by Brian Hodge
So, after they'd shared wine last week, no more glassware went through the bars, and Laurenti made doubly sure to keep anything else sharp out of reach as well. No razors, not even with safety blades, and Verdi sprouted a coarse beard that began to mask the pits and pocks of his face.
So too had Laurenti dwelled on Verdi's reaction to his assertion that the scroll was beyond Rome and therefore safe: I doubt that very much, he'd said. Once they are out in the world, things like this have a way of attracting attention no matter where they go.
An accurate but otherwise innocent assumption, or had he known something like this was imminent? Laurenti was inclined to believe the former, that he truly knew none of this; that, as the BPRD and nearly all his compatriots believed, the sinking of the yacht and the scroll's theft were the work of another faction entirely.
At first Laurenti saw no value in even mentioning it to their captive. Why give him a chance to gloat? Then Laurenti came to wonder if that wasn't his only reason for withholding the news--that he was motivated more by embarrassment than strategy. Perhaps some good could come of sharing this terrible news, if only for the chance it would give him to watch Verdi's reaction. Laurenti had looked into the eyes of all manner of liars, from those who lied to save face or spare feelings, to those who lied for power and gain. If Verdi knew something of this, regardless of his words, Laurenti felt sure he would sense it.
And when he finally told him, there was nothing in Verdi--to whom smugness and sanctimony seemed quite natural--that appeared anything other than sorrowful. None of what the Americans called I-told-you-so's. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, and under the fuzz of new beard, like a dark moss, his face loosened and sagged.
"Now do you see," his voice a hush, "why we would rather have it destroyed?"
Laurenti nodded. He did recognize this, even if he couldn't agree with their intentions, much less their methods. "And do you see that it never would have been so vulnerable if you had not first tried that, and failed?"
"Only a matter of time," Verdi said. "The wrong hands...they never would have stopped groping."
As they sat in the rays of light slanting through the covered portals in the roof, Laurenti stirred in his chair. Pointed back at the faded mural on the wall behind him, the Peaceable Kingdom of lions and lambs.
"Can we put aside our antagonisms for a moment?" he asked. "I have something I want to ask you."
Verdi seemed to sniff the air for duplicity, then gave a conciliatory nod.
"What are they like?"
"Who?"
"You know what I'm speaking about."
"Ahh. The angels," Verdi said, and he tipped his head back with his eyes focused on nothing. "They are...the purest essence of magnificence and dread. Would you ever want to see one, meet one? I bet you were just like me growing up, and dreamed of it. But be careful what you wish for. I don't think you would want it at all."
He did not seem to gloat even now.
"The air, it grows cold around you, and then they descend. Different people see them in different ways, but I have seen them descend like huge doves with skin like glass, filled with a flame they will pour out on the heads of their enemies."
Except...
They didn't truly descend, Verdi told him. People only thought this way because people only thought in terms of up and down. But the seraphs didn't come from above, because they didn't come from a place you could get to if you climbed a tall enough tree. They came not down from above, but rather from the outside in, entering this world where its air was thinnest.
Laurenti thought of the Archives, the charred remains of people and property. "Do they not have any concept of mercy?"
"Why should they?" Verdi laughed. "They are...incomplete. Pure in what they are, but incomplete. Are there angels that are heralds, or guardians, or comforters? Maybe. Probably. But I've never seen them."
"Then what are these?" Laurenti asked.
"Isn't it obvious? They are the perfect manifestation of His wrath, and nothing more," Verdi said. "And for so long, they have had nothing to do."
After the priest left, another of his captors brought the man in the cage the pair of wooden buckets filled with warm water--one sudsy, one clear--that they gave him for his daily washing, then stayed behind to make sure he behaved himself with them. They evidently did not trust him even with smooth-edged wood, or perhaps they feared he would try drowning himself in the water.
Wooden for wash water, plastic for his toilet--it was a system.
As he had done each day, Domenico Verdi carried both buckets into the corner of his cage, kept his back turned to the bars, stripped out of the loose slacks and shapeless pullover shirt they'd given him in place of his cassock, and began scrubbing himself down with the sponge floating in the soapy bucket. As he did each day, he took utmost care that his backside was all anyone could see from the other side of the bars.
They would have no reason to think it anything other than modesty.
Let them continue to think it.
His thumbnail, and what was becoming of it as it grew and he daily filed it against the stone--this he could hide easily enough, by curling his thumb behind the next two fingers.
Not so, this greater secret he wished to keep.
And as he washed, he thanked God for seeing fit to give him such a broad chest and big belly, wide enough to contain such a marvel.
Chapter 16
England again.
It was no secret in the BPRD that he had developed a habit of retreating here after the bad ones--the cases that brought him not just face-to-face but soul-to-soul with the worst things that could happen. The worst things that could exist. Whether it was in the earth, air, or water, there was just something about the English countryside that got inside his head and washed it out in all the right places.
And if this business with the scroll was far from over, well, they could cut him some slack. As if anybody was going to begrudge him a day or two of recuperation after the way--and where--he'd spent the last four. And as long as he was in the neighborhood anyway.
He'd spent another eight hours on the island after Abe had left for the mainland, and then the both of them had been choppered down to the Cornwall safehouse where they'd originally been headed. Finally getting there, only late and without the scroll.
He hadn't stayed long. Everything they were getting done right now--they didn't need him for that. Kate had left Rome for Cornwall immediately after she and the priest had checked out the bodies from the armored car, and she was now up to her nose in research. Liz had gone there from Majorca and, on Hellboy's request, was now waiting for her protege, Campbell Holt, to come over. And Abe? The last he knew, Abe had been asleep for seventeen hours straight and counting. With everybody else rejoicing in the news that rumors of their deaths had been greatly exaggerated.
Better for them all if he returned to duty with his batteries fully charged.
So for now, it was enough to sequester himself in the more out-of-the-way places of the Western Midlands and walk the once-green fields that had given way to autumn, and let them work their tonic effects. When he needed it, this whole country was like one big decompression zone.
Most of it, anyway. There were still a few hot spots.
Right here in East Bromwich, for one.
BUREAU FOR PARANORMAL RESEARCH AND DEFENSE
Field Memo UK-000164-01
Date: October 25, 1996
Issued by: Dr. Kate Corrigan
Classification: Open Access
Subject: Moloch and Moloch worship
Whether through official channels or the grapevine, by now you're all no doubt aware of Hellboy's encounter off the north coast of Scotland, some time during the late hours of Wednesday, October 23. After spending approximately 92 hours in the stomach of the mytho-historical creature known as the Leviathan, Hellboy was subjected to the Jonah-like indignity of being regurgitated onto the island colloquially known as Dreich Midden. For reasons that
may only be symbolic, or that may have some thus far undetected significance, this was the same island where the ritual was conducted that directly or indirectly triggered Hellboy's appearance in East Bromwich, England (December 23, 1944). Regardless of whether the choice of Dreich Midden was symbolic or significant, one conclusion is inescapable: that the sinking of the charter vessel Calista was orchestrated for the purpose of bringing Hellboy there so the Masada Scroll could be taken.
It is Hellboy's belief that, although carried out by the physical forms of two unidentified men, this theft was engineered by the demonic entity known in various grimoires and other sources of arcana and history as Moloch, with the assistance of Surgat, a lesser demon infamous for opening locks.
For those of you who didn't grow up in ancient Palestine (and, the totally uncalled-for cracks about my age from you novice agents notwithstanding, neither did I), a background on Moloch should be helpful in letting everyone know what we're dealing with.
Although clearly a malevolent entity to our, ahem, enlightened sensibilities, Moloch was worshipped as a sun god in first millennium B.C.E. Palestine and beyond. You can hardly rub two historians together without generating sparks of disagreement, but Moloch has been associated variously with the Ammonite and Canaanite tribes, and biblical accounts indicate that Solomon imported the cult of Moloch worship into Israel at a location outside Jerusalem called Tophet (likely translation: "place of abomination"). Moloch worship, or something very similar, also appears to have gone on in North Africa at Carthage and elsewhere, as well as Malta, Sardinia, Sicily, and other locations around the western Mediterranean.
If we refer to later sources, although concerning events even more ancient, we find a greater consensus on Moloch's identity, disposition, and inclinations. There is a concurrence among medieval- and Renaissance-era demonologists that Moloch is a prince of Hell; according to some sixteenth-century sources, his power is greatest in December. (As we are just weeks away from December, the events we're now experiencing suggest that we should take seriously the possibility that they are proceeding according to a definite timetable.) If you recall your Milton, Moloch was one of the instigators among the host of rebel angels, as well as one of its greatest warriors, and is described in Paradise Lost as "besmeared with blood of human sacrifice and parents' tears..." A similar passage in the twelfth-century grimoire De Vermis Mysteriis describes him as one who "takes supreme pleasure in causing mothers to weep."
The BPRD has in the past observed that incorporeal entities can indeed be strengthened by devotion. So I--and I'm far from alone in this--consider it a possibility that Moloch was greatly empowered by his worship among various peoples of antiquity that mistakenly regarded him as a sun deity.
Their worship was invariably sacrificial in nature, and there is also little room for doubt that (a) immolation was the means of delivery, (b) when human beings were sacrificed, the chosen victims were children, and (c) the centerpiece of the sacrificial rite was a large statue, likely made of bronze. Less certain is the precise methodology of burning, as the surviving ancient writings vary.
Some rabbinical accounts describe a hollow statue having seven compartments, each of which was reserved for a specific offering--the seventh being the child--which were consumed by a fire kindled within the base of the statue. In other accounts, the child (whether alive or freshly killed by some other means) was placed on the statue's outstretched arms directly over a firepit kindled in front of the statue. Multiple accounts refer to priests and others present at the rite playing drums, tambourines, flutes, pipes, etc., in order to create a cacophony that would drown out the victim's screams.
As always, we have to allow for two considerations: regional differences in idol worship that really did occur, and the possibility that some accounts were exaggerations or complete fictions, as propaganda generated by a tribe or city-state's enemies.
Although it certainly wasn't intended as propaganda, the greatest enduring misperception about these rites does have its origins in fiction. French novelist Gustave Flaubert's 1862 novel Salammbo described Carthaginian Moloch worship as involving a large statue whose movable arms were rigged with chains so that the priests could raise them; a child placed upon the statue's outstretched hands was then mechanically deposited into Moloch's gaping mouth, and delivered to the flames within.
It wasn't true then. Unfortunately, it appears to be true now.
Although widespread, institutionalized Moloch worship died out over 2000 years ago, small cults and other pockets of devotees have been sporadically reported over the centuries. The last such group that the BPRD is aware of was active in post-World War I Germany: Der Horn-Orden (translation, the Order of the Horn, presumably in deference to Moloch's traditional appearance as having the head of a bull). This group thrived in the decadent atmosphere of Weimar Republic-era Berlin under the leadership of war veteran-turned-occultist Matthias Herzog, who was frequently described by the more sensationalist press of the 1920s as "the German Aleister Crowley." (Predictably, Crowley was quick to denounce him in every way possible.) The group was devoted to the typical secret society goals of knowledge, power, and influence, although they apparently went so far as to profess their chief ambition to be the ushering in of a new age of Hell on Earth.
Certainly that description could apply to much of Europe during World War II, but Der Horn-Orden was long gone by then. The group appears to have vanished by 1932--not merely disbanded, but completely disappeared, along with most of its initiates. Estimates put the number at over 860. Although it is possible to trace a handful of the group's members to later Nazi-era occult circles, the BPRD has found no connections to any individuals identified as being involved with the December 23, 1944, incident linked to Hellboy's appearance.
Virtually all of our knowledge about Der Horn-Orden comes from a book whose intimidatingly long Teutonic title translates into English as Things Better Forgotten. It's an uneven but generally useful history of then-contemporary German occult lodges/societies, with an expected emphasis on the Fraternitas Saturni. It was published in 1942 by a Munich press in an edition of fifty copies (only six of which are known to have survived World War II, with two in BPRD possession), and was the work of Ernst Schweiger, who was dead of an undiagnosed bacterial infection within two months, at the age of forty-four.
Schweiger was a fellow veteran of WWI who purports to have been active in Der Horn-Orden during its early years. He describes sacrifices to a Moloch statue that was constructed in obvious accordance with the Flaubert version, complete with raising arms, although he does not describe the use of chains, and in fact seems not to have ever learned how the illusion of motility was accomplished. Since the existence of such a statue has never been verified, even in photos, we do have to consider the possibility that Schweiger was making it up. However, there are two arguments in favor of his claims' authenticity:
(1) Although Schweiger adopts a more distant tone in his book concerning his activities with Der Horn-Orden, a small collection of his private correspondence, found in 1957, professes unrelieved guilt at having helped procure sacrifices meant for the statue, most of them unwanted infants born to performers and prostitutes in Weimar Berlin. He cites his involvement as having begun on Walpurgisnacht in 1924, and goes beyond his book with the claim that Matthias Herzog was actually the father of many of the procured children, because to Moloch, these children made more acceptable sacrifices than those of strangers. In short, these children were destined for the furnace from birth.
(2) The existence of an operable Moloch idol in the early twentieth century is not the most outlandish assertion in Schweiger's book. That honor would have to go to his claims that Der Horn-Orden leader Matthias Herzog regenerated an arm lost at the shoulder in World War I, much like some reptiles are known to regrow a missing tail. Mere propaganda and occult cachet? Hardly. This is documented by verifiable evidence: a sequence of six photogravure plates from 1924/1925 that were discovered in the archives of Oskar D
orfman after his death in 1962. Though now known only to collectors of vintage smut, Dorfman was a popular pornographer during Germany's interwar years, who fit right into Berlin's licentious climate. He also happened to be rigorous in his recordkeeping. The gravure plates cover a sixteen-month span and show the same man, shirtless, with his left arm in various stages of regrowth, from entirely missing to newborn to child to adult. Both the plates and the imagery have stood up to all BPRD analysis attempting to debunk them as some sort of optical fraud, or accomplished with a series of prosthetics. A follow-up memo will be coming out of HQ to notify you as soon as the plate sequence is ready to go up on network for general viewing, although at the moment we're still waiting for the IT department to come in after-hours.
In the meantime, here's the directive: Cross-reference the attached list of names, terms, phrases, dates, etc., with all active and dormant case files, beginning with the last five years and then working backward. All hits pertaining to Scotland or populated islands (Shetland, Orkney, Skye, the Hebrides) or Northern England should be accorded a top priority for immediate follow-up investigation. If there's anything out there relevant to the continued existence of Der Horn-Orden or other twentieth-century Moloch worship, it's imperative that we get a handle on it.
One's birthplace should hold a sacred relevance to his or her life, but Hellboy harbored no such affection for his own. How could anyone find something hallowed in a place that had hosted a birth that left scorch marks on the stone floor still visible more than half a century later? Though he'd tried to make good on it, to atone for the ill intent of others--the road out of Hell could be paved with good intentions, too--sometimes it still didn't seem enough.
The old church in East Bromwich must have been a grand sight in its heyday, but that day had darkened some 300 years ago. Now it was nothing more than a jigsaw puzzle of fragments and ruins, ever so slowly being reclaimed by the land. Here, a wall crawling with ivy, red as blood now that autumn had come. There, a vaulted window, gnawed by time and neglect down to its arched frame and the broken inner lacework of its tracery. Stand so that you could look squarely through the window's remains and you would see that the place was presided over by a broken crucifix, still standing after the centuries, its eroded life-size Christ missing its left arm to the elbow.
