by Mike Mannion
They crossed the road and entered a large neo-gothic building topped with turrets – the university library. Its many reading rooms were filled floor to ceiling with books. They walked across the marble floor, past a maze of dusty cabinets and bookcases. Eventually they stopped beside an archway cut into the far wall behind a stone column. Through the opening were a few steps leading down to a door of thick black wood.
“This is it,” said the Professor in a rasping voice. When she was sure nobody was watching, she took a brass key from her jacket pocket and showed it to the girls. “I stole this from Professor Nox’s room. Don’t tell anyone.”
They went down the steps and unlocked the door. It led into a dark corridor. The Professor locked the door behind them and switched on the light. It was dank and musty, as though nobody had been in there for a very long time. They followed the corridor through an archway and into a reading room, with three of its walls lined with very old books. A dusty table and chairs and a carved wooden chest stood in the corner.
Ophelia was amazed by what she saw. There were hundreds of books, all dedicated to Dark Paganism. She looked at the nearest shelf and scanned some of the titles: ‘Appeasing ye Voice’, ‘The Encyclopaedia of Dark Pagan Lore’, ‘Cursed in Childhood: A Psychological Study’, ‘Theories of Transmogrification’.
The history of Dark Paganism was something she was keen to know more about. The odd little book the professor had given them, revealing the Cult of Arddhu Og’s secrets, was extremely rare. It had been pored over every night by herself and Lilith. How much more was there to discover in here! The girls wanted to know all, to become witches of the highest order, to catapult themselves out of the ordinary mundane world and into a cool netherworld of dark paganistic magic.
“This is amazing,” she said. “How did the university get all this stuff?”
“In the 1930’s it used to have the largest collection in Europe,” said the Professor, “but when the ban for this type of literature came about most of it was destroyed by government decree, all except the contents of this room. The chancellor at the time, Professor Maximus Brady, didn’t really believe in book burning and ideological bans, ‘smacks too much of Hitler and those damn Fascists’ he is quoted as saying. Didn’t stay chancellor for much longer after that, but he did pass on the secret of this room to certain individuals.”
The Professor considered what she’d learnt from reading some of these books. Dark Paganism was still practised in secret before Victorian times, with different cults each dedicated to their own Gods and Goddesses – the Cult of Gowin Bag, the Dryad of Death Cult and the worship of the triple Goddesses: White Maiden, Red Mother and Black Crone. But in the early part of the twentieth century it had all but been eradicated through many midnight arrests, the gruesome execution of prisoners and the removal of literature dedicated to such matters. The people in the grip of such cults were deemed to be dangerous criminals, and some of their highly immoral actions proved this to be the case. The Professor knew what she was about to get the girls to do, in the name of Arddhu Og, was against every moral principle she had.
“I can’t believe you’ve shown it to us,” said Ophelia.
Lilith said nothing. She was waiting for the professor to show her the way but could see nothing here except dusty old books.
The Professor was still thinking. Why had she brought these two innocent young girls to such a place? Was it right to give them the Sabbaroth of Og, the small leather-bound book that told of Dark Pagan’s most dangerous cult? Was it wrong to use them as an instrument to get what she wanted? She was about to show them how to resurrect the dead, using witchcraft of the highest order. A part of her abhorred what she was doing but another part wanted to urge them on, relishing the prospect of a reunion with her beloved Simon. When she’d first been cursed and had heard that terrifying voice telling her to take Simon’s blood, she hadn’t understood what was going on. But after many years of research she was convinced that her sinister whispered voice belonged to Arddhu Og, the Dark Pagan God of bile, blood and vitriol. It was a shock to know it now lived inside her mind, a tumour of evil intent, and she struggled to comprehend how the curse was spread. How someone could chant the darkest of Dark Pagan incantations, obtain the merest touch of your blood and implant it – bringing such manifest changes to the mind and body.
“If I trust you to be brave enough to do this most foul and evil witchery,” she said at last, “then I think you deserve to know everything.”
“We do,” said Lilith eagerly, pleased that she wasn’t being treated like a child. “We won’t let you down. I’m looking forward to doing whatever you need us to do.”
The Professor opened the wooden chest in the corner of the room.
“The most subversive books of all are stored in here. This is where we’ll find what I’m after.”
She searched for a while then pulled out a fairly large black book, gripping it tightly in her bony white hand. Her back began to bend slightly, as its weight seemed too great for her to bear. She placed it on the table and took a moment to catch her breath. When she was fully recovered she slowly opened it. The girls looked over her shoulder, fascinated. The pages were of thick yellowing paper with lettering that was quite faint.
“It was printed by a dark pagan publishing house in South End in the 1760’s,” said the Professor, “When the ban came about a small number of what were deemed the most dangerous books were to be destroyed at any cost. This particular title was on that list and as far as I am aware this is the only surviving copy. It’s called the Almanac Regenerationis. It tells the most amazing secret of all. When a person in the grip of Arddhu Og is killed they do not rot away. They are reduced to what is known as ‘ceare’. This strange and magical substance is little understood by science, but can bring back life…” She closed the book and with a hard, flinty stare handed it to Lilith. “You two need to take it, study it, learn its secrets.”
“Bring back life?” said Lilith.
The Professor still wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing; but knew she couldn’t do it herself. Resurrection in this day and age was highly illegal. If she was caught then the authorities would surely convict her as a Dark Pagan witch. She’d go to jail and not be able to get another fix. The terrible voice of Arddhu Og would be unleashed inside her mind. She didn’t want to think of what would happen after that…
The Professor took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She decided that if it was going to be done then it should be done quickly.
“Come now. I will show you were he lies,” she said.
“Who is he?” said Lilith excitedly, imagining the fiercest of warlocks. She wanted a rebel, a charismatic revolutionary, who would lead a growing army of cool rebellious kids in a uprising that would smash today’s smug, complacent society.
“His name is Simon Drew.”
“Who?” said Ophelia.
“He used to be a very kind professor here at the university. He is a good man who’ll be nice to you both and teach you a great deal.”
Ophelia and Lilith looked at each other. Lilith almost stamped her foot with rage. There was no way she was going to use her new-found witchcraft skills to bring back a ‘kind professor’. This Simon Drew chap sounded deadly boring. She imagined some anodyne little man in corduroys, a chinless wonder, who’d be unable to lead a coffee morning, let alone a revolution.
“But,” said Lilith,” he doesn’t sound very-”
“Be quiet,” snapped the Professor. “Simon Drew. Remember that name.”
They left the reading room – with the Professor locking the door behind them and Lilith hiding the Almanac Regenerationis under her black velvet jacket – and passed through the maze of bookcases. Coming out of the library, they crossed the busy road but had to stop outside the college gates to let the Professor get her breath back.
Lilith and Ophelia watched as the Professor tried to recover, with bent back and rasping breaths. Her alabaster white forehead w
as glistening with tiny droplets of sweat and her scalp was clearly visible through wisps of very fine hair.
It was a slow journey down the road with the Professor shaking and clutching her stick.
“Are you ill?” said Ophelia, helping her along like she was an old lady.
The Professor shrugged her off with pursed lips.
They went down the road and stopped outside an imposing neo-gothic building next door to the College. It was built of white stone and had a long row of stained glass windows. Opening the gate, they followed a path through formal gardens that lead to the entrance to Conatus Chapel.
It was dark inside the high foyer and smelt of old wood and incense. They could hear the haunting sound of choral singing. A tubby, bespectacled man in black approached, giving them a fussy look.
“I’m terribly sorry Professor Jareth,” he said, “but evensong practice is in session. You will have to come back later.”
“We are not here to pray Father Figgs,” said the Professor, “we’re going downstairs.”
When he heard this Father Figgs looked at the girls with some confusion, almost asking why they were privy to this conversation. “I have heard nothing of this. Who are these girls?”
The Professor looked a little flustered as she said, “N. has authorised it. We are finding spaces. And these girls are to join the Choral Society.”
Father Figgs gave the Professor a hard stare, appraising the situation. Eventually he said, “Well if N. authorised...”
He gave the Professor a knowing nod and handed her a torch from a box on the wall and a large brass key from his pocket. Giving the girls another suspicious glare, he turned and walked away.
“What was all that about?” said Ophelia.
“The University is not what it seems. There are certain societies... let's just leave it at that.”
Ophelia wanted to know more, but could see from the Professor's pursed lips and furrowed brow that she wasn't going to tell.
“But why are we here?” said Lilith.
“This place is consecrated, away from prying eyes and guarded by our Chaplain, Father Figgs. Each dead Arddhu’s remains is stored in a stone cask because the ceare must be sealed and contained.”
“Why?”
“When an Arddhu is destroyed you cannot leave the ceare and walk away. It blows in the wind, shifts and reforms where it can find blood.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“It does. But there have been many strange stories in the past of dead animals – deer, foxes and the like – where other scavenging animals have ripped out their guts and the ceare has found their body, used their blood. When they come back they don’t look human at all. They have turned into what is called Animalis Daemonium.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“That is why we need to use a human virgin. A virgin’s supposed purity and innocence brings them back as much like us as possible.”
They went down a narrow corridor to their right that ended with a heavy wooden door built into the stone wall. The Professor unlocked it with Father Figgs’ key. They went through and began to descend a stone spiral staircase. It became quite cold and dark and they had to go very slowly, with the Professor stumbling many times. The torch wasn’t very bright and cast odd shifting shadows on the stone walls.
Halfway down, the Professor stopped and tried to speak but was so out of breath the girls had to wait.
The professor was starting to feel a raging depression build. She’s not given herself enough Vita Dantis. It was coming back! She heard the dreaded voice. It was very faint and indistinct.
You’ll pay for stopping me a’comin, foul crone.
“I can’t go on,” she gasped. “You must go into the crypt and get him. I need to go back to my rooms immediately.”
The Professor knew she’d made a big mistake. She’d only got part of her fix and it meant she may soon be lost to Og’s will. She needed to get the rest of it as soon as possible. It was a long journey back to her rooms and she desperately hoped she wasn’t going to do something she’d regret. She could feel the glimmer of animalistic urges straining to take hold. The teasing voice, whispering in her mind, terrified her more than anything.
“Go down and look for a stone urn on the far right. You will see his name, Simon Drew. Take it to Saint Pius church. It’s the ruin at the far side of Wych Elm Wood. That’s where the terrible deed must be done.”
“But Professor, what’s wrong?”
“I will clear it with Father Figgs. Just go now and take the cask to Saint Pius. Do as I ask, quickly now!”
The Professor handed them the torch with a hunted look on her haggard face. In the gloomy light the girls watched her turn and begin a slow amble up the stairs, disappearing behind the turn of the spiral.
They looked at each other with some trepidation, confused as to the professor’s strange actions, and continued down the stairs. They came out into a wide stone cellar with a low ceiling of arches supported by rows of stone columns. It was musty and cold. Lilith swung the torch and it illuminated things in a very strange way, with long dark shadows creeping along the walls. The girls began to explore, finding a line of stone sarcophagi filled with worthy inscriptions – dedications to chancellors from many years ago.
Then the torch illuminated a stone plinth against the far wall. It was difficult to see but it looked about thirty feet long and filled with a line of stone casks. The girls approached for a closer look and noticed small wooden placards fixed to each cask. They leant forward and shone the torch onto one of them. It was dusty and faint but the girls could see that it said:
God’s Merciful Hand Hath
Vanquished The Blighted Soul Of:
George Fotheringay.
Member of the Barleybrook Etheric Club.
Underwood Parish, 1872.
“George Fotheringay. The Barleybrook Etheric Club,” said Ophelia. “That club’s in Rowena’s journal. Lord Percy was hosting a ball and his warlock friends from that club were coming.”
“Cool. So that means this Fotheringay chap was a warlock,” said Lilith grinning with excitement.
“Guess so. Where’s Simon Drew?” said Ophelia. “It’s hard to see in this light.”
Lilith swung the torch up in an arc and suddenly let out a small cry. The torch had illuminated a bony bearded face, staring at her from about ten feet above.
“Who the bloody hell’s there?”
Ophelia took the torch and pointed it upwards, revealing a life size statue of Jesus hanging on a cross, gazing at them plaintively.
“Come on,” said Ophelia with a grin, “Let’s find this Simon Drew bloke and get out of here.”
As the Professor had instructed, they worked their way along the casks on the right-hand side until they saw one that said:
God’s Merciful Hand Has
Lain to Rest the Soul Of:
Simon Drew.
Professor of Ancient History.
Middenmere Parish, 1962.
Lilith picked up the cask, which was quite cold and heavy, and clutched it to her chest. “Right, got him,” she said.
Ophelia turned and the torch fell on a structure placed at the centre of the line of casks. There was an elevated section of plinth, with a cask contained within a three-sided wooden structure that looked like a small nativity crib.
“I wonder who that is,” said Ophelia.
“Someone important by the look of it.”
The wooden structure’s walls were filled with carved images of a writhing four-legged creature that Ophelia had seen before but wasn’t sure where. Then she remembered. The boy they’d talked to, the victim they had lined up, Bill, had exactly the same image tattooed on his forearm.
Lilith read the placard fixed to the cask and gasped with excitement. “Look! You’re not going to believe this.”
Both girls studied the inscription.
God’s Merciful Hand Hath
Vanquished the Blighted Soul Of:
Percy Valentine, Esq.
Lord of Brimstone Manor.
Founder of Our Ultorious Apostles.
Underwood Parish, 1872.
“It’s him! Lord Percy! From the journal!” said Ophelia.
“He must have been cursed by Og.”
“Rowena was cursed by that Victor Tainn character, right? so maybe she cursed Percy?”
Ophelia gave Lilith an excited look. “Wouldn’t he make a brilliant boyfriend?”
“What?”
“Remember what Rowena said about him in her journal? Dashing, handsome, rich, attracted to the dark side of life, friends with warlocks.”
“Well yes, she did say that, I guess. But won't he try to curse us if he’s in the grip of Og?”
Lilith had already put Simon Drew’s cask back in its place on the plinth. “We defiantly don’t want that one. He sounds like a right wimp. We need someone darker to play with.”
“But what about Professor Jareth’s instructions?”
“Oh come on! We’re supposed to be going down into a world of evil magic. He sounds about as dark as a daisy.” She picked up Percy Valentine’s cask, clutching it to her chest and grinning. “A real life Victorian Lord of the Manor! Handsome, dashing, dark and dangerous. How brilliant!”
“Well, he does sound rather sexy.”
“He’ll love having you as a witchy girlfriend and me as an evil playmate.”
Ophelia was unsure but smiled. She decided he'd not bother cursing girls who were witches already. “So dashing! So handsome!”
The girls giggled as they made their way across the gloomy cellar and up the spiral staircase. They had no idea of what they were about to unleash.
Chapter Four - A Midnight Rendezvous
If you go out walkin’ one day.
You may see the Devil comin’ your way.
Tip your hat as you do stroll.
Or else Ol’ Nick will burn your soul.
