CHAPTER 12
“A Black Mass upon Her Body.” It is a mystical insight, so all agreed, an insight, a truth so powerful that it must not be shared, except with brother Inquisitors. This the secret ritual of the End Time—the Black Mass as the sacramental act through which males are transported to a New Earth and a New Heaven. This secret has been passed onto him and so everywhere he goes, to the astonishment of all, Friar Otto preaches, “Women alone will be left to inhabit the Earth...their Fallen Paradise!”
Excitement. Friar Otto’s sermon has caused a great stirring, for he explains that the truth of the secret ripped itself from out his mouth as had the Spirit’s fire ridden on Isaiah’s words. More, that “In this End Time, we must now make known this secret.” It is a revelation he reports to them that the Holy Spirit unfolded to him during the progress of his torturing her, this Mother—“harlot bride of Satan, not Christ!”
“It is when torturing the witches that the Holy Spirit speaks so forthrightly and clearly as they, their bodies, become the unholy Sacrifice of the Black Mass of the End Time.”
The small clutch of friars and other clerics attending the Inquisitor’s assembly had all known, so they seemed to say all at once, about the vile, despicable, and horrendous satanic practices but not about the secret and the ritual of the Black Mass. As priests each knew himself as the Body of Christ, the presence of the Mystical Body for which their profane bodies: flesh, mind and soul, became sacramental vessels as they celebrated the rite of Holy Mass. Yet, they were also active participants in the hotly contested—to many, “Despicable!”—theological debate raging throughout the Holy Roman Empire over the meaning of the Eucharist’s “real presence.” Which debate was, alone on its own merits, sufficient cause for labeling this the Age of Heartfelt Anxiety. But never had it entered their minds—as Friar Otto...whom many praise as “Inquisitor extraordinary!”...now calls them to consider, that the “real presence” of Satan can only be manifested through their performance of the Black Mass with all its sexual perversions. Truly, only through countering and making present these sexual perversions through torture of those parts of the female and male body that form the core Black Mass ritual of public intercourse can Satan, Devil, Lucifer, Adversary—be enfleshed in the bodies of these witches and warlocks whom they torture! “Torture the privy parts! Torture is consecration!”
Friar Otto’s reasoning staggers the minds of many. He declaims, “As she was taken from him—Eve from Adam—what else but that Christ is present as we take Her—the Bride of Satan...Goddess: Venus—take Her and drive, purge, excise, rout out every vestige of Her through torturing Lucifer’s demon progeny?”
For the last three decades, the Friar has been in the forefront of the Inquisitors who seek to do no other than probing for Adam’s rib...the bent rib, to straighten it out. This the Friar knows to be the Father’s Will and a bold task that requires him also to exercise the Will to Torture, to inflict Pain, to probe so deeply into the body that the soul is touched. To measure by measure move down the spine, and with each measure to prod and probe, to stick and twist, to hammer and unlock with fiery tip of a sword dagger. A short silver sword dagger is the friar’s signature Inquisitional ritual tool. With it, he is able to Will through the sobbing cries, the howling screams, the woeful groans, all the thrashings and bellowings and curses and surrendering whimpers. With it, ever more faithfully to steel his courageous heart and patiently but persistently continue to torture through the silent and the insensate moments when they lose consciousness—knowing that only then is the duel truly begun: Friar Otto versus The Adversary! That it is when they no longer can speak words that the words he has waited to hear are truly spoken. For it is in the realm of sleep, of the dream that Satan collaborates with them—gives them life, raises them from their fleshly bodies and steps them forward as spirited bodies, their ghostly forms as apparitions, incubi and succubi all, and sets them off to invade the dreams of men, to whisper the demonic words of their unholy Black Mass upon the bodies of males.
Friar Otto—inspired anew by the support of his fellow Inquisitors—returns to Mother Dolor. “Confess, Mother, confess the truth. Are you not Lucifer’s harlot?” Despite what she will say—as the Friar well knows that torture eventually brings forth the obvious—he’s already certain that she will confess that as a Bride of Satan that she has sinned by denying Christ as did Judas and that she has willfully chosen to become Lucifer’s harlot. As this one—perversely named with satanic irony, Mother Dolor—is once more set before him, so does the Friar know that it is not just Divine Providence, no it is otherwise, that this is truly a moment of a fuller divine Revelation. For at this instant, he is prepared and ready to conduct his own Black Mass—torturing her through simulating intercourse with her...conjuring up a mystical body like unto Lucifer’s so that Satan’s Real Presence is tangible before him...in his hands just like when he holds the chalice with wine that is sacred blood and breaks bread that is sacred flesh...for the battle between Good and Evil is ever that between Lucifer and the Father, between Satan and the Christ. As Christ’s priest, Friar Otto is ready to officiate...to hear her confess as he makes Satan present through his Bride’s sufferings.
Alone together. Just he and she.
He has strictly prepared himself to meet her.
He has fasted several days.
He has prayed unceasingly.
He has flailed his body until blood was thicker than sweat.
He has placed upon his own body the sacred wounds—“in imitatio Christi”—sufferings which now he will share with her to save her soul and release her from Satan’s bewitchment.
He has bound his privy parts so tightly that Satan cannot speak through them.
“Mother.” Tip-toe words; tinged with sweet seduction; amorous tone.
She opens her eyes but does not answer. Simply pulls off the sheet on top of her. Her breasts are naked to the night. Moon-glow. She does not even have to pretend. He is moonstruck.
Friar Otto steadies himself, is whispering holy ejaculations unending...fearing that he will not be strong enough...not sustain the temptation to become Lucifer, not just be his mystical spousal surrogate. Slowly, like a patient lover, the Friar undresses and slides into a naked embrace with her...the horns on his head, his cloven feet, his penis long and thick as an arm, all, arouse her to a feverish pitch of ecstatic anticipation. Embraced, she and he, Mother and Friar, She and He, Goddess and Lucifer—are one. Amen.
Mother, he whispers closely into her ears, tongue gliding up and down her nape and cheeks. Mother! resounds inside himself...bouncing the pleasure of her name off the tunnels inside his head, for he sees himself in a moonlight tunnel, a pathway leading to other tunnels, entrances which he knows, which he hopes, lead down, down, down into Satan’s lair. Hark! The Friar is there, face and tongue requesting permission to slip inside her diabolical cave: Her cave. He cannot, he does not wish to banish the thought that he is at the Manger—there Mother is now as the Mother of God, whose presence the Friar grasps—horrifically!— is that of Her, Goddess, Venus with Child...back, back, up, away! Flee! “Satan be gone!”
The Friar’s body and mind have gone winter cold—high Teutonic Alps’ frigid. Blood courses through him but it is only his soul that sustains his life...his soul as blessed by the Father. With all his soul-force the Friar seeks to exorcize this demon!
With the Holy Spirit girding him, he rises, stands beside her, proceeds to celebrate the Black Mass.
Upon her forehead: “Jesus”—intoned and anointed with holy chrism by priestly thumb.
Upon her navel: “Nazarenus.”
Upon her left shoulder: “Rex.”
Above her heart: “Iudaeorum.”
This was Preparation...her preparation for Her.
Strapped before him. Once again, sheathed full body to her neck. Stoic of face.
It stops him, this calm fierceness of acceptance.
“Why is she not trembling...more terrified?”
But Fr
iar Otto cannot halt to press the question, for he knows that everything—just everything: every whine, whimper, shout, even silence is a crafty tool of the Adversary.
He proceeds. Walks around to the foot of the table. Eyes closed. Hands in prayer. He does not need eyes. He does not need smell. He does not need sound.
Alone together. Just he and she.
He kisses her full, moist lips.
Presses the crucifix to her—offering her Him.
He places his hands upon her head, then upon her breasts.
Where the Mother had drawn holy milk, so from her must blood quicken.
He hears her heart beating in his ears.
Pressing with tongs that sizzle flesh llike embers hot passion, her heart...roasted flesh as in the fires of hell...he hears her call Him as her flesh screams of her lust for Him, her spouse—demon Lucifer! The Friar’s ardor is quickened, he plunges the fiery metal deep into her thighs, there to roust out her whorish sins. Down the smooth curve of her legs...Her blood flows. From her burnt nipples teensy red bubbles ooze and burble.
Hands upon her stomach. Smooth and white...like early twilight floating off a snowy hill. As one with Lucifer so has the Friar stroked her softness before. As one with Lucifer so has he been enraptured. So is he now, once again. This time, knowing more than all his debates about Natural Theology could have indicated, that, here, her body manifests Her—Lucifer’s Bride—as an integral part of the Grand Design which the Divine Creator has expressed Himself through. As Augustine had so proclaimed—“Felix culpa!” Here, the Friar understands more fully his Inquisitorial mission, “For God judged it better to bring good out of evil than not to permit any evil to exist.” Melius enim iudicavit de malis benefacere, quam mala nulla esse permittere....that without the Fall there would have been no need for Jesus to incarnate on Earth and redeem us.
Awake! Mother’s witchy depravity assures the Friar’s salvation! In celebration of God’s mercy, the Friar presses further, penetrating fingertips of his fiery, metal tongs through the small folds of her flesh...unleashing the fullness of her bodily warmth...the richness of her smell...so soothing...he sighs—there floats to him the bewitching bittersweet fragrance born deeply within her privy self.
Beware! Friar Otto’s thinking mind shuts down. His eyes clang shut. His ears are clogged with necromancer’s wax. He readies and frees himself to fall into her graciousness...he descends as he tortures her.
He slips on two rings, specially crafted with a cutting tooth, incisor size, with sharply honed slicing edges. He places one on his wedding finger, the other on his right index digit. With caressing strokes, he draw down her cheeks, slithering with modest pace marking her every fleshly sector with the tiniest of cuts. His hand is a glove of exquisite pain. Where does her blood puddle but at her navel? Could there be a more righteous sign?
Fully pulling the sheath off of her—she is an undulating plain of sorrow. Pain sprouts like green shoots in the spring—everywhere. Deftly, the Friar claws through her belly—hip bones protruding, barely any skin is left upon her bones and she, being big of bone, there is a cadaver beauty to her exposed flesh...claws and hears no cry...harrows deeper yet still senses no trembling...stabs his iron fingertips through her navel. Ah! finally, he senses the quivering of her Devil Mouth. “Women being insatiable!” Ah! how the turn of that Malleus phrase entices him, lures him onward to kiss “the mouth of her womb” with kisses insatiable! His “lips” but the delicate stabs and lover’s bites of a silver dagger.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, protect me!”—spoken out loud. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, John guide me!” So he anoints her now with his eyes and as he penetrates her privy mouth with a steel rod, his surrogate penis, with loud voice, a shattering voice, he delivers Her Annunciation Words: “Be it done unto me according to thy word!” So be it! Lucifer flees!
The Black Mass soon to be ended, the friar continues twisting, turning, tearing flesh...stabbing, hammering, pounding all that he has into her, into her through the thick foot-long rod of iron, hitting its haft with his full fist, wanting it to pierce her cave, to crack open the wall of her womb, and through this rendering to set free for all to see the pit of hell which is the essence of her being...which festers within her flesh...from whence words—enticing, seductive, filthy, depraved—are groaned and moaned and lofted into the ears of men as pleasurable...evilly pleasurable, for it is here in this privy cave where their sperm is deposited...it is here where—after they withdraw, blinded by pleasure—that the spectral demons who are her true lovers pass through the wall and scoop up the semen...gather it and take it to their Perverse Father for his Black Mass.
Legs tied, but they no longer rise and fall...no longer take their dark pleasures. No longer enjoy, as Friar Otto knew she enjoyed, this suffering, this pain—enjoys it as Eve had enjoyed the pangs of birth, for it was through sharing this dark pleasure of painful birth that Eve recalled her tryst with her Demon Lover in the Garden. It was clear—simple and uncomplicated and easy to understand by all—so the Friar knew as he ground the iron rod into her body, pushed so hard that he lost it from out of his hands...she sucking it in as she had sucked with reflex the thrusting member of her manly spectral lovers.
“…insatiable mouth …”
Once Satan is gone, the friar blesses the wine which becomes His blood and consecrates the host which becomes His Body, eats and drinks. Then the Ablution commences. He washes up by plunging his hands and arms elbow deep into an oaken bucket. There is scarce blood upon him. Nary a bit of her flesh clinging to him. Nevertheless, the Discipline demands that he wash...cleanse thoroughly—as he has been trained. “Father into your hands, I commit her spirit!” Finis. The Holy Mass upon the Black Mass is complete. “It’s over.”
Yet...there is a lingering yet?
Why had she never uttered a denial? Why did she persist in accepting herself as a witch? Have I failed? For without the denial, Were we truly in the Garden? Without the denial, Was she truly a Witch? Friar Otto is frozen frigid by the question. Here, Mother Dolor, self-confessed Witch... self-indicter...self-witnessing to her depravity...self-judging her body as the plaything of her Demon Lover. Yet? Why a yet?
The friar is moved to return to her, to gaze upon her—he flinches! Never before has he been so struck by the beauty of the horror or sensed rapture in such a grisly scene. She is like a crushed rose, oozing fragrance. Who was this once Betrothed Bride of Christ who is now but all lump and bruise...flesh torn into strips...body punctured with still seeping wounds...breasts savaged as if by a wild dog...face bruised and swollen and black and blue and roughly disfigured with loss of eyebrows and eyelids? Friar Otto gazes upon Mother Dolor...blood drips and pools from out her privy mouth...moon weeping mouth...Devil’s Cave. Yet, he hears himself wondering: Why didn’t she deny?
“Mother Dolor.” Late hours into the night, candles barely lighting the pages, Friar Otto has been hours already sitting, reading, pondering in the Cathedral library...rapidly thumbing through a thick mountain of documents. There is something he needs to know. For once she was pronounced dead by the Prior, so did a sweet but muted voice fly words around his ears, “Go thither! Go yon!” Yet?
Here now vellum sheets slip away from unbound stacks, parchment is scattered about—folios hiding quartos hiding thickly bound volumes. Behold! The name finally appears. Close to the candle he presses the page, almost setting it on fire. As he reads the yellowing list of the Convent’s Postulants—no it is not reading—Lord have mercy!—the page announces her name to him, as if making a polite social introduction. Her name, these syllables of her identity arise from where the secular name is crossed out and inserted above is the religious name—“Mother Dolor.” There stands up, steps off the page and calls up to him as the town crier boldly shouts from his stand at village center—“Dolorosa von Frakken—once, Dagmar.”
Friar Otto’s third cousin on his father’s side!
Dagmar
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