Thomas chuckles when he looks at his scribble.
Idea? I have no idea what any of this means.
He crosses out the words and will start fresh. He silently questions from what part of the subconscious these words emanate, but he gives up in a moment, making sense of none of it. But making sense of his margin notes is not the idea. Freeing up that side of the brain that enables him to write is the aim.
Not there yet.
He heads online for a bit, makes a cup of coffee, sits back down, scrolls the net some more, makes a coverage cup of coffee just in case he wants more later . . . and talks to himself in a tone and manner as if he is standing in front of a rap audience:
“You know the problem with good fiction today? The problem with good fiction today is the best fiction resonates superficially. The best fiction makes you feel better about yourselves, but soon you’ll all know Atticus Finch is a racist and you’ll have to deal with it.” He sits and googles his name. “You’ll be no worse off than you were before. Besides, Han Solo being married is the greater conundrum by far. You’ll find this out soon enough when your grandkids start asking you about the love he had for the princess. You know, the real tough questions. Then what? Creator’s prerogative, Lucas never had to sell to Disney, so you know what? It was the creator who allowed that too. Three bil, he could have said ‘no.’ And so I ask you, where do we go from here?”
Thomas enjoys his spontaneous verbal contemplations, and though he has never lost his childlike fascination of the unknown, when in public he had most frequently lost patience upon concluding his initial diatribe and allowing his crowds to respond. No different than now; as his imaginary audience interacts, their usual questions take over, such as “Where do you get your ideas from?” and “What is more important to you, art or money?” These are questions he responds to by rote when in public, but consider-ations he only truly entertains when alone.
Truly alone, a right-brain, left-brain thing, he thinks, without any audience present. Imaginary or otherwise.
He has no clue from where his ideas emanate, and he considers his biographies something less than art and more akin to testaments but on this matter he is wistful.
More written marginalia: “Woman shrouded in red hair. Stunning features, young-looking. I know her also and don’t know why. Demon? Some bookstores will never carry it with her image on the cover. The Bible talks of a race of giants. Nephilim? No, more like a hobbit. So many races. One God. No sense. Nonsense.”
Thomas would love to create art, his definition thereof, anyway, but he never had the vehicle. Never, until he went to London.
“WTF?”
And now he is ready to write in earnest. He begins with a favorite quote, typing: “But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.” He attributes the words to its author, Lord Byron.
Thomas takes his pen. Still more scribble: “Mary Shelley. Frankenstein . . . Percy, Byron, Claire Clairmont . . .” before scrolling on his computer and, finally, beginning with a chapter heading:
CHAPTER ONE
GODS AND MONSTERS
He searches online for the title, and then crosses these words as well. The title is taken.
Conflict of interest . . .
A movie. Conveniently, based on a biography of James Whale, who did the makeup for Boris Karloff in the first three Universal Frankenstein films, then for Bela Lugosi and Glenn Strange thereafter. Clive Barker’s company was involved in the film version, Barker, who Thomas had always given credit to for being true to himself, thereby making him a better man than he could ever be. A gay man who released a book of gay male nudes bordering on pornographic in his opinion (not a pejorative), featuring himself and his ex-husband, Barker, was most known for his novels of extreme horror (The Hellbound Heart was his favorite, a novella, which begat the Hellraiser mythos) and, secondarily, a series of children’s books. And he was accepted for all.
I could never have his guts.
“Shit,” Thomas says. “New title. New title . . . children’s books?”
He googles “children’s books.” Nothing. He googles “young adult or YA.”
Top five results:
Harry Potter
Divergent
The Maze Runner
The Hunger Games
Twilight
All books that have done their share to change the reading habits of young readers, he thinks, but nothing of any relevance to his present situation.
He googles “Fifty Shades of Grey YA.”
No results.
Some relief there.
Back to business, he searches Lord Byron. He finds a letter written by Byron on September 28, 1813, to Lady Melbourne, his aunt by marriage to Anne Isabella Milbanke and trusted confidante:
I have tried & hardly too to vanquish my demon, but to very little purpose – for a resource that seldom failed me before – did in this instance – I mean transferring my regards to another – of which I had a very fair & not discouraging opportunity at one time – I willingly would – but the feeling that it was an effort spoiled all again.
Thomas hits his guilt wall and retrieves his document.
“Time’s a wasting . . .”
Marginalia: “Demons. More demons. Victorian.” He pauses, then puts pen to paper for the final time tonight before meeting his muse: “Suffering. Accidents. No accidents. Spark? Misery . . . Denise.”
Denise . . . London. Bradley, Sr., Bradley, Jr . . . Matthius Alexi.
Pen returns to paper: “Denise Watkins.” He repeats his scribble, this time including an addendum: “Denise Watkins ➝ Matthius Alexi.” He sits back and ponders his words. “She finally got what she wanted.” He does not want to believe it, of course, but to a larger-than-expected extent he is not surprised. “She fucked me. She finally fucked me.”
~~~
Thirty minutes later.
Demons. Who created the concept of demons?
Thomas’ tired eyes scan the nearest bookshelf, the one standing at arm’s length to the immediate left of his desk.
And angels?
He sees first his early edition J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis dust-jacketed hardbacks, then a handful of mass market science fiction, horror, and fantasy paperbacks here and there.
And why?
A dog-eared copy of the first mass market paperback edition of The Exorcist catches his attention.
Still more demons . . . someone sending me a message?
A race of giants in the Bible and then there were also the demons. He thought of the zeitgeist seized by the Old Testament and attained again centuries later by works not entirely unrelated, like The Exorcist (and he remembered how he was once roundly criticized for making that comparison during a public engagement in New York’s 92nd Street Y, nearly leading to a knock-down, drag-out with his formidable publisher). He also contem-plated how the film version of the latter influenced him in much the same way as Star Wars and Rocky the year prior—transportive entertainments empowered by a rare, successful touch of the human soul.
And then he remembered that the author of The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty, had based his bestseller on the factual case of a Maryland boy in the 1940s. Thomas could not be less interested in the case, though he loves the fiction, which remains, to date, his favorite novel in the horror genre. He is, however, most interested in the popularization of Satanic and demonic literature since the film version was released. Whether he continues on this tangent remains to be seen, but for now he ponders as he sits:
X is all about mathematical equations and science. Matthius Alexi is Biblical. What if . . . what if magic does exist and it’s entirely science-based? What if the ultimate battle of good vs. evil really is a simple matter of science vs. religion?
That old can of worms, yet again.
So it was time to explore. When the film version of The Exorcist was released in 1973, he first recalled—and resented—
how much Blatty was paid for the advance, and then he settled and realized, if the project was that influential then maybe he was worth it.
There’s certainly money to be had. Note to self: Ask The King. Stephen’s paperback rights for Carrie sold for $400,000 to Signet. Thomas reenters the reality sphere. He sighs upon realizing: Doesn’t work. They didn’t write for the monster advance. They created the art, and then the demand dictated the windfall from there . . . who are you kidding?
“Besides,” he says, “Denise is cheap.”
Seconds pass and Thomas expresses surprise at the distraction. “Hmm,” is his simple utterance, and he second-screens a copy of the Bible. If the boy in the Maryland case was truly possessed, then his demon would be real. He read recently an article, however, that expressed various neurological similarities between artists and those with mental illness. Then the Bible being fiction, the creators or writers of the work were damaged. When they write of the dark, does that predilection make them more damaged? Or are the demons nothing more than physical manifestations of a restless, and quite possibly ill, mind?
A split personality perhaps?
Back to the search engine: Demons. He scrolls and stops at grimoires, then clicks.
Beleth.
It is not the name that immediately captures his attention, it’s the description: King of Hell.
And so he clicks on first entry:
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum – Johann Wier (1583) (quoted)
Bileth is a great king and a terrible, riding on a pale horsse, before whome go trumpets, and all kind of melodious musicke. When he is called up by an exorcist, he appeareth rough and furious, to deceive him. Then let the exorcist or conjuror take heed to himself; and to allaje his courage, let him hold a hazell bat in his hand, wherewithall he must reach out toward the east and south, and make a triangle without besides the circle; but if he hold not out his hand unto him, and he bid him come in, and he still refuse the bond or chain of spirits; let the conjuror proceed to reading, and by and by he will submit himselfe, and come in, and doo whatsoever the exorcist commandeth him, and he shalbe safe. If Bileth the king be more stubborne, and refuse to enter into the circle at the first call, and the conjuror shew himselfe fearfull, or if he have not the chaine of spirits, certeinelie he will never feare nor regard him after. Also, if the place he unapt for a triangle to be made without the circle, then set there a boll of wine, and the exorcist shall certeinlie knowe when he commeth out of his house, with his fellowes, and that the foresaid Bileth will be his helper, his friend, and obedient unto him when he commeth foorth. And when he commeth, let the exorcist receive him courteouslie, and glorifie him in his pride, and therfore he shall adore him as other kings doo, bicause he saith nothing without other princes. Also, if he be cited by an exorcist, alwaies a silver ring of the middle finger of the left hand must be held against the exorcists face, as they doo for Amaimon. And the dominion and power of so great a prince is not to be pretermitted; for there is none under the power & dominion of the conjuror, but he that deteineth both men and women in doting love, till the exorcist hath had his pleasure. He is of the orders of powers, hoping to returne to the seaventh throne, which is not altogether credible, and he ruleth eightie five legions.
Thomas scrolls to a follow-up entry, a further perspective of the demon, by S. L. MacGregor Mathers, 1904:
Beleth’s, Demon-King, Noble Seal
The Thirteenth Spirit is called Beleth (or Bileth, or Bilet). He is a mighty King and terrible. He rideth on a pale horse with trumpets and other kinds of musical instruments playing before him. He is very furious at his first appearance, that is, while the Exorcist layeth his courage; for to do this he must hold a Hazel Wand in his hand, striking it out towards the South and East Quarters, make a triangle, without the Circle, and then command him into it by the Bonds and Charges of Spirits as hereafter followeth. And if he doth not enter into the triangle, at your threats, rehearse the Bonds and Charms before him, and then he will yield Obedience and come into it, and do what he is commanded by the Exorcist. Yet he must receive him courteously because he is a Great King, and do homage unto him, as the Kings and Princes do that attend upon him. And thou must have always a Silver Ring on the middle finger of the left hand held against thy face, as they do yet before AMAYMON. This Great King Beleth causeth all the love that may be, both of Men and of Women, until the Master Exorcist hath had his desire fulfilled. He is of the Order of Powers, and he governeth 85 Legions of Spirits. His Noble Seal is this, which is to be worn before thee at working.
Thomas follows an adjoining link, and clicks, turning on his volume for audio . . .
But what of the demons of lore, a conceit typically derived from religious beliefs. Today, we will explore some of the more unknown demons of culture, demons that explain everything from menstruation to pizza cravings. If The Exorcist popularized the demon Pazuzu in pop culture, what about those of equal evil but lesser notoriety?
“That’s it.”
Thomas swivels his chair. The preliminaries are over. Sufficiently inspired, the renowned author gets to writing.
RHINE RIVER, FRANCO-GERMAN BORDER,
SUMMER 1814
“I have made a decision,” Mary says.
Only the flawless weather prevents Percy from losing his patience. He steers the two-person paddle-boat feet further, before breaking into laughter and relaxing his stroke. “My dear,” he says, “must you always announce when you have arrived at a decision? I am not reading. I am in your vicinity, so if you want to say something to me, come out with it then.”
“Somebody is getting too much sun.” Percy smirks at the irony. “Nonetheless, I have elected to turn Lost into a novel.”
“I never thought anything else,” Percy says. “The words a novel appears on your cover.”
“It could have been scribble. Now that I am decisioned, I think I’m going to change the title.”
“Why? Lost isn’t strong enough for you?”
“Hate is that much stronger.”
Percy is curious. “Hate. And here I thought you loved me.”
“I thought so too.” She smiles first. “We are moving forward with our life together, but whenever I think of that despicable wench, the hate I feel cannot be measured.”
“You should thank her.”
“Thank her?” she asks incredulously. “Thank her, why?”
“If it wasn’t for Mary Jane firing your wanderlust, we would not be together. You would have remained your father’s other wife.”
“Meaning?” she asks, mocking offense.
“You would never have considered leaving England.”
Mary wants to argue, but she knows he’s right. “To the next point . . .”
“Ah, Mary. I’ll be kind. We could not ask for a nicer day, is that not true?”
She pauses before answering. “You’re incorrigible,” she says. “Hasty change of subject, but okay. I’ll share a secret.”
“Another announcement. Grand.”
“Sshh. I desire when we purchase our journal, this little adventure is not documented. If history looks back upon us and our journals survive from our children—”
“Premature there, don’t you think? May I know my new baby first?”
“Harriet. You don’t love her like you love me. Why don’t you go back to her then?”
He stops paddling. “Mary, what gloom has overtaken you? This is a beautiful day. A day for us. I said nothing of Harriet, only our coming child.”
“Will we have children, Percy?”
“Mary—”
“Can I ask—”
“We will have children, dear Mary. We will have many children.”
“Then, as I was saying . . . I ask you for our own private moments. The world does not have to know everything. Our children do not need to know.”
“Are you asking me to help you manipulate our history?”
“I’m asking you for sanctity, to keep some things, some precious things, only with u
s. Like . . . this splendid day, where you say to me we will have many children.” Percy is entranced. “And too the rest of this week,” Mary continues. “When we journal we will journal what we want passed down, what should be passed down. Can we agree?”
“You are the antithesis of your father. When William Godwin wrote Memoirs of the Author of a Vindication of the Rights of Woman, he was scrupulously honest about everything having to do with your mother. Much to his continued detriment.”
“In this regard I do not follow my father’s predilection,” Mary pointedly responds.
Percy grins; he cannot help himself. “When you look at me like that I don’t believe I could ever say ‘no’ to you.”
Mary straightens and does her best not to smile. “Well, well,” she says. “That’s a habit that may sing fortune upon you sooner than later.” Seconds later she breaks into laughter. “Oh, hell,” she exclaims as she recovers. “How I wanted you to think for once I was in control.”
“For once,” Percy says cheerily.
“For once is right,” Mary responds.
SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY
If Sidra was a betting woman, the line she dropped to Rawling a few days back about quitting drinking would have been just that: a line. Nothing more than another manipulation. “All the usual bullshit,” as she would generally say.
Thank God all this happened on a weekend, she thinks as she gets dressed for work. Thank God for hitting the skids and then helping a visitor even worse off than me. Monday is a school day and a field trip, and I’m actually working. Who needs to dance at two days of sobriety, and why am I thanking God anyway if I’m supposed to be agnostic? Questions, questions . . .
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 18
