by Richard Long
“Ultimately, it was a failure,” he finally said, gazing sadly at the books on my shelves like they might crumble into dust as he spoke. “The master/disciple model should have been the most effective medium for the sacred transmission. The culture was celibate, monastic, vegetarian—no distractions or temptations, no bloodshed, nothing to stand in the way of their single-minded dedication to the Great Work and the preservation of the knowing.”
The Great Work…alchemy. “Tell me about the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“That is a subject that exceeds the scope of a casual fireside chat,” he said with an impatient wave. “Focus on the topic at hand. Why didn’t the master/disciple model work?”
I had to think about it, but eventually I came up with a good enough answer to earn me a lung-collapsing slap on the back. “Jealousy and ambition. There’s only one master and one successor out of all the disciples, which leaves a lot of pissed off also-rans.”
“Indeed! (slap!) Hence all the make-my-own-religion separatists.”
“So if that system didn’t work, what took its place?”
“Your turn again, Billy.”
After much grinding of gears, I said, “Okay, it’s an enormous responsibility. Requires complete commitment. A fanatical sense of duty. An even stronger appreciation of your heritage and your role in the lineage. So it had to be dynastic…a bloodline succession.”
“Ha! I can see you’ve been taking your vitamins. Blood is thicker than water. The heir is raised from birth knowing where his ultimate duty lies. And should the chosen one lose his footing, there’s plenty of kinfolk waiting in the wings to take his place.”
“But wait a second, you still have the same problems…jealousy, ambition…”
“…competition…” Paul added happily. “But now the problems aren’t problems anymore…they’re assets.”
“Huh?” I queried astutely.
“Think about it,” he said, with less of a scolding tone than I expected. “When disciples are thwarted in their ambitions, their resentment turns into a ‘Feck you, Master, I always knew you were a feckin’ idiot!’ attitude. Then they go rogue and twist all the teachings around so they can put their ego-fueled, ‘new, improved’ stamp on it. In a monarchal succession, the One Truth is the King’s most fiercely guarded treasure. The teachings are sacrosanct. His knowing consecrates his divine right to claim the throne of power. Even though many competing factions may vie for supremacy, their thirst for power only strengthens the value of the one, unimpeachable doctrine. Only the Keeper of the Grail can wear the crown. All the wannabes, including other heirs to the royal bloodline, may fight for it, betray each other, duel to the death, but the result is always the same—as it is in every aspect of nature. The strongest, most clever and ambitious candidate will always prevail, regardless if he’s the chosen heir. If he can take the scepter, if he has the sack to hold on to it in the face of all opposition, his claim is legitimized. Survival of the fittest. Thus the continuation of the line and the preservation of the Truth is assured with Darwinian certainty.”
“But Hermeticism is all about a higher purpose…the Great Work. What you’re talking about is just a dog-eat-dog, winner-take-all feudal society where the ultimate prize is the right to sit on the throne. How can that be considered remotely spiritual?”
“I never said it was remotely spiritual. It’s practical, pragmatic and necessary. Is it spiritual when a lion fells an antelope? When a praying mantis eats its mate? This is the natural order of things. In the grand scheme the only thing that matters is the ultimate prize—which I can assure you does not involve sitting on any earthly throne.”
That threw me for a loop. “And so the ultimate prize is…?”
“A million light years beyond your reach at the moment.” Paul laughed. “You’ll never understand what I’m saying ‘til you make your own commitment —so how about a little entertainment, instead? Let’s have a look at your cabinet, Dr. Caligari. Pull out your suitcase. I could use a good laugh.”
I didn’t bother asking how he knew about the suitcase. I didn’t hesitate to pull it out. What the fuck, right? One thing I knew for sure, he wasn’t going to run away, no matter what I showed him. If he did, so much the better.
“This is attractive,” he said, trying on a necklace of human ears. “How do I look?”
Fucking scary. I didn’t say that. I didn’t say much of anything as we rummaged through the contents. He laughed louder with every item I displayed. I thought he was going to start rolling on the floor. I have to say it felt really good to share my dirty secrets with someone who would never judge me harshly—because he was so fucking evil that this was all a big joke. His joy was so contagious I started laughing too. Then I discovered the real reason he asked for a presentation. A little box wrapped in gold paper with a red bow. I stopped laughing instantly.
There was a severed toe inside.
“Sorry I missed your birthday, but better late than never.”
“Does this belong to anyone I know?”
“In truth, no. But according to a recent update on your Billy the Kid profile page, it belonged to a poor innocent girl you met in a bar last week.”
I almost shit myself. It had been so incredibly easy for them to plant this in my apartment, even though I’d barely gone out all week. A perfect gift-wrapped reminder of what will happen to me if I ever cross them. I’m trapped. If I try to fuck with them in any way, there’d be plenty more “evidence” scattered around my apartment or made instantly available to the authorities. I was about to launch into a rant at him, when he made an off-the-wall segue that did an excellent job of shutting my mouth.
“By the by, you missed your cue back there to ask the most important question of our lesson today: What royal family took over the Hermetic succession?”
“And that would be…?”
“Mine, of course,” he answered without a trace of his usual smile.
“Let me get this straight: You, who has a serial killer website, who is blackmailing me into killing an innocent girl…you are the heir to the Hermetic bloodline? You are the guardian of the truth?”
“First of all, she’s not innocent. None of us are. All your moral quibbles have nothing whatsoever to do with the will of the Intelligence. Secondly, I’m not the heir to the bloodline. I’m king of the ruling clan…Clan Kelly.”
I got such a jolt when he said that, like all my brain synapses ignited trying to make the necessary connections to some part of my memory that refused to yield its secrets. I had never heard him or The Striker mention his last name, but I knew what he was going to say after seeing all the killers named Kelly on his website.
“Clan O’Ceallaigh reaches all the way back to the Milesian kings and farther still…to the dawn,” he announced, puffing with pride. “And you, dear boy, share the same noble blood.”
“Me?” I asked, my legs suddenly wobbly.
“Do you think I just picked your name out of a hat, or decided your morbid taste in tchotchkes made you a suitable candidate for blackmail? You are a Kelly. As am I.”
He gave me a funny look when he said that, like he was trying to draw something out of me. “My name is William Cleary,” I said tersely, “sorry to disappoint you.”
“You mean O’Cle’irigh, don’t you?” he replied, using the Gaelic pronunciation. “Are you aware that O’Cleary was the first fixed surname in all of Europe? Written references to the name date back to 850 CE,” he announced. “Impressive, aye? For your mommy, not for you. Your true surname is Kelly.”
“I never knew my father,” I said, looking at him with a wince. Please. No. No. No.
“Well I did, and he was a full-fledged cunt, I can tell you that. Nevertheless, we share the same blood and it’s blood that will set you free, my boy.”
I bent over, sighing with relief. He laughed so loudly it shocked me upright again.
“Well, thanks for the sneaky peek at your sinful collection, Billy,” he said, rising from the chair.
“It’s quite impressive, though I prefer your Hermetica. I know you’ve been putting off your implants, so I’ll be expecting you tomorrow. Don’t procrastinate or the police will find another present in your suitcase. In the meantime, you don’t mind if I borrow your Rosy Cross for a little bedside reading, do you? I haven’t read it in such a long, long time.”
I heard a low murmur circulate through the crowd behind me, then a lower, deeper cough. “He don’t look like much,” the coughing man said in a grating hack that didn’t sound much different. “Are you sure he’s a Kelly, Loren?”
Loren? The Striker’s name was Loren? The shock of hearing his real first name was somewhat diluted by the disorienting experience of hearing my true surname uttered aloud for the very first time in public. Kelly. William Kelly. I didn’t have time to dwell on the matter. The crowd was parting to make way for the cougher as he swaggered closer to me. I kept my eyes fixed on The Striker’s reflection, acting as if I didn’t hear him, but it wasn’t much use. He was right behind us, tall and extremely muscular, with snow-white hair and a neatly trimmed jet-black mustache. He had the look of a military officer, or at least the bearing of one, though he was dressed more like a grunt, with rumpled green trousers and a tight khaki T-shirt that made his overdeveloped pecs bulge like he had stuffed a pair of porterhouse steaks inside. His arms were bulging with sinuous muscles and snaked with veins that were so gross and distended that his biceps looked like a worm farm.
Sniff. Sniff. Oh, God. He actually started sniffing the nape of my neck.
“Wait, what’s this?” he gasped, glancing from me to Loren with a malevolent grin. “It’s not a ‘he’ after all! I didn’t know the Kellys were raising breeders again after all these years. Did you bring him in here for recreational purposes, Ole Snake Eyes? I know you don’t frequent our modest establishment quite so often, now that your schedule is so full, running errands for your glorious Master. Nonetheless, I assume you’re still aware this is a men’s club, not a place for little Nancy boys to sip their Shirley Temples before heading off to the men’s room for some glory hole action.”
I tried to make a break for the door when he clamped his hand on my shoulder so fucking hard I wondered if he dislocated it. Then I looked at his hand. His hand was black. Black as midnight in a cave. It wasn’t a tattoo, I could see that right away, and it wasn’t a birthmark, because the blackness extended only to his wrist in such an evenly demarcated line that I would have thought he was wearing a glove were it not for the wrinkles on his knuckles.
“Where you going, darlin?” asked the black-hand man, his voice dripping with malice. “I was going to drop a quarter in the jukebox so we can snuggle up for some slooow dancing.”
I was about to totally lose it when I noticed that the thus-far silent spectators were forming two clench-fisted camps, one group in a ring behind me and The Striker, the other clique queuing up behind Blacky, who seemed as unfazed by all the activity as he was delighted by the clammy look of fear in my eyes.
“Are you fully prepared to place this large a wager?” The Striker cut in dryly, never looking away from the reflection of his own drooping eyes in the mirror. “You must surely be aware that ‘the Master,’ as you so eloquently phrased it, has entrusted me with his safety. And regardless of my feelings in the matter, which reflect your own sentiments much too closely for the responsibilities I’m obligated to shoulder, I will break every bone in that sadly discolored hand of yours and then happily disembowel you and every other member of your mongrel clan if you don’t evacuate the premises in the next fifteen seconds.”
Which, quite surprisingly, they wordlessly did…though it only took them thirteen.
“Have another, Mr. Kelly?” the pockmark-ridden bartender asked, pointing at my empty vodka and grapefruit. I was grateful for the question and the refill. No one else said a word to me after Blacky and his crew shuffled out, shooting glares in my direction with every other step, though not one of them dared look at Loren. He wasn’t talking to me either. Why had we come here? To soak up the atmosphere?
“You don’t seem surprised that he took a hike,” I asked, breaking the silence. “Does everybody do what you tell them?”
“Just the sensible ones,” he said, refusing to make direct eye contact.
“Why are we here?”
“You’re feeling trapped, aren’t you?” he whispered, finally turning in my direction. “You see so much, but you don’t know what to do.”
I didn’t speak, didn’t nod. He was looking inside me.
“The Master has entrusted you with an enormous responsibility, yet he has given you neither the training nor the resources necessary to ensure the required outcome. He knows the power lying dormant within you and the darkness he seeks to awaken. His plan is a sound one. It should have been simple enough—it still should be simple enough, and he believes you will come to your true self in time to succeed. But I harbor no such delusions. Without assistance, you will fail. In doing so, you will jeopardize everything we have fought so long to attain. He wants all the pieces to fit together, but he has taken enormous risks in doing so. He is old and his powers are weak.”
“Weak? Are you kidding?” I asked too loudly. A dozen heads turned.
“Be quiet, you fool,” he hissed, glaring at the eavesdroppers with a blood-curdling snarl. They all snapped their heads away at the same time. He went back to staring in the mirror for a long time, then whispered, “You’ve never witnessed his full capabilities, but I have. Many, many times.”
I waited for him to say something more, to get to the point so I could get the fuck out of there, but he kept staring into the mirror. I opened my mouth to ask another question. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, nudging his chin at the smoky glass. I glanced behind, watching all the creeps milling around, talking in whispers. Looking at me like nobody ever looked at me before. With respect. With fear?
I turned my head and gazed with him into the vastness. There was so much to see.
I saw Martin and Rose walk up the steps of The Plaza Hotel. I saw Paul dump his bike on the curb across the street and follow them inside. I saw Martin slip his key card into the door of the honeymoon suite. Saw Rose follow him into the room. I saw it all from my stool, wincing at the dangers neither of them could see. I closed my eyes and saw even more terrible things, but when I opened them, I saw what I knew I’d see from the instant I stepped into the cigarette-stained air of the most aptly named bar in the universe. I saw Paul staring right back at me, his eyes rolled backwards in his head. He was smiling. Beckoning me to join him.
I didn’t heed his call. I left that awful place without another word to The Striker, but I knew why he had brought me there. He wanted me to see all the vultures waiting in the wings should the Great King fall. Wanted me to witness the power he held over them, to see the ease with which he could protect me, to know the real truth of my circumstances.
Paul was vulnerable. And Loren could help.
The room was more beautiful than Rose had imagined. The sheets were softer than any Martin had felt. Except his own, of course.
“What are you thinking about?” Rose asked, needing to talk. Needing him to talk.
“Luck,” Martin said, after another uncomfortable pause.
“Good or bad?” she asked, sitting next to him on the bed.
He looked in her eyes for the first time since the taxi and said, “Good, I think.”
“Does that mean we’re safe now?” she asked with a guarded hopefulness that hurt Martin more than the nail or the bullet or the sutures.
Pause. “Yeah,” he lied, “we’re safe.”
“Martin, what’s going on here?” she asked, her frown rolling in like an undertow. “Who the hell is Paul? What’s the story with you two?”
The story. Martin shuddered at the mention of it.
“I can’t tell you,” he said, turning his head.
“Martin, he wanted to kill us. I deserve to know.”
“If he reall
y wanted to kill us, he would have.”
“Are you guys mercs…or in some kind of mob? Are you…a hit man?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Listen, mister, I took some pretty big risks with you…”
“I know that. That’s why I told you to go home. I don’t want you to be part of this.”
“Part of what? Martin, I need to know. I’m…with you.”
“You don’t need to know. You don’t want to know. If you don’t know anything, maybe I can protect you. You want me to protect you, right?”
“Yes. I want that very much.”
They settled back into silence again.
“So what’s the plan?” Rose asked, after another long minute passed.
“Relax. Lay low,” he answered, glad to be telling the truth again, or at least part of it.
“Okay.” Rose nodded, forcing a smile, placing her hand on his thigh.
Martin nodded back, his cock rising like a movie crane. Rose wanted to feel the lump, but wanted to keep talking even more. “Why do you think we’re lucky?” she pressed.
Another pause. “Martin, I need you to talk to me.”
Martin let out his own big sigh and finally said, “We’re lucky because we’re alive.”
Rose wanted him to say more. Wanted him to tell her everything—about Paul, about Michael, about the gold and the guns and the stuffed dog and the pillow in his shopping bag. She wanted to ask him about all those things, but his earlier warning and the poignant sadness in his voice made her think about her father, instead…and her mother.
Yes, it was good to be alive. It was good to be here together. Now the quiet between them didn’t bother her as much. It felt almost calming. Respectful. The door was less than twenty feet away from this glorious bed. There wasn’t any lock on the inside. Nothing was holding her here. Nothing except…
She stopped thinking and kissed Martin softly on the lips, nodding to him with a lump in her throat that matched the one in his pants.
