was the river they told us not to drink it, that's how I know that a bubbling brook would be okay."

They continued to walk through the house stopping occasionally to look at the paintings hanging on the walls. Isaac seemed to know a lot about them and the people they depicted.

"That's the old master." He said pointing to a picture of an old man dressed in a smart blue suit with a red tie.

He was looking sternly from the frame and Niets found his stare unsettling.

"He died before the war. His son is the old master now, this house belongs to him and Madam, she's his sister."

"There seem to be a lot of old masters." Niets said as they past a whole row of oil paintings; each one wearing am old costume, variations on a suit and tie.

"These people treasure their heritage. They love their history, the old house was destroyed during the war but they kept all the paintings and stuff with them and after, rebuilt the house and put all this stuff back into it."

"I thought it all looked old." Niets replied running his fingers on the top of a marble side table that stood along the wall.

"Really old," Isaac said.

"Of course, if I was rich," he continued. "I'd have all new stuff."

They carried on down endless halls and through vast rooms seeing no one on the long journey except the occasional cleaner on her knees scrubbing here or there.

Niets reached out and touched the boy on his arm gently making him stop to face him.

"When we were in the kitchen..." he said

"Yes."

"When we were in the kitchen, you were going to say something. Something about the scar we both have, but you were interrupted. What were you going to say?"

"Oh that?" Isaac replied looking intently at his friend.

"It's just something I found out when I met another mutant like us. Before I came to this house, you see there are a lot of us, boy's I mean, with the same thing."

"Mutants," Niets repeated horrified. "We're not mutants, are we?"

"Not like Charity, you know, deformed. Or like the Mongol, brain dead. We have something else, all the boys born on that night do, I only found out just before I came here. It's our scar see..."

"What about our scar?"

"It's a..."

"Boy!" a loud voice bellowed from across the hall.

They turned and saw Madam Sophie peering through the gap in her bedroom door. She was so far away they could just see the top of her head and her eyes peering at them.

"Stop gossiping and get on your way boy." She shouted at Isaac before using her index finger to beckon Niets.

"Yes Madam." Isaac replied standing to attention. The door closed and he looked at Niets with a distressed expression.

"You'd better go to her. We'll talk later." Isaac said before running in the direction from which they'd come.

The door she'd called from was inlaid with brass fittings and stood ten feet high, it seemed enormous to the boy as he stood nervously outside it.

Suddenly her voice emerged from the between the great doors.

"Enter." she said.

Niets pulled down the brass door knob and pushed one of the doors open. The room was in darkness even though it was a bright summer day. Heavy curtains were drawn against the bright sun and the room was cast in shadows.

As his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light Niets could make out the shape of figure laying in a bed at the far end of the room.

"Open the curtains, boy." The figure said in the darkness. Her affected tone was unmistakable.

Niets did as he was instructed and walked to the massive window which was draped in the black velvet curtain. A cord hung at one side of the frame which when pulled flooded the room in light.

"Not so suddenly." The woman shouted, shielding her eyes from the light by pulling a pillow over her face. Her angry tone rooted Niets to the spot unsure if he should close the curtains again or open them more slowly or what.

Madame Leigh Sophie slowly moved the pillow to one side and exposed her bright green eyes. Her hair was standing on end and smudged make-up lay thick around her lashes.

She was still beautiful, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; there was something sordid about her appearance that attracted him. A unwholesome attractiveness that appealed to the growing boy within.
"Tell me boy," She said resting her arms on a pillow and supporting her head with them.

"Look out that window and tell me what you see."

"There's a long, green field, Madam." The boy replied nervously.

"Is there anything more?" she asked seductively.

"There's a sky and birds and in the distance is a hill that has a wall running across it."

"Is there more?" she asked again, urging him to inspect the view further, more closely.

"There is a tree madam." The boy replied.

"A tall tree which Mr Plank and the other gentleman are working on; I think they are cutting it down."

"Good." She said with a sniff. She then proceeded to push herself up and sat across the bed with her toes dangling over the edge.

"Bring me my slippers boy." She said.

"They're over there, under the shelf. She pointed to a shelf by the wall.

"These?" He asked pointing to a pair of soft gold silk slippers. She smiled and nodded.

Niets picked them up and brought them to her; trying vainly to avoid looking at her thinly veiled body which was wrapped only in a sheet.

"Put them on my feet, wont you." She asked lifting a delicate foot towards him.

He did as instructed but glanced up furtively as he did so. Noticing that her leg stretched up to a place he had never seen before.

That part of a woman's anatomy that is usually hidden. He coughed and fixed his gaze on her foot again.

"Oh... "She sighed. "...you do make me laugh."

When her slippers were fixed on her feet the woman stood and let the white sheet slip from the rest of her body leaving her naked and towering above his squatting figure.

He had never seen any woman naked and the sight filled him with confusion. Part of him wanted to look and another felt he should look away. He began to feel frightened.

"Look at me!" she demanded.

"You act like you have never seen a woman naked before."

She stared down through the valley of her breasts and got a pleasure from his discomfort.

"I haven't." he replied simply.

"Not your sister, your mother?" she asked.

"I have no sister and my mother is dead."

"Well," she smiled walking across the room to a long mirror that hung on the opposite wall. "Today is your lucky day."

The woman admired herself momentarily before walking to a small table from which she picked up a silver box and removed a cigarette from it.

Looking at her breasts in the mirror she lit the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke into the air.

"I like to smoke in the morning." She hissed. "Do you smoke?"

"Smoke?" he replied keeping his gaze lowered.

"Oh, never mind." She took another puff and walked to a coat stand where she removed a dressing gown and pulled it over her shoulders.

"Go and tell cook that I shall have breakfast at lunch time." She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

"Yes, that will confuse the old bitch. Tell her I'll have breakfast at lunch time, lunch at dinner time and dinner at supper time..." With this she let out a loud rasp and coughed.

"...I'm feeling very rebellious today."

"You want breakfast at lunch time?" Niets replied stepping backward towards the door.

"Yes, yes." She smiled looking to the mirror. "Go on, those are my instructions; dismissed."

He backed out of the room and sighed as it closed.

He was confused about what exactly he was to tell the cook but glad he'd got out in one piece. He closed the door behind him and let out a sigh before fleeing to the kitchen.

Cook huffed and muttered under her breath as he relayed the message to her back in the kitchen. She was boiling a pot of sweetly smelling fruits over the hot stove and Niets noticed a bead of sweat collect on her brow, flow down her nose and plop into the pan as she stirred.

"Oh she does, does she?" cook panted.

"Go put an apron on and help Charity with the potatoes."

Outside the house Jed Plank and Mongol busied themselves about their task. It was a big tree and took a great while to cut down. Such was the effort required that both men had to take regular breaks so their energy levels were not diminished too quickly.

It was during one of these short breaks that Plank felt a tug on the sleeve of his jacket and turned to see Mongol smiling like a small child hopping from one foot to the other.

"What is it Boy?" Plank asked wondering what was getting his companion so worked up.

Mongol nodded towards the house and when Plank turned his eyes he saw, in an upper window, the figure of a naked woman.

"Oh," He sighed. "Is she at it again?"

The two looked on in amused silence as the shadow paraded behind the glass performing an exotic dance.

"Just look at her." Plank whispered to himself.

"She's like a dog on heat; wants it good and proper."

He looked at Mongol who, bewitched by the sight of the woman dancing like Salome, and thought. Yes boy, you get your eyeful before the master comes back from his trip. That will put an end to her games.

He paused for a moment and rubbed his chin thinking about her and the master, her brother. About how different it would be in that house if it belonged to him and Cook.

There'd be no funny business, he thought, not unless Cook wanted it. That thought made him cough and he turned back to the tree and his work.

"Have you worked here long?" Niets asked the girl as Charity joined him at the table which was cluttered with various vegetables and a few pounds of potatoes.

She said nothing but placed a peeling knife in front of him and handed him a potato to get started on.

"Don't you feel like talking?" He said picking up the knife and starting to peel a thick piece of the peel away.

"There's no use in talking to her." Cook shouted from the stove.

"Dumb as a brush, she is. She hasn't said a word since the day she was born."

"Oh." The boy replied seeing a small smile creep across Charity's face. She was smiling at the thickness of his peel and took the knife from him, folded her fingers around his, and showed him a better way to peel.

"You are always working," He continued.

"Don't you get the evenings off?

"Time off?" Cook huffed. "Didn't Madam explain your hours too you?"

"Yes." He replied.

"Well there you are. There is always work to be done and if we finish early we can go to bed early."

He peeled the potato like he was shown and in the time he took to do one Charity had peeled three. Then, with a bang and a puff, Cook was placing a huge pot on the table beside them.

"Put them in that when you're done." She said. The woman then returned to the stove and heaved the pot of fruit, which had been boiling, to the table. With her sleeves rolled up she then busied herself stirring the pot.

"Have you been here long?" Niets asked with a jaunty smile.

Cook looked up and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and pointed the steaming spoon at him menacingly.

"You really are a nosy person aren't you?" She snapped.

"And you know what happens to nosy people don't you?"

"No." Niets replied wide-eyed. "What happens?"

"They get their noses chopped off." Cook snarled before adding.

"So, before you ask again I've been here since just after the house was built. I've not been further then the front gate since."

"I lived with my father before I came here." The boy said softly. He took another potato and began to peel it, deep in thought, wondering if they believe him yet.

"Yes." Cook replied leaving the table momentarily before returning with a large pie dish. She scooped the fruit into the dish and mashed it in the corners.

"You're not like the other boy, Isaac. He's a handful."

"We went into the hills just after I was born." He continued.

"My father took me there because he was worried about the people that were coming from underground. He didn't like the look of them."

"I don't blame him." Cook said sprinkling sugar over the fruit.

"It was like an invasion. I remember it well. We'd all just got used to things like they were and then bang, all change again."

"While we were in the forest the world changed a lot. My father didn't realise and that was partly why they killed him."

"Killed him?" Cook exclaimed.

"Who killed him?"

"The police..." Niets replied looking at a potato in his hand and bowing his head.

"...like I said yesterday. It's a long story."

"You poor little mite." Cook said leaning her head to one side and biting her lip.

"They said that they were going to make things just like they were before; and they did..." she said bluntly.

"They made it all bloody shit."

"Has she got any family?" Niets asked nodding towards Charity. The cook looked at the girl and flung her shoulders back before collecting her thoughts.

"Only her mother." She said with a mischievous smile.

"Where's she?" He asked plopping a potato in the pot. Both women laughed for a second before looking at him.

"You're looking at her." Cook said.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh." She walked to another table and collected a large wooden bowl that had a ball of soft pastry in it. She returned threw a dusting

of flour across the table and started to roll out a pie lid.

"Sorry." The boy said looking at his hands. He glanced up and looked between both women trying to see it there was a resemblance.

"I would never have guessed."

"Why should you?" Cook replied. "She looks more like her father then me anyway."

"Is Jed her father?" The boy asked with his eye brows lifted making his expression both expectant and dozy at the same time. This comment made Charity huff and cough and snigger and puff as she laughed in silence.

"Bloody cheek." Cook shouted. "You'll get this rolling pin wrapped round your head if you're not careful."

Charity looked at him through the corner of her one eye and smiled widely shaking her head.

"As if I'd do it with Old Plank... "Cook huffed.

"...I may be poor but I'm not bloody desperate."

Later that night, when the moon had risen above the tree stump, when its silvery light had cast long shadows across the fields. After the stars had appeared from their daytime bedding to hang in the sky like twinkling lights; not a sound disturbed that house.

The bats came from their lairs and hooted in the dark. The scullery and kitchen was cleared and cleansed a small group huddled around a candle in the kitchen.

Jed Plank was sipping from a coffee mug while Mongol sat on the floor by his side.

Charity bit her nails while Isaac rapped his fingers noisily on the table top as Cook polished a brass bowl. They looked relaxed sitting quietly in the flickering light; although there was a note of anxiety in their faces. It was a nervous anxiety that seemed to affect all of them; all of them except Mongol.

He sat there expressionless; his eyes stark and staring. Niets wondered what was going on behind that stare, if anything. He yawned slightly before Cook sat up and said abruptly.

"Right, time for bed."

She stood, placing the sparkling brass jug on the table and wiping her hands on the apron that hung from her waist.

"Come you lot." She said with a sniff. "We got a busy day tomorrow."

"Have we?" Niets asked Isaac casually while the others busied themselves around the table.

"Yes." The boy replied with a frown.

"The master's coming back."

"Don't remind me." Jed Plank sighed. "I was just getting used to him being away."

"I was too." Cook responded. She lifted the candle and shooed the younger members of the group into one corner of the room by the door.

"I know Madam Leigh Sophie is round the bend but she's nothing like her brother. He's hard work."

"Totally gone with the fairies." Jed nodded.

"And..." Cook interjected. "...dangerous with it."

"Follow me." Isaac whispered to Niets as they were ushered from the kitchen towards the stairs that led to their respective bedrooms.

The boys were just about to sneak off together when the whole group froze. One of the bells above the door rang gently.

"Talk of the devil." Cook said under her breath. She looked about the room and caught sight of Niets.

"You'll have to see what she wants."

"Will I?" He said. "The house is dark."

"Be brave." The Cook said as she handed him the flickering candle.

"She'll probably want you to close the curtains or something. You'll be finished in no time."

Niets looked at Isaac and the boy mouthed the words, come after, silently. He nodded his assent and left the group to pick his way through the darkened halls and rooms toward the Mistress" room.

Niets stepped lightly through the shadows and picked his way through the house like a blind man. Touching a table here and a desk there, stroking a handrail or a chair-back in a steady rhythm.

It was very strange and creepy to be in the house at that time of night, his first night alone in the long, dark corridors. Even the statues appeared to have different expressions to their daylight faces as their cold hard limbs flickered in the candle light.

He hurried his pace and was soon at the top of the stairs which led to the hallway he needed. He stumbled down the passage and past the unfamiliar places he knew only in the light. Then he was outside her room, the whole hall looked different in the light from his small, flickering candle.

He paused and took a deep breath before knocking. As he raised his knuckles to the door something caught his eyes; it was something he'd not noticed before, down the hall was another set of doors. They were painted black.

Also, these doors were distinctive because all the others were painted white and their panels looked unremarkable. But these doors were looming at the far end of the hall, like two centennials. Guards, who were standing silently in the darkness to protect a great treasure.

They were secured with a chain and padlock and this looked very strange indeed considering the doors were internal. Perhaps it was a strong room, a place where the family kept their jewels or gold, he thought.

He realised the hall had become very cold and that he was beginning to feel frightened. A voice called out, he hadn't even knocked.

"Enter." It echoed across the hall.

He clicked the handle and the door opened a little. The sound of rhythmic music flowed into the dark hall and a faint scent filled the air.

He opened the door a little further and saw a shadow creep across the wall on his left.

She was dancing like a cobra, curling her arms above her head and moving her hips gently from side to side. The shadow wore a thin chiffon gown that looked translucent and was transparent in the twilight.

The soft aroma of flowers and herbs filled the air as he opened the door fully making him feel slightly intoxicated. There was a dreamlike quality to the scene that met his eyes as he walked into that room. She, Madam, was moving slowly and cautiously through the mist that was thrown down by an incense burner that stood behind her.

"Come." She slurred sensuously. "Come join me."

Madam held out a delicate hand and, once more noticed, each bony finger was dressed in a large and interesting ring; these appeared larger and more ornate than the ones he had seen previously.

Each ring was the receptacle of a large, flawless stone. The stones, intense blue on her index finger, sparkling yellow in her middle finger and intense green on her little finger appeared to catch the light and dance with her.

Perhaps it was the music or perhaps it was the scent of the incense but something was getting into his mind and taking him somewhere.

He could feel himself getting faint, fading with the pulsing rhythms. Her curling fingers beckoning him to join her, the stones were calling him and it felt good; hypnotic, mystifying and unreal.

Her eyes were dancing as she removed the candle from his shivering fingers and blew it out. Her breath smelt of sweet honey and as it left her mouth he saw the soft tissue of her tongue sweep her lips. She reached for his hand and he felt himself being led towards a pile of cushions that were scattered across the floor. She pulled him down gently and he felt her soft fingers probe his groin, touching him gently, stroking the boy into a frenzy of expectation.

Her tongue pushed into his mouth and he looked into those emerald green eyes, now that they were close to him. He looked deep into the pupils and beyond the intensity of the green that shone in them.

He saw something that disturbed and scared him, a frightening image of his terrified reflection. Her lips moved to the side of his head and he felt her fingers rise up to his jaw as she whispered.

"Lick me."

"What?"

"LICK ME!" she demanded.

Her hands pushed his face down and before he could react she was thrusting her shaved groin into his mouth, each knee bruising his ears. She was rubbing thick stubble into his nose and forcefully, stifling his breath, mercilessly hurting him.

"Lick me you cunt." She screamed.

"You're hurting me." He said uncomfortably as she thrust her groin into his mouth; again and again.

He caught a gasp of air and choked as she pushed her pierced labia into his mouth.

"Now you listen here you fucking, little shit; be a good boy and lick my pussy." She screamed with a mad, wide eyed scowl.

" Go on, lick it."

"Please!" He yelped like a wounded animal, but it was no good, she was lost in her own selfish desire.

She now had his hair in a tight grip and was thrusting so hard blood began to trickle from his nose. Her knees gripped his head and she yelped like a wounded animal.

"Lick it, lick my cunt! Lick my fucking cunt!" She moaned flaying herself on his face. The blood smeared across his cheek and he couldn't breathe.

It clogged his nose and what pubic hair she had grazed his mouth. He realised she was suffocating him and enjoying doing so. He was suffocating on her orgasm and she was enjoying it; enjoying the sense of domination, of power over this submissive and wounded young boy.

He felt life slipping away and reached up with his last bit of energy to force her from him.

"Please!" He eventually managed to whimper as his head pulled away gasping for air.

Clumps of his hair were tangled in the stones of those rings and as her vaginal spasm smeared across his face.

Madam's fingers went limp and she slumped onto his chest. Niets pushed himself away breathlessly.

He didn't see the slap coming, his eyes were already full of tears as the hand smashed into the side of his bloodied face. leaving an ugly red welt on his cheek.

The slap stunned him and feeling dazed, he looked up at her wild eyes; terrified.

"Don't resist me." She shouted. "Don't you ever resist me in future; do you hear me boy? You worm, you fucking intolerable worm.

If you want to eat in this house then you will eat what I want you to eat; when I want you to eat. Understand?"

"Yes, Madam." He whispered as a tear left his eye and crawled down his face like a broken dream.

"That includes me."

"Yes, Madam." He repeated. She stood and he scrambled to the door. Niets looked back at her the blood drying on his raw face.

"Dismissed."

She turned away from him and reached behind her for a cigarette. Finding the silver box in which she kept them she lit one and blew smoke into the air.

"That means fuck off." She screamed. He did not need to be told twice.

He made his way back to his room without a candle but knowing instinctively where he was going. Although he had been in the house a short while the plan was becoming clear in his mind and he was getting used to finding his way in the dark.

The blood in his nose had clotted by the time he reached the hall where his room was. Only his tears were still wet. He felt used and dirty and exhausted. He had been led to believe that physical contact with a woman was a thing of beauty; of love and tenderness. That was what his father had told him.

He was told the experience was to be treasured all through your life and remembered in times of loneliness or isolation. But all it did was scare him. It was something he wished he could forget.

He was gasping on the tears now, as his fingers wrapped around his door handle, as he was about to enter Niets realised just how much he missed his father.

This realisation opened floodgates and the tears became a river of sadness flowing down his young face. Just as his bedroom door opene he heard a hiss on the night air.

Niets looked over his shoulder and saw Isaac peering from behind his bedroom door just a little down the hall.

"Niets, come here." He beckoned quietly.

The boy pulled his door closed again and ran lightly down the hall to Isaac's room. The door there swung open and as he entered Isaac closed the door gently behind him.

He locked it cautiously; not wanting the sound of the lock to disturbed anyone else on the landing.

"She got you then?" Isaac remarked looking at Niets' face. He lifted his hand and turned the boy's face toward the light.

"Fuck, she got you good."

"Am I bleeding?" Niets asked reaching up to his nose and inspecting his fingers.

"No," Isaac replied handing him a clean, damp rag.

"It's dry now. I hope the bitch didn't hurt you too bad."

"You know what she's like?" Niets asked somewhat surprised to find that he wasn't the only victim of this woman.

"No man!" Isaac replied. "That bitch fucks everyone, especially when her brother's not around.

She even got Mongol to fuck her once. Did she punch you, is that how you got your nose?"

"Not really, but she slapped me."

"Fucking bitch." Isaac spat.

"Come over here and sit on my bed."

He led the boy to his bed and they both sat on it before Niets felt himself unwind a little and he lifted his feet and lay down on the soft mattress.

Isaac lay to face him and in the moon light which streamed through the window Niets examined his face.

"You really look like me." He said after a while.

Isaac smiled and reached out and gently touched Niets' hair and neck. It was a tender touch and sent a slight shiver through the boy's spine.

"That's nice." Niets whispered.

"I need some tenderness right now."

"I know." Isaac replied.

Both boys looked at each other and before they could think about it Isaac leaned forwards slightly and their lips brushed together.

"Sorry." Niets said awkwardly pulling away from his friend.

"I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay." Isaac replied. He stroked the other boy's hair and pulled his bloody shirt off.

They both climbed beneath the bedclothes and hugged one another.

It was a soft, sensual hug that made each of them feel needed and loved. Not sexual but full of eroticism and intimacy.

It was the sort of hug that we all need from time to time; if only to feel human. This hug made Niets feel human again and he did not want to let go.

"Thank you." He wept smearing fresh tears on the pillow-case.

"Don't cry." Isaac whispered. "You are safe now."

"I'm so confused." He said softly.

"Why?"

"Losing my father really hurt." The boy replied thinking briefly about the scene that day.

The motorbikes, the clubs and batons, the sight of his father being hit; the event was so recent his pain and loss still felt fresh. Then he recalled being sold and how happy he felt being at that house.

He thought that his problems were over and he could just spend time grieving and coming to terms with his loss. It now seemed that dream was shattered. Instead of being the solution to his pain and hurt the house appeared to be. It seemed that his pain had just started.

"I thought being here would help me get over it. Instead it has made things worse."

He sobbed gently onto his friend's shoulder.

"It's not that bad." Isaac answered stroking a tear from Niets' face.

"You're being fed and clothed, you're warm in the winter and cool in the summer. You have your own bed that doesn't have bugs or fleas in and of course, you have me; a friend."

I didn't think of it like that." They were quiet for a moment and the only sound in the room was the breathing of two lonely boys.

"Has she ever...?" Niets asked hesitantly.

"Yes," His friend replied looking away momentarily.

"She tries it on with everyone; like I said, even Mongol's been up her."

"Really?"

"Yes." Isaac replied looking at his friend intently.

"What you have to understand is that she gets off on hurting people. So if you squirm and beg her to stop she does it more. You are giving her what she wants.

I just pretended to enjoy it. Every slap, every punch, grope, kick and bite. I just pretended to lap it up. That's not what she wants so she has stopped now. I've not been called back for ages."

"That's incredible."

"If you look like she's hurting you, she gets off on it. I bet you are called back because you gave her what she wanted tonight?" Isaac sniffed and wiped his eyes.

"Next time just pretend to be enjoying it and she will stop, seriously."

"Even if it really hurts?"

"Whatever she does..." His friend replied. "...don't let her think she is getting to you because she won't stop. You'll see what I mean next time."

"I'll try it." Niets replied thinking about the slap she gave him before being dismissed. That had hurt, he didn't know if he'd be able to pretend to enjoy something like that but he'd try.

The night air blew through the opened window and Niets saw there was a full moon that almost filled the entire window. It was shining so brightly that the room didn't need a light on, they could see one another clearly. Isaac kissed his friend on the forehead gently and looked at his scar.

"It's moon shaped."

"It is?"

"Yes, mine looks like a star."

"Your what?"

"My scar, silly." Isaac smiled. He pulled his night shirt to one side and there on his shoulder was a small star shaped scar.

"I've had it since birth, we all have one."

"We do?"

"Don't you know?" Isaac asked with a half smile.

"All the boys born that night have one." He lay back and looked at the ceiling while getting his thoughts in order.

"What night?"

"The night of the rot, you know." He said. "All the pregnant women got it. They said it has something to do with the Under-grounders somehow but I don't know. The night we were born, and thousands like us, our mother's gave their life to earn our own. They gave theirs so we could have ours; our lives. It just happens that we all look similar and we all have a mark, a birth mark somewhere on our bodies.

I think it makes us all brothers. Have you ever done the psyche?" He asked with a cheeky smile.

"The what?" Niets asked. He'd never heard the word before, or had he? Somewhere in his memory he had heard it before but couldn't place where.

"The Psyche." Isaac repeated.

"We can't do it on our own but if there are two of us or more we can do things."

"Things?" Niets smiled.

"Yes, things."

"Like what?" He laughed. He reached out under the bedclothes and tickled his friend on the belly.

"Not that." Isaac smiled.

"What then?" Niets wondered if Isaac was joking. He had not realised that there was anything special with his scar and it certainly didn't do anything in particular except look ugly.

"Tricks." Isaac said softly.

"Tricks?" Niets repeated. "Party tricks?"

"No," Isaac whispered. "Magick tricks."

"What do you mean, magick? It's just a scar."

"If you look at Mongol." Isaac explained slowly. He was trying to put into words something that was very difficult to explain so he was trying to remember how it was explained to him.

"If you look at Mongol you can see he is different to us."

"He was born like that." Niets said.

"That's right, he was born mutated, they call it, it's a birth defect."

"He's a mutant."

"That sounds horrible," Isaac replied gritting his teeth and screwing up his nose.

"But yes, he has a mutated gene or something, and that's what makes him look like he does."

"Right?"

"If you look at others with mutated genes they may have one eye," Isaac continued.

"Or six fingers?"

"Or big feet?"

"Funny." Isaac laughed. "But yes, you get what I mean. Well we have a mutated gene too. Our one is invisible but it's there."

"How do we see it?"

"We can't see it." Isaac replied lifting a pillow from behind his head.

"We can use it. Look see this pillow, imagine it is floating."

"Floating?" Niets looked at the pillow and pulled a puzzled expression. He wasn't sure what his friend was trying to do but it seemed very strange.

"You want me to imagine?"

"That it's floating." Isaac said. "Concentrate on your scar, imagine a force, or a light, imagine a light coming from it that is holding up the pillow."

"Holding it up?"

"Concentrate." Isaac said. He closed his eyes and visualized a beam of light leaving his scar and focusing on the pillow.

"Visualize a beam of light, holding the pillow in the air."

He opened the corner of one eye and looked at Niets. The expression he was making looked funny and he began to giggle. Then both boys fell into fits of hysterical laughter. The laughter cut through the boy's pain and for a short while they were somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere happy.

Later that night, in the early hours, when Niets was back in his own bed and sleep descended on him. He had a dream, a strange dream but it was familiar somehow.

He was walking along a beach and it was hot, the wet sand cooled his feet as crashing blue waves crept up and then away from him. Someone touched his arm gently.

Looking around Niets saw an old man walking beside him. The man had a dark, lined face but intense green eyes; he looked very friendly and his smile seemed to light up the air like sunlight.

"It's only me." The old man said. Niets noticed that the old man's hair was in thick dreadlocks down to his shoulders and each lock had a ring of gold around the bottom.

The brown hair had flecks of grey in them making them sparkle in the hot sunshine.

"Slow down boy, can't you see I'm too old to keep this pace up. Slow down. Enjoy the view for a moment."

Niets did as he was told and stopped to look out towards the horizon across the crashing waves and endless ocean.

"You know what?" The old man said with a bright smile. He lifted a hand and gestured out to sea, lifting his soft, bejewelled fingers towards the horizon.

"What?" Niets replied. The old man gestured towards a bird flying in the haze of the sun.

"Look, there it is." He said. "Like a hawk on fire, a word."

"A word?" Niets replied confused. He looked at the great bird swooping across the haze of summer sky and it appeared to be shimmering in the light from the sun.

"It's a sword." The man continued. "Curved, its blade rolling, Stalking the seam."

"Stalking the seam?" Niets repeated. A vision of a great sword swiping through the air filled his small mind. It thrust forwards and sliced through a bright blue robe. Cutting the head from a serpent that encircled it.

"You've seen..." The old man whispered as the sky turned a deep shade of purple.

"...a feather on a shield held high, in a rock or stone, shimmering. Imagine water falling on a blue, empty pass. It's true and high and when rained upon, dissolves the rock."

"Rained?" Niets realized they'd approached a deep canyon. He looked across a great abyss that stretched out before him and used the power of his mind to rise above the depths below.

A voice echoed in his mind telling him to make his mark on the world; to cross the abyss and become a King.

"Curving..." The old man said swiping his palm through the air.

"...through a flower on fire."

Niets saw in the distance a bright summer field speckled here and there with vermillion coloured lilies.

"bloodied..." The old man shrieked, instantly snapping the boy's attention.

"...and fallen. Its face..."

"That face?" Niets said vaguely, he remembered the face from his dream as a child. He remembered it clearly, the mouth, the nose; the awful look in those evil eyes.

"Its roots..." the old man said pointing at his feet in the sand.

"Roots?"

"Its clawed and hooded stone fingers. Like poses..."

"Destroying everything they touch." Niets whispered.

"Of fire..." the old man said abruptly smashing his fist into the palm of his hand.

"Of water..."

He gestured towards the crashing waves rushing in the dark recesses of the canyon and smiled.

"Of magick." He sighed, looked at the boy before offering a wide smile.

"It is pond like, Wide and murky as the sea. Deadly. This, boy..."

The old man whispered. His voice was taken up by a breeze and it wafted around them like a tornado.

"...is the sea of politics."

A dark cloud crept over their heads and Niets felt a chill run up his spine and freeze his blood ice cold.

"Now son..."The old man smiled. "...You have crossed the abyss, today you are a man."

"I don't know what's wrong with me today." Cook said with a sigh as she laid a plate of toasted bread on the table in front of Jed Plank.

"Is it your back again?" he asked coating a piece of toast with a thick layer of butter. He offered the other slices around the table giving the plate to Mongol on his left.

"No." Cook replied thoughtfully. "It's my nerves."

"Come on Old Girl," Plank said through a mouthful of toast.

"Things aren't that bad are they?"

"I couldn't sleep a wink last night." She said leaning against the table and rubbing her eyes.

"I just lay there all night worry about him coming back. I couldn't cope with all that bother again."

"Oh." Jed Plank replied. Isaac looked up at him and then at Niets. He was about to say something and then thought the better of it.

"He can't be that bad?" Niets said with a breezy tone. The comment was met with icy silence by everyone at the table. Isaac threw him a hesitant glare which told the boy to say no more.

"If you keep going on about how horrible it's going to be..." Jed remarked with a sniff.

"...That's just what it will be, horrible. Do your work and perhaps he'll leave us alone."

"I suppose you're right." She replied going back to the stove.

"I hope you are anyway."

"Is he like the mistress?" Niets asked taking a slice of toast and buttering it.

"He's the devil." Cook replied through gritted teeth.

"He's a malicious, sarcastic bully."

"Stop winding yourself up woman." Jed said firmly.

"All you're doing is getting the whole house tense. Then the young ones will make mistakes cause they're nervous and it will turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Cook muttered something under her breath and turned to the stove as Charity got up from the table and started to collect the plates. The only person who did not appear to be on edge was the Mongol who sat there looking at ease with the world. He chewed on a piece of toast blissfully unaware of the tension in the room.

"You can help us with the fire wood today." Plank said to Isaac changing the subject quickly.

"Me and Mr Mongol could do with a hand. That's if you can get the sleep from your eyes."

"I thought he looked tired." Cook said removing the tea pot from the table.

"Didn't you sleep either?"

"Er, no." Isaac smiled looking across the table at Niets.

"It was hot in my room."

"You look tired out too." She said looking intently at Niets. This caused Jed Plank, Mongol and Charity to stop what they were doing and inspect his general condition too; from head to toe.

"He does look tired." Plank commented before gesturing to the bell on the wall.

"Did she have you up late last night?" He asked.

"Did she want you to close her curtains?" Isaac said mischievously.

"Or open her legs?"

"Isaac!" Cook snapped. "Leave that sort of gutter talk in the playground. I don't want to hear it, especially at breakfast."

"Well, it's the truth isn't it?" Isaac replied stubbornly.

"Why pretend that it's not happening. Everyone round this table has been a victim of her, er, fingernails."

"I haven't!" Cook replied.

"Her fingernails?" Plank said looking confused. "Surely you mean her..."

"I don't want to know!" Cook shouted slamming her fist on the table.

"Now have you got work to do or what?"

"Yes." Plank replied trying to look businesslike.

"Isaac, Mongol follow me."

He led them to the kitchen door and nodded at Cook who passed a cloth to Charity and gestured towards the crockery waiting to be dried.

"I think you should make yourself busy." She remarked to Niets.

"Doing what?" He asked feeling at a loss. The last thing he wanted to do was visit the mistress even though he was aware that she may call for him at some time.

"Go and see if you can help Mr Plank." Cook said with a huff. She knew that this was what he wanted to do anyway.

"I'll call you if she rings."

Niets put on an overall to cover his uniform and went into the garden to find the others. He ran outside into the grounds of the house and saw the three beside the old tree that was laying on its side like a dead giant.

"Cook said I could help out." He said to Jed Plank as he joined them. Isaac looked up and smiled.

They were collecting the branches that Mr Plank had chopped off the main trunk and placing them in piles.

"Put the thick ones in that pile." Plank said indicating one pile. He was using a large steel saw and as he used it Mongol held the trunk steady.

"That pile is for the fire wood." He said.

"That pile for tinder and all the small stuff over there is for the compost heap."

"Okay." Niets replied.

Niets joined Isaac and they both started to collect the thicker branches that Mr Plank had sawed free. The sun was hiding behind thick white fluffy clouds and although it was warm there was a stiff breeze blowing.

"I was right to say it?" Isaac said above the sound of the saw.

"You didn't mind did you?"

Niets was about to reply when he noticed that Jed Plank had stopped sawing. He looked at both boys intently.

"What did you say?" He asked Isaac.

"I just asked Niets if he minded what I'd said about the mistress."

He placed a thick branch on the pile and stood erect expecting to be told off.

"Why should Niets mind?" Plank asked. Mongol turned to look at the two boys and smiled.

"It's just that she really frightened me last night." Niets replied breathlessly.

He paused and glanced at the pile of branches at his feet and wondered if he was able to stop himself crying.

"I thought she was trying to kill me."

"I know what she's like, Son." Plank remarked wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at the boy earnestly.

"There's not much we can do about her except do our work and hope she loses interest. We're lucky to be serving in a big house where there's food on the table and clean beds to sleep in. We could be in the mines where you get worked like dogs until you drop dead in your boots. Fancy that?"

He adjusted his saw and did a couple of swipes before gesturing towards Mongol.

"Look at him." Plank sighed. "This man would have been dead years ago if it were not for his place in this house. What with his deformity and low intelligence he wouldn't have stood a chance. No one would have given him work, so he would have been picked up by the police and given the chop. They call it social engineering, killing people with his condition.

It happens every day, state sanctioned murder. The truth is, if you are not useful in the society they have created..." He nodded towards the house.

"...you're not wanted."

"Is that true?" Niets asked horrified.

"Unfortunately, yes." Isaac replied picking up more branches.

"So get on with your work and be thankful." Plank shouted.

"It could be much worse."

Niets busied himself collecting branches and placing them in their respective piles when something caught his attention. It was noise he's not heard before coming from the other side of the estate.

He and Isaac looked over in the direction the sound was coming from and they saw a flock of black birds rise into the air like a thick black cloud. They had been disturbed from their nests and the birds soared above their heads like a menacing black fog. They looked in the direction from where the birds had risen and there, in the distance was a fleet of big, black cars speeding across the estate; toward the house.

The noise they could hear clearly was the sound of a loud siren that was screaming from the leading vehicle as it raced through the grounds of the estate closely followed by the others.

The next had its headlights flashing on and off and a blue light in the centre which was also flashing. The vehicle behind that had a flag on the bonnet and as the fleet came closer Niets made out the symbol that was embossed on the flag.

It was a circle with a white feather in its centre. It was the same symbol he had seen in stone over the door to the house. He then remembered the dream he'd had the previous evening. A feather on a shield held high.

That's right he thought looking intently at the flag as it flickered on the wind. The motif was drawn in a gold coloured thread and in the sunlight he saw it clearly, it was shimmering.

"Now it begins." Plank said softly as his eyes followed the line of vehicles to the front of the house.

The bell had summoned him later in the day and Niets had gone to Madam Sophie's room hesitantly. She was up and dressed elegantly in a two-piece suit. Her makeup was done expertly and her hair was pulled back from her face and tied with a ribbon behind her head.

"Tonight I will introduce you to the Master of this house." She said indifferently checking her ear-rings in the mirror as she spoke.

"I will call for you after supper and, when you come, please wait outside the room until I need you. Do you understand?"

Consequently later that day he was standing in the shadows outside the blue lounge, as it was called, waiting to be introduced, as instructed.

He could hear their voices travelling through the door as he stood there like a mannequin or statue.

It was uncomfortable listening to them talking and he wondered if she had forgotten that he was there. Perhaps she liked to feel him nearby, involved, but not so involved as to be part of anything.

"Come and take the night air." She said as she opened the window.

"It's fresh, much better than the smoke filled, stinking air of the city. All that sewerage and sweat; it gets in your clothes and hair and you can't get rid of it."

"Must you have the windows open?" He replied reclining on a large sofa a cigarette burning in his fingers.

"You know how prone I am to colds."

He got up and walked towards her leaning over and pulling the window closed tight.

"Leave it open you spoil sport." She hissed. "I want to feel the cold breeze against my skin. I want to be touched by the frozen hand of nature; it turns my blood to ice."

"To match your cold heart..." Her brother quipped. "...have it your way but don't expect me to sit here and freeze to satisfy your indulgencies. From tonight I want a fire burning in every hearth, if you want to be cold, stand outside."

"Yes, I could stand on the driveway completely naked." She laughed and joined him at the drinks table.

"You'd love that, all the servants lusting after my body while you wank yourself off at one of the windows; closed of course. You could peer at me through a crack in the curtains."

"I think you've drunk too much tonight sister." He replied coolly pouring himself a large brandy.

"Like the night air, your conversation has made me uncomfortable."

"Come on brother." She slurred leaning on his shoulder.

"I know your fantasies; your deepest thoughts. You know I would do whatever you wanted me to do; you just have to ask. Particularly at this time of the year; now the rites are upon us."

"So, that's what you are getting at." He mused with a smile.

"You want to be my virgin; well dearest, it's a bit late for that."

"Don't be unkind." She hissed. "I will help you in other ways, look after your interests."

"I can look after myself." He replied tapping the side of his glass with a delicate finger.

"I know." She said sitting beside him and placing a hand on his thigh.

"But the balance can swing the other way quickly. They say your policies are unpopular, your economics unsound. They say all this could go in one coup."

"Not while I live." He hissed taking her hand and dropping it unceremoniously in her lap.

"This equinox will see an end to strife. The ritual will consolidate my power for now and for the rest of time."

"Perhaps." She smiled.

"Explain?" he said softly.

"What's going on in that perverted little brain of yours?"

"My lips are sealed." She said walking to the mirror and examining herself in the reflection. "But let me just say that the age of man is in the descendent and the age of the bitch is in the ascendance. A new age is dawning, all hail the new age."

"Very funny..." He said sternly. "...but you are forgetting one thing dear."

"Oh yes?"

"Baphomet!" he replied softly.

"Yes?" She turned and looked at him with a curled lip.

"What about Baphomet?"

"You are too old, he prefers something younger."

He knew this would make her angry and he smiled wickedly as the scorn etched her face with deep lines.

"He needs a younger yoni, a virgin, a maid. Something untouched by man; you definitely fail on that point."

"Ho, Ho bloody Bap-ho-Met." She said swigging back her brandy.

"Who have you got in mind?" Not that dumb bitch in the kitchen, give me a break!"

"We'll see."

"Well," she said going to the door.

"Let me introduce you to another member of staff. I took him on while you were away. Boy," she shouted.

"Come in here and meet your master."

Niets touched the door handle and was about to enter when he heard the other voice reply.

"Not tonight, I am too tired." He stopped in his tracks and listened.

"You can make introductions at another time.

The door opened and Madam Sophie stood in the crack looking at him.

"Dismissed." She said abruptly before closing the door again.

Niets shrugged and walked back to his room glad that the day was over and not sorry for being told to go.

In the hall outside he glanced across to see if Isaac was there. He was very tired and so the thought of getting into his own bed appealed to him greatly. He went into his room and closed the door behind him.

The following day the master and his sister were in the oak panelled dining room eating. It was a beautiful room with windows all along one wall which took in the estate's sweeping view.

The green valley and thick forest that fell away from the house went on until it reached the crashing ocean. Madam Sophie Leigh had descended the staircase from her private rooms with all the dignity of a street drunk; being still intoxicated from the previous night.

Each step had to be carefully negotiated to prevent her from falling while her brother managed the task without difficulty. When, eventually, she made it to the dining room she sat opposite her brother at the other end of the huge black table that crossed the room.

Charity was standing in the corner beside a dumb waiter with a crisp white apron wrapped around her black uniform.

"If I'd waited for you..." The master said simply lowering his soup spoon for a moment.

"...I would have had to suffer the injustice of cold soup. That would never do."

"Don't let me hold you up." She replied with a snarl mimicking his manner.

"After all, I'm just your sister. We all know who's the boss around here; don't we dear? I'm not even worth the injustice of cold soup."

He did not reply but his expression betrayed his inner resent. He knew she was bitter about his comments the previous evening but he was not prepared to apologise. She was going to have to bow to tradition as he had always done; there was nothing else for it. She sat erect staring at him as Charity poured a ladle of soup into her bowl.

"Careful." She snapped.

"You're splashing my dress, stupid girl."

Charity nervously stopped what she was doing and stepped back into the shadows placing the soup bowl back onto the dumb waiter. Sophie smelt the soup and sighed.

"Ah," she smiled. "That old bitch in the kitchen certainly knows how to make a good soup. It must be all the practice she gets whisking old Plank's wooden spoon."

Her brother looked at her intently and shook his head from side to side.

"The thought of them two fucking over the kitchen sink..." she started to say.

"Stop this!" He shouted splashing his soup over the clean tablecloth.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself at least until we've eaten. You're embarrassing the girl."

He nodded toward Charity.

She brushed a crease from her apron and hoped they would change the subject. It was frightening enough being there alone with them both without being the subject of conversation.

Sophie pursed her lips and looked at Charity through the corner of her eyes. She slurped a spoonful of soup noisily.

"Are you going to keep this up throughout the meal?" Her brother asked pushing his soup bowl away.

"I'll behave as I see fit." Sophie replied finishing her soup.

"No matter if it disturbs you or the staff."

Charity carefully took the soup bowl from the master's place and stepped gingerly to the other end of the table. She reached out to take the other bowl and her hand was visible shaking.

"Get on with it." Sophie snapped as the girl took the bowl. Sophie stared down the length of the table and asked softly:

"So, are you going to let me join you tomorrow at the equinox or not?"

"Behaving like a child will not change our traditions." Her brother replied as he watched Charity place the bowls upon the dumb waiter and collect two plates.

"There is a right way and there is a wrong way, I do things the right way. Remember..." He hissed.

"...I am their redeemer, their saviour, their brother and their father. You can be none of these things."

The girl walked to the table and placed a large white plate beside the master and then walked to the other end of the table. She placed the other plate next to Sophie and walked to the dumb waiter again. Several small dishes had arrived there having been sent up from the kitchen.

"Change is inevitable." Sophie said with a small smile.

"A new age is dawning; a new feminine age."

"Must we go on with this?" He said raising his voice.

"Beside the traditional paternalistic aspect of this ritual, there are other preparations that you know nothing of."

"What preparations?" she asked watching the girl place a spread of vegetables on her brother's plate. The girl then walked to her end and placed a selection of green beans and potatoes on hers.

"Magical ritual requires at least a basic knowledge of theory and practice. This is something I know you are ignorant of. You know not the slightest thing about the subject and there isn't the time for you to learn."

He huffed and waited while the girl placed a piece of cooked meat on his plate, he waved her away before she could place more.

"You are wrong again Brother." Sophie said watching the girl place meat on her plate.

"I've been studying, reading your books, in your absence. I have to something to occupy my time, I've read your library. I've read all of it."

"Really?" He sniffed pouring some sauce on his plate and eating. They both sat in stony silence for a while, as he considered her statement. Then, after a long tense pause, she looked at him intently and continued.

"I have been studying in secret for many months and I feel ready to get involved."

He looked up at her and shook his head. There was a wine decanter in front of his place and the master reached out for it.

"It's not that easy." He replied pouring himself a glass of red wine.

"You're just being a snob." She smiled before indicating that the girl should fill her glass.

Charity stepped quickly to the decanter and rushed to her mistress. She filled the glass that was being offered up to her and returned the decanter before taking her position by the dumb waiter again.

"I've read everything and feel just as knowledgeable as you. I may have even practiced the minor arts in your absence."

"You're lying." He said laying his knife down with a clatter. The tension in the room grew as the silence between them threatened to crush the table.

"You had better be joking. That room is out of bounds."

"If I was lying," she shouted. "I wouldn't know about the ritual, would I?"

She pushed her plate away from her and muttered to herself before glaring at him.

"When you are away from here there's very little to do and I am bored stiff."

"I thought you occupied yourself, erm..." He sniggered like a schoolboy and threw a glance toward Charity.

"...in your own way."

The master looked across the room again and the one eyed girl froze on the spot.

"Do me a favour..." His sister spat.

"...the staff have their uses but come on, they're as dumb as donkeys; not hung like them."

She glanced at Charity and her lips twisted into a sickening snarl.

"No... "She continued. "...when you are away I have reign over the whole house. Even the parts you forbid me from using. My god, I've got to do something in the evenings otherwise I'd go mad."

"What have you been doing in my room?" he demanded to know.

"You had better not have used my tools. They are mine, they are consecrated and purged of bad energy. If you have so much as touched them I will..."

"Cool down my dear brother." She replied drinking a huge gulp of wine.

"Don't lose it in front of the hired help. I know the rules. Didn't you ever wonder why I could talk to you about the mysteries, about Baphomet? Did you think I'd just woke up one day with that knowledge? And, believe me, I truly have knowledge."

She stood and walked to a cupboard that sat at the side of the room and pulled open a mall door. Inside was a small box with switches and buttons which she pressed.

The box lit up and from hidden speakers music slowly filtered into the room. Sophie walked to a small dinner gong and picked it up. The music was slow and rhythmic, a beating drum was set among the lilting sound of violins. The rhythm marched steadily from the speakers with a wilting and hypnotic stream of gentle notes. Sophie lifted the gong and banged it three times.

"Listen up, all you who have ears..." She said raising her chin and dancing slowly towards him.

"...The seven sacred sonnets of BAP-HO-MET." She said with a mischievous grin.

"Here's a little mathematical poem for you, my brother, something to show you the depth of my understanding."

She moved towards him with the gong in one hand and the gabble in the other. Dancing hypnotically as the sound from the speakers filled the air. He raised his glass towards her and smiled.

"A mathematical riddle," she continued.

"The nine degrees."

She squatted down on her haunches and looked up at him like a cat. A candle burning behind her flickered through the soft green silk of her dress as she banged the gong three more times before whispering.

"FIVE equals SEVEN."

"Yes Sophie Leigh," he asked softly. "What is Philosophus?"

Standing she thrust her groin towards him and continued to dance slowly like a serpent around the chair in which he sat, mouthing a verse for him in tune with the music.

Each line of the verse was filled with a hidden symbolism that he was to interpret; it was a game only they knew the rules too.

"FIVE equals Seven." She repeated.

"This is the word of the Hermit

the sacred name of fire

the secret word on Shu's brow

a Virgin in the sky."

Her brother twisted a half smile towards her arching body as she moved around him. The words echoed from the walls and ceiling, in time with the slow march of drums, as her body moved. He nodded for her to continue.

"SIX equals SIX," she said banging on the gong.

"This is the magick Herophant

the bull-horned man reborn

the Horus flower

a name of power

the bringer of fire-storms."

She banged the gong a further three times and sank to one knee.

"SIX equals FIVE

In those dark storms they dwell

The Emperor and The Ram

The messenger called Jupiter

Will lead to their crown"

Standing and giving a bow Sophie danced away from him moving her hips from side to side seductively. He watched the performance with interest the smile becoming wider with each sway of her hips.

"SEVEN equals FOUR

When one becomes majestic NINE

Hermes longs for birth

The Empress flies in Vermilion skies

Far above the Earth

EIGHT equals THREE

The Priestess will devour you

Kneel to be her blessed

Bend low and take the Moon's arrow

Call out her name Isis

NINE equals TWO

The pumping rod must be purged

Thrust forth the Mage's staff

Do not hold back Mercury's attack

Call here the name of Mars."

The music beat frantically as she twisted around the room a flowing blur of green silk. Her hair loose hung around her shoulders in wild tassels and her skin was kissed with sweet droplets of moisture. She banged the gone three more times.

"TEN equals ONE

Hear O seed of Osiris

Is a Fool in search of TIME

A spurt of white

The stains of night

AIR in EQUALIBRIUM."

She fell to the floor with this call on her warm lips and lay there quivering.

"Bravo!" he clapped over her panting breath. "Bravo, bravo, bravo." He said as the gong slipped from her fingers and rolled across the cold floor spinning on its axis loudly.

"It's true, you have been busy reading."

They both looked towards the gong laying at the feet of the young girl who stood by the dumb waiter looking puzzled.

Charity was holding a cold pudding in her hands and was looking towards the master and his sister for some instruction.

Sophie picked herself up from the floor and looked intently at the awkward girl.

"Just serve the fucking pudding will you." She spat eventually.

"Stupid little bitch."

Charity stepped from the dumb waiter and towards the table cautiously. Placing the tray that held the pudding on the table in front of her master she reached for a bowl and placed a portion in it.

Then she took his dining plate and placed that on the tray where the bowl had been. This was repeated at the far end of the table where

her mistress had been sitting. She was about to take the tray to the dumb waiter when he said something that made her blood freeze.

"Wait..." her master ordered."...Come, stand here in the light."

Charity placed the tray on the dumb waiter and turned slowly. She could feel Madam Sophie's eyes burning into her and dared not look in case the stare turned her to stone.

He lifted his delicate hand and beckoned with his finger for her to come closer. His eyes were focused on her face although she was aware of them dropping to her breasts momentarily. Darting over them, taking them soft panting of her chest in with glee.

She stood next to him as his eyes swept from her chest to her hips and then her legs. He reached out and touched her inner knee which made a shock of electricity shoot over her. She trembled slightly as his fingers rose to the hem of her skirt. Charity closed her eye and gulped feeling the coldness of his knuckles on her inner thigh.

Time seemed to stand still as she trembled in his gaze. Those fingers explored a little higher as he wondered how far she would allow him to go before pulling away.

He moved higher still and smiled wickedly feeling the tremble on the tips of his exploring fingers and then, as the tips brushed the soft mound of her panties, Charity stepped back. Her eye opened and it glared at him. He smiled wickedly amused by her fear and his power over her.

"You can go now."

Niets made his way to his room later that evening having made his way there from the kitchen. He had helped undress Madam and hung her clothes in the locker before being dismissed. From there he had gone to the kitchen but it was late and all the lights were out and the stove was cold.

Standing outside his room for a moment Niets wondered why he hadn't seen Isaac that evening. He wondered if her was in his room and crept down the darkened hall to his door.

He listened and thought he heard voices so he knocked gently and waited. After a moment or two the door was pulled ajar slightly and Isaac stood in the crack.

"Hello!" he whispered looking down the hall furtively.

"Can I come in?" Niets asked putting is hand upon the door.

"Not, really." Isaac replied but it was too late, Niets had pushed the door back and he saw inside. Charity was in the bed covering her modesty.

"Sorry." Isaac said remorsefully. "It's complicated."

"I understand." Niets replied lying. He didn't understand and yet didn't know what to say or how to react.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes." Isaac said closing the door. "In the morning."

Niets went to his room and closed the door. He sat on his bed and bit his lip thinking about what he had seen. Then he curled up in a ball and went to sleep.

"You can help Isaac in the Pantry." Cook said as she took the breakfast things from the table. "It is dusty in there and the boxes need unpacking."

"Wont Madam need me?" Niets asked sipping on the last of his tea, he placed the cup down and it was immediately taken by Cook. Charity then wiped the table with a wet cloth.

"She will probably sleep till eleven or so." Cook replied.

"You can be busy down here till she rings for you."

"There's an apron over there." Jed Plank remarked pointing to a row of hooks.

"Isaac?"

"Yes?" The other boy replied coming into the kitchen.

"Take Niets there and show him how we arrange the foodstuffs in the pantry."

"Okay."

Niets got up and pulled an apron around his waist and looked at his friend. He gestured for him to follow and they entered a large dusty room filled with boxes and lined with shelves.

"We have to unpack the boxes." Isaac said pointing towards the pile.

"The tins go on that wall, the bottles over there and the loose stuff on the lower shelves."

"Right."

"Before we start it's best to dust down the empty shelves." Isaac said taking a cloth and throwing it over his shoulder.

"Where does all this stuff come from?" Niets asked.

"I've never seen so much food packaged like this. In the village we used to pickled vegetables but never like this."

"All this stuff has come from a central store." Isaac said pointing at one box that had a date stamped on the side.

"This stuff is years old, but it keeps forever if it's looked after properly."

They began to rip open the boxes and explore the contents. It was mainly processed meats in one box and tins of tomatoes in another. After wiping the shelves they placed the tins with the labels naming the contents facing the front.

"I'm sorry about last night?" Niets said after a while. He looked at his friend and gave a half smile that indicated his obvious disappointment.

"Sorry," Isaac replied. "What for?"

"For interrupting I guess. I should have known."

"What?" Isaac replied stacking the tins with his back to his friend. He turned to face him.

"You couldn't have known about me and Charity."

"Are you having an affair" Niets asked softly.

"No." Isaac laughed.

"She's a friend. Look the girl can't talk so she needs someone to give her a hug sometimes. Make her feel wanted. She takes a lot of shit in this place, you can't imagine what it's like?"

"We all take shit." Niets replied coldly.

"But we can talk about it." Isaac said.

"Imagine, if you couldn't tell anyone how you were feeling, how angry you were. Imagine if you couldn't say if you were depressed, imagine that?"

"Yes, it must be hard for her." Niets replied feeling guilty that he'd brought the subject up.

"Hard!" Isaac said. "You have no idea. The girl would go mad if she couldn't get it off her chest. I mean, she can't talk so if she's sad I let her cry, if she's angry I let her get mad. I give her permission to be herself. She'd go off her head otherwise."

"Do you have sex?"

"Are you jealous?" Isaac replied with a wide smile.

"You are jealous. I didn't know you cared."

"Don't mock me."

"Look Niets," Isaac smiled. "I have enough love for everyone, even you."

"I just thought." Niets said turning to open another box.

"That we had a special relationship, something private, just for us. I didn't realise it wasn't that special."

"It is special." Isaac replied. "It's ours, it's ours and no one else is included. You are like my brother. Just remember that."

"I will." Niets replied softly. He made a small smile and whispered:

"Thanks."

"Now that's out the way." Isaac replied throwing a tin of tomatoes across the room. "You can start to stack them up there."

"Come here!" The master said coldly. It was later that evening and the two were sitting at the long black table again; alone with one nervous servant.

Charity placed the bowl she was carrying on to the dumb waiter and walked slowly toward the master.

"What size do you think she is?"

"Do you have to?" His sister replied looking across the table sternly.

"These games are just too boring."

"I thought a size 12, what do you think?" He smiled.

"Ha, Ha, Ha!" she sneered. "Who gives a shit."

Charity stood in front of him and looked awkward.

"Turn around." He whispered. She did as she was asked and turned on her heels, his eyes burning into her body, penetrating her clothing.

"Beautiful." He said eventually.

"Come to my rooms tonight, after your work in the kitchen has been done."

"You cannot be serious?" His sister shouted throwing down her cutlery. She stood and walked towards the door.

"If you think I'm going to be party to this, you have another thing coming."

With that she stormed from the dining room and slammed the door behind her. Her brother smiled with a small snear and nodded to the girl to return to her duties.

She was relieved to do so and scurried off to collect the mistress' things from the other end of the table.

"Don't forget." He said as she walked away. "Come after you have finished your duties."

Later in the evening Charity was feeling nervous. She had no way of telling anyone what he had said and it was worrying her. As she swept the last of the kitchen floor and hung her apron on its familiar hook she felt as if she was going to her execution.

She climbed the stairs to the Master's quarters with a sense of resignation. Once outside his door she paused before knocking in the hope that something would happen that would prevent her going in.

Then she heard a friendly voice. She turned and saw Isaac walking down the hall towards her. He was carrying a box that the master had told him to retrieve from a storage room.

"What are you doing here?" He asked knowing that she wasn't able to reply.

"Did he ask you to come here?"

She nodded and bit her lip. He looked at the door and then at her. He felt helpless knowing that he had to let her do as she was asked.

"Don't worry." He whispered. "I have to go downstairs quickly but I'll come back and wait here for you." He looked at the box he was told to get and passed it to her.

"He wanted this. You give it to him."

Charity smiled and then looked towards the door with reservation.

"Go on." Isaac said softly. "I'll make sure you're okay."

She knocked and a voice called from within for her to enter.

Once inside the door she saw the master waiting beside a blazing fire. The room was cast in shadows and the only light was from the logs burning in the hearth.

"What's that you have?" He called out. "Come bring it here."

She stepped towards him and held the box out. He looked at it and smiled recognizing it at once.

"Good." He smiled. "You can help me dress."

He opened the box and the first thing they saw, sitting upon a green and blue silk cowl, was the golden crown of his ancestors. The crown gleamed in the twilight and shadows thrown down by the fire danced majestically on the ornate metal and diamond. Charity had never seen anything so ornate.

"Do you like it?" He asked taking the crown from the box.

"It's part of a very important costume. A costume I get to wear only rarely. Tonight is one of those occasions. Get that mirror from the corner."

He indicated a full length mirror that stood in the corner of the room which was on casters. She wheeled it to him as he undressed. When he was naked he asked her to bath him.

There was a bowl of steaming water on a nearby washstand and she dipped a sponge into it and lathered it with sweetly smelling soap. His body was smooth and hard as she wiped the sponge over it. The water and soap drained from his skin in long lines and collected in a small pool at his feet. He turned and she noted his arousal. His hand caught hers and her fingers were pushed down to his groin.

"Wash there." He said softly.

As the sponge swept over his hard genitals he closed his eyes and enjoyed her passive obedience; imagining it was devotion. She felt a sense of breathlessness and fright that combined in her body to make her tremble. She knelt before him and swept the sponge down his legs and over his thighs. Charity kept her gaze on the floor and behaved businesslike; she tried her hardest not to appear frightened.

"Dry me now." He said as she stood. There was a large towel by the fire that she took and wiped over his body.

When she had finished he took the crown out the box and shook out the garment beneath it. The serpent that encircled the hem shone in the light from the fire as he pulled the garment over his head.

"You can go now." He said firmly. She hesitated before giving a shallow nod and leaving the room. Outside instead of the friendly face of Isaac she met her mistress, Sophie.

"You think you're clever don't you." The woman said as the girl closed the door. Sophie stepped toward the girl and reached out. It was a sudden thrusting movement that caught Charity by surprise.

The smile on her mistress' face was un-natural, it was a wicked sneer, full of hatred and loathsomeness. Charity felt the blow and looked down. She saw a dagger sticking out of her chest.

"Bitch." Madame snapped as the young girl fell forwards.

"You thought you'd take my place, take my birthright? That will never happen."

Charity fell to her knees and looked up at the woman who towered over her. She saw the blood on the tips of her fingers. She felt warm moisture trickle down her chest as her breathing became laboured. Then her vision blurred and she fell forwards as if in slow motion.

"Never!" Sophie shouted at the corpse. She turned and walked down the hall to her set of private rooms as if nothing had happened. She was mumbling to herself about the bloodstains on her dress as she opened the door.

As it closed Isaac came up the stairs from the Staff quarters. He saw the prostrate body of the girl and ran towards her.

"Charity?" He said quietly lifting her body up and then his face turned white.

He looked at the palm of his hand and it was covered in thick red blood. She was lifeless and yet still warm.

"No!" he cried out in the darkness. "No!"

He pulled the dagger from her chest and opened the door to the Master's room. Isaac saw the man standing with his back to him admiring himself in the mirror.

He was totally unaware of what had happened in the hall outside. The master looked at the boy in the reflection and sniffed.

"What do you want?" He asked with an air of indifference. He was about to turn as the boy crossed the room and the master caught sight of the dagger in the boy's hand.

"What are you doing?" He said as the knife punctured his lung. Isaac pulled the blade out and struck again.

"It's something I should have done years ago." He said pushing the blade into the blue silk, again and again.

The master fell to his knees and held a hand up to stop the blows from the dagger but the blade cut into his palm. He looked at Isaac one last time as the blood poured from his body and saw the expression on the boys face change from absolute anger to confusion.

His pupils turned into one another and he dropped pole axed. The master's last sight was that of his sister standing behind the falling boy with a hammer in her grip.

"I'm so sorry, my brother." She cried as Isaac's body shook in convulsions on the floor beside them. She rested his head on her lap, stroking the blood from his face.

"Don't worry." She said softy. "I will complete the ritual and perhaps all will be back as it was."

His empty eyes stared blankly back at her. She then proceeded to undress him and to place the blood soaked ceremonial robe on her own body.

Niets stepped from his room and looked across the hall. It had been hours since Isaac had told him that he was going up to make sure Charity was safe. He crossed the hall and tapped on his friend's door, there was no answer. He tapped again before trying the lock. The door swung open. He peered cautiously inside and found the room empty.

The boy stepped back into the hall and walked along until he came to Charity's room. He knocked gently.

"Charity," he whispered. "It's me, is Isaac in there?"

There was only silence in return. He tried the lock and the door opened. The room was empty too.

"What are you doing?" A voice asked making the boy jump. He turned and saw the face of the cook looking out from behind her door.

"Boy's are not allowed in this part of the staff quarters."

"I know." He replied.

"It's Isaac, he's not in his room and neither is Charity. He went to get her from the Master's room hours ago. I'm worried that something may be wrong."

"Go to your room and I'll call Jed Plank." She replied pulling her dressing gown around her body.

"He'll know what to do."

Niets ignored her and ran down the hall towards the staircase that led to the main part of the house.

Climbing each step cautiously he peered around each landing expecting to find either the master or his sister standing there.

When he reached the final stair he looked down the hall and was surprised to find it in darkness.

Normally this part of the house always had a light burning in the socket; although tonight it was dark and silent. He could see the shape of something half way along but couldn't make out what it was.

"Ateth." She said softly raising a hand to her crowned forehead. Sophie was dressed in the ceremonial costume her brother had been wearing only a few moments earlier. Now she was standing in the secret room beside the altar, whispering the ancient prayer of their ancestors.

"Malkuth," she whispered touching the purple cord that wrapped her waistline.

"Ve Gedula, Ve Gebhula, Le Aleom."

Niets walked to the lifeless body of the young girl in the hall and knelt beside her. He had never seen so much blood and it was sticky to the touch. He listened to see if she was breathing and when he realised that she was dead it sent a shock wave through his body.

He stood and looked down unsure what he should do. It was then, through the open door to his left, beside the crackling fire, he saw something else.

"ADONAI!" She screamed turning to face the blazing southern burner.

"ORIENS!" She screamed to the east.

The thick plumes of incense rose from the burners and started to fill the room with an acrid smoke.

"Eh-Ei-He!" She screamed to the blazing west and then turning to the northernmost burner she raised the bloodied dagger into the air and screamed.

"AGLA!"

Niets walked carefully into the master's room, he had never been in there before and he was afraid. Then he saw the body of his friend laying beside the mirror, blood was still leaking from a gaping head wound. His chest was moving indicating the life was still present in the small boy.

There was another body lying in the shadows. He peered closer and could see that it was the naked body of the master.

Niets stepped over the master's body and bent over beside Isaac's prone form sure that he too was dead.

"Niets" He looked down and saw Isaac had opened his eyes.

"What has happened here?" Niets asked kneeling beside his friend. He reached out with tears streaming down his face as the realisation that his life was about to change again, forever.

"It's her." The boy whispered weakly.

"You have to stop her, she's insane."

"Who, stop who?" Niets asked. He could see that Isaac was very weak and didn't want to leave him there but the boy mustered all his strength and pointed towards the door.

"The mistress." He croaked.

"She's there, she's over..."

His eyes closed and his arm fell limply to the floor.

"Isaac." Niets screamed out in the darkness. The fire or hatred burned behind him like the flames of hell and he felt a new energy fill his body.

It was a power that Niets had never felt before, an awesome feeling of invincibility that filled him with anger.

"Sanctus, Tererum, Aerisquo..." She whispered breathlessly.

"Salve Raphael, Salve Gabriel, Salve Michael, Salve Urial, nam tellus et Omnia..."

Niets stepped over Charity's cold body and looked down the hall. He noticed the two black doors that had always been locked were now slightly ajar.

He had previously wondered why they were always locked and had never realised the circumstances through which he would find out.

Stepping closer he touched the handle of the first door and pulled it back. Inside was a darkened stairwell.

Sophie opened the worn leather book and opened the cover. She stared with marvel at the first page, the golden cross centred with a red rose, each petal picked out in red metallic thread against a lattice of gold.

"Beautiful." She said as the design drew her into its beauty. She could feel the energy burning through the leather cover and into her fingers.

The more she looked the greater the detail she saw; finer and finer lattices woven in gold and copper thread, fading away into infinity.

"Beautiful." She repeated.

Then turning the page she saw the first symbol of the word. She started the slow chant of the twenty-two syllables that was etched in each page of the book.

Each syllable corresponded to each of the twenty two letters of the old Hebrew alphabet. The twenty two trump cards of the tarot, the twenty two rune-cards, the twenty two ages of man and the twenty two thousand year cycle that made up the procession of the equinox.

Each utterance of this word was shrouded in mystery and echoed with power.

Reaching the end and beginning again, her voice was creating a lattice of echoing sound that bounced from the marble walls and ceiling.

Harmonics danced upon harmonics and the sound reverberated like a bell through the mists of time and wonder.

Ringing out through the ages, down the centuries, she imagined it tolling in a new age of enlightenment and wonder.

In her crazed mind she saw herself as the new messiah. The new Saviour of mankind, the new redeemer of the age, it was the start of the age of Sisterhood.

Niets climbed the stairwell and found himself on a landing containing exquisite artworks. The whole house had been full of beautiful things but none as superb as these.

There were gold fixtures and gold fittings everywhere, golden cherubim's and idols of fawns and fairies. The walls were hung with dark paintings of horned gods and sacrificed bodies. He could hear a murmur in the room ahead and he stepped gingerly towards the door that separated him from the sound.

A sound he had never heard, like singing, it was a ringing chant and the harmonic layers seemed full of endless echoes. It was a hypnotic sound which reminded him of something, something scary. He stepped towards the sound bravely.

Sophie had her eyes closed as the rhythm of the word picked up its own textures once they'd left her mouth.

It was alive in the room and the sound filled the hollow spaces with a growing tension. She was unaware of the firestorm that she had created.

Fire was blazing in and around her firstly bursting through the ceiling and then into every corner of the room. It was a blazing confabulation that soared around the protective circle in which she stood. Then the sound of their cloven hooves made her open her eyes.

Seeing the room full of fire the vision took her breath away and she became fearful of the power that had been unleashed. Her fingers trembled and Sophie became terrified of what she had created.

Then, through the flames she saw them, thousands of small elemental creatures each with the face of a devil.

Their clawed fingers reached out towards her through the flames and their cloven hooves rapped out a tapping sound across the marble floor. In their hands were either pipes made from golden rams horns or barbed tridents.

These thought forms look furtively at her, poking their tridents, blowing their horns and then they stopped and peered behind. Moving aside and bowing a gap opened through them.

Sophie looked up and saw, coming through the flames, a young boy. She recognised him at once. But he appeared to be glowing there before her. He was shimmering with bright white light which enveloped his form completely.

He was a vision of love and kindness that the flames could lick but not harm. Even the goblins looked startled by the form walking among them.

She saw standing above Niets the figure of a man and he was holding his hands above the boy's head, like a crown of fingers. Protecting him and allowing only love to beam from the scar in his forehead.

Around the globe all the boys of his age felt joined for that moment, across the abyss of time and space they broadcast their power and love towards him; knowing that tonight their destiny was for filled. They changed reality with nothing but thoughts of love and light.

"You!" she screamed as the scar on Niets forehead started to glow white hot. He remembered what his father had said during a distant dream, if he pushed hard he would push to.

Around the world they all pushed, from the centre of their being, filling the boy with psychic energy.

With that thought in his heart the boy pushed over a flaming incense burner spilling its contents across the floor. The heavy iron burner tumbled over as if in slow motion.

Its smoking contents scattered across the floor. The ash and tinder obliterated the circle in which Sophie stood. This created a bridge for the goblins and elementals to use. They immediately swarmed across the bridge and began pricking her with their pointed forks.

Their tridents quickly became bloodied as they found their mark, through her blue robes, into the serpent stitching, then again through her flesh.

They swarmed into the circle and had fun with the screaming woman. Sophie picked up the great ceremonial sword and tried to use it to kill them but it was too heavy for her.

Lifting it above her head the weight of the sword made her fall backwards out of the circle and into the fire. The small creatures danced around her body as it was consumed by the intensity of the flames.

Her screams rang out in the night like a she wolf baying at the moon. Echoing down the years, the mother of Romulus and Reemus, Babylon the great gasped her last.

Then, as she burned, Niets saw the whole mass of flame, blood and heat appeared to be sucked up into the centre of the ceiling. Sucked up by a vortex of wind, thunder and hail; leaving the boy in an empty room. At his feet sat a small leather book.

He thought he heard a voice on the wind, a screaming voice of the age, Rufus is Dead, it howled, Long live Rufus.

He thought he heard the sound of cloven hooves stamping across the sky, or was it thunder he heard, or perhaps the grinding of sharp teeth against flesh and bone; or was it, he pondered, the sound of a man screaming, forever.

Then there was silence. A warm silence that made him feel happy, like a hot sun rise by the crest of an ocean. The sound of birds singing outside the dark room reminded him that morning was approaching, a new morning and the dawning of a happier time.

He picked up the book and turned it over. On the rear was a map. Niets picked up a piece of blue silk that lay on the altar and carefully wrapped the book in it.

He ran outside the house and saw that it was summer all around, there were green shoots everywhere and flowers littered the wayside. The bright morning sun was rising above his head and he knew that the world had changed.

The following week he stood with a badly injured Isaac, a weeping cook, stern faced Mr Plank and a solemn looking Mongol by the grave of a young girl. Cook placed a wreath of flowers on the grave and looked towards the boys.

"So, it's over." She sighed.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me and Mr Plank? We're going to find some land and make a home there for us and him."

She nodded at Mongol and smiled.

"Thank you." Niets replied. "But we have plans of our own. Don't you want to stay in this old house?"

"No fear." Jed Plank retorted, grasping the cook's hand, and squeezing it gently.

"This place is like a tomb; it's somewhere for storing the dead. We would never feel comfortable here with its bad memories and ghosts."

"No." The cook whispered. "It's best left for the rats and mice. We're going to make our own life somewhere else. I have a feeling only good things can happen now."

"Yes." Niets smiled. "So do I..."

Three months later.

"Are you sure you want me to set you down here?" The captain of a fishing vessel said taking off his cap and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"There doesn't appear to be much to see, 'cept a few Indians and the like."

"I think they will treat us well." Niets replied helping Isaac to his feet. The two boys walked to the side of the boat and Niets jumped into the crashing waves of clear blue water.

He turned and helped his friend, who was still weak from the attack, to climb off the boat and into the bright blue water. They both walked through the surf onto the beach yonder.

"We'll be moored off the coast for a day or so." The captain shouted.

"Maybe even two days dependent on the fishing; you're a long way from home. When we're gone you'll be stuck here."

"If we change our minds in the next day or so I'll let you know." Niets shouted through the sound of the crashing serf.

"Thank you for all you have done for us."

"It was a pleasure." The captain shouted heartily. "...Thank you for the paintings."

He glanced over his shoulder towards the stack of oil paintings leaning against the bow of the boat and smiled.

"Goodbye, for now." Isaac shouted limping onto the white sandy beach.

He shielded his eyes and watched the boat return to the sea. The captain and his crew waved back from the deck wishing the two boys well.

Isaac leant forwards and removed his sandals feeling the hot white sand between his toes. The wind caught the coconut trees and the mass of ferns that lined the beach then blew through their hair. Both boys realised that they had come home.

Niets felt his breast pocket and was relieved to find it still there, a small leather book which he had carried on the long journey from the house.

"How did you know about this place?" Isaac asked as his friend helped him toward the tree line.

"It's beautiful."

"Someone told me about it..." Niets replied glancing round to survey the lush coconut trees and white sand.

"...In a dream."

They then saw an old man step from the trees and walk toward them, his skin, patted with clay as blue as the waves and the sky above, his tight grey hair in long dreads that hung like tree-roots from his head.

Niets recognised him at once. It was the man from his dreams; the one who said he was the boy's father.

He nodded and smiled as the two boys joined him.

"My Son." The dread-locked man smiled.

"We have been waiting for you."

Niets took the book from his pocket and gave it to the old man who nodded and smiled.

"Oh," He said with a note of concern. "I'd better put that away."

"Yes, you had." Niets replied.

"People think they can talk to god with it." The old man laughed.

"Have you ever heard such nonsense? Still," he said thoughtfully. "I'd better put it somewhere safe."

As the small party entered the village the children and women came from the long houses and looked with interest at the two strangers.

"You see." The old man said with glee. "I told you one day Rufus would return. Look, he is cleansed of his evil ways. Let's celebrate; the return of our brother."

The village never needed an excuse to have a party, and boy, what a party they had that night; but that's another story.

"Content contemplation of Divine Wisdom creates simple order. Strife for power strikes with discord at the root of our being..."

THE END

DWK (THE DOGBREATHSPUBLISHING) 2010

From the original 1974 Manuscript

All rights reserved

C: dwkthedogbreaths@gmail.com

