Commitment - Predatory Ethics: Book II

by Athanasios

  The Templars had no intention of giving up their place to anybody—even Satan Himself or His followers. They were at the head of the feast far too long to vacate. With Bernhardt’s enthronement as Supreme Tribunal, the predators now oversaw the cattle. In recent years the Luciferians were mollified with their crowning of a puppet pope. Now Templar plans could go forward. Their hold on the world was only more secure from the collision between their groups more than a year before.

  The Luciferians sent Albert Pike, Supreme Tribunal Mordecai Aronovich, and a team of mercenaries for their Redeemer but failed in their mission. The Templars wanted to send the Vatican’s crusader, Father Tino Quentin, but his mission was hijacked by Hapsburg himself and given over to the Freemasons who were in line with Templar plans. The Grand Master and now Supreme Tribunal knew every faction’s agenda. He brought them all to that conflict and knew there was no way any of them would’ve been able to succeed. They were only to provide the proper amount of pain, death, blood, and souls for the Prince to confront his rebellious son.

  All the careful planning, last-minute treachery, and double- even triple-dealing went, not only to Hell, but Hell in a hand-basket on wheels. Nobody could explain how or why. Nobody came forward with insight of how their Redeemer, the AntiXos, had escaped his Fathers’ direct intervention. He was free to live as he pleased, undisturbed by Templars, Luciferians, or the Catholic Church.

  Bernhardt knew the Redeemer escaped because he was being worshiped by lunatics who committed all sorts of distasteful acts as tribute. They were wasteful, mere exhibition, and failed miserably. Hapsburg couldn’t understand these gibbering morons. The television and print news called them serial killers. They were clearly disturbed, despite the fact that most of them killed a string of people, hence the term. Many, while professing their innocence, also bragged about their kills to the One, or the Redeemer. They believed their Redeemer would come and make everything right. He would remove all the people who persecuted them for their tributes. They still didn’t understand. They were punished because they killed a number of people. No, in their eyes they were persecuted for their beliefs.

  “Well, how do they know where he is?” His question confronted Melusine Rothschild who was distracted by another conversation. They had been on the telephone for a number of minutes.

  “Emil, please shut up until I’m off the phone.” She was exasperated by a little man who kept going on about a book, his old boss, Albert Pike, believed important. “I’m sorry, Bernhardt, I didn’t hear your question completely. How does who know where he is? The Redeemer? Who are you referring to?”

  “The serial killers who are sending him trophies and sacrificing as tribute. How do they know where he is?” he asked without any hint of irritation. ‘Sine Rothschild was a very dangerous woman who could turn on you if you misspoke. Bernhardt knew this of his favorite aunt.

  “He’s the AntiXos, Bernhardt. He’s our Mecca. We know where he is at all times. He’s our sun,” she answered blandly. “If we know, I’m sure these delusional fans of his must be tied into something that’ll feed it to them.”

  “He wasn’t seen before because of Paleologos. The traitor shielded him from us. Now we don’t need to get him, we know where he is at all times.” He answered his own question while Aunt Melusine shouted another flurry of profanities at Emil who began sobbing. She ordered the spineless worm out of her sight and sighed relief in Bernhardt’s ear before she renewed their conversation.

  “Supreme Tribunal Hapsburg. What is the reason for all this then? You’re answering your own questions, where are you going with this? The Great Leviathan chose you, a Nobleman of the Thirteen Families to be the Luciferian head. You are the only one of us who has ever been given the marks of power. How do they sit on your skin?”

  Aunt ‘Sine was a true Noblewoman. She had been born into a station and position that suited her temperament and nature. The Dark Nobility ruled history and the world for millennia. She had been a premiere member for decades, and some had her alive since before Weishaupt. She was purported to have betrayed the exhibitionist fool herself because he drew too much attention to their plans. The Eternal Widow suffered fools not at all.

  She must’ve found perpetual youth somewhere for she hadn’t aged even as his temples grayed. Aunt ‘Sine outlived seven husbands, each a different member of the Thirteen Families. The unions produced children who went on to renown and owed Mother Rothschild their lives. There was no doubt she could collect on this debt if she needed.

  “I don’t feel the tattoos at all. They didn’t even bother me going on.” His answer was received without reply. She patiently waited for her nephew to answer the question posed, as to the reason for his call. “Have you ever heard anything about McGrath’s summoning chamber at the Whittier?” He finally laid his query open for view.

  “His summoning chamber? I’ve seen it. He remodeled a library to enter it. Who do you want to summon, Bernhardt? I’m already here.” The statement sent a tremor up the Supreme Tribunal’s spine.

  The dread she inspired in the most feared of the families was earned. No one could recall a time when she was not spoken of in fearful whispers. The Thirteen Families were humanity’s predators, people their cattle. The cattle had their boogeyman: Satan and his demons. The Families had a boogeywoman: Mother Rothschild, the Eternal Widow. She didn’t need demons.

  Yet Bernhardt was used to holding his own. He went on with his question. “The summoning chamber is reached through a library? Which one? There’s three.”

  “Narrow it down, nephew. I was here before Balzeer. He didn’t make it; he only recovered it.” She let the implied ownership of the mythic chamber hang over Bernhardt who gasped surprise.

  “How old is it then?” he asked.

  “A lady never reveals her age young man, and a gentleman never asks.” With her answer finished, she confirmed Bernhardt’s suspicion of the chamber’s origin. “Good luck, Nephew Hapsburg. Say hello to the Prince when you see Him.” Her chuckle was a lioness’s growl before pouncing.

  Devotees

  Time: October 31st, 1973, People’s Church, San Francisco, California, U.S.A.

  James Warren Jones was sliding on his pant leg then connecting the clasps at his waist before doing up the fly of his pants. He faced away from the woman who lay on the floor and whose dress was hiked up off her bottom. His desire for her had overtaken him when he saw her slim ankles teetering at the top of black-strapped heels.

  “I think my father is starting to suspect something,” she said fearfully as her eyes asked permission to fix up her dress.

  Reverend Jones shook his head no and let his eyes drink in the disheveled dress and ripped panties.

  “Tell him to come see me and I’ll set him straight. Don’t worry, dear. Soon we’ll all have our haven from all these persecutions.” His breath came quicker, and he knelt and began stroking her upturning bare rump.

  He needed to write to The One, who himself was persecuted and held against his will beyond the People’s Church. He wanted to ask if James’s founding a People’s Haven in Guyana was the best course to take. He got so much solace in only thinking of The One that he desperately wanted to do something for him.

  The thought stayed with him even as he brought down his pants and climbed atop the still prostrate woman who had not moved from where she was told.

  Time: October 31st, 1973, Abandoned Down Street Station, The Tube, London, England.

  The Luftwaffe air raids in WWII drove London’s citizens to the Underground. They were safe in its subway stations from the assault of German bombs that went on overhead. Forty years later, Down Street Station was still a haven from a different attack. It was ongoing since the Roman Catholic Church began enforcing its ethics on the world.

  Those finding shelter were religious refugees of faith who longed to worship without persecution. At one time, these assaults had been physical, the punishment going past corporeal into capital—death. The physical attacks had long s
ince ceased, but the open contempt of the general population around them was well short of approval. The faithful now trickling into the abandoned subway station only wanted to be left alone to follow their inner beliefs. They never openly recruited anybody. Initiates and converts came freely of their own will and were welcomed.

  These congregants were pagan. Intellectually, they reasoned their faith had been practiced well before Christianity, and they couldn’t understand the hostility most of the world held for paganism. Many saw public revulsion when it was discovered they were pagan. Some looked upon those with the courage to admit their beliefs with an empathetic pity one would a slow adult, an idiot, or moron who unconsciously shat themselves. Pathetic throwback wretch, their eyes would say. Others did not bother to hide their naked suspicion of witchcraft and trafficking with devils or some such cloven-hoofed gods. Paganism and Satanism were tangled by the Catholics from the early days of Christianity so much they could not be untangled by even most rational, modern minds.

  These then weren’t the minds that were welcomed at any of the covens hidden all over the world. They were also not welcome tonight at the Down Street Station. Those that were sought a forgotten connection to a wider consciousness and an ethic that embraced life with death and sought to go beyond desire. It sought to return to a deity that everyone forgot they naturally belonged to. They were the higher mysteries learned after years in daily ceremonial practice and observance that wasn’t that different from the more popular Christianity.

  These religious refugees were in the same Tube station that gave haven to their parents, grandparents, families and nation from the Blitz during the War. Some remembered being there as children. In the eventual modernization of the Underground some stations or portions of stations had been closed up. Down Street was forgotten years before and had lain dormant. Very little was done to Down Street’s open space for its current use. Some banners with runes and pagan symbols were hung and altars to the gods were lined with candles and incense and faithful offerings.

  The Greek Zeus was in front of Roman Jupiter, Aztec Hoitzilopochtli, Egyptian Osiris, and Norse Odin. Dionysus was in front of Bacchus, Xiuhtecuhtli, Horus, and Freyr, the Triple Goddess, Earth Mother’s Seed Giver and Consort.

  Different versions of the Triple Goddess were all about set in niches along the walls. Demeter, Athena, Aphrodite, Hera, and Artemis were shown in triple groupings. Ceres, Minerva, Diana, Juno, and Venus were similarly shown with the Egyptian Isis and Semite Balaat. Hindu Earth Mothers were in the Maiden, Mother and Crone depictions. Similarly, the Norse Nahelennia, Nerthus, Frija, and Gefion were also in threes. The Celtic Matronae echoed the Triple Goddesses around them. These places of reverence were all easily bricked up and the banners taken down to guard their secrecy.

  The dark areas sprang to muted relief as light came in with the worshipers and their torches. Most wore their daily clothes, but some were already garbed in tunics and headgear showing their higher rank. A short while later, more torches were lit and prostrations were done to their gods. All finally formed a semi-circle to watch three women atop a dais. The dais was on the platform of Down Street Station, where the train once disembarked its passengers. The three ladies looked upon their adoring congregation.

  The buzz of conversation went through the crowd as they talked with the three presiding women. The ladies were similarly dressed, with a young, mature, and old version of the same woman. A matriarchal grandmother looked at the crowd and said little, letting the younger selves respond to most of the questions. Her closest in age was patient with her responses but commanded a strict respect with her audience. The youngest of the three said more with a glance or a stare than most did with words. None spoke at the same time; all shared a single voice.

  Of those who asked the questions below them, few understood that they spoke to their deities. Their faith was not the distant belief practiced in modern times but a lost connection to the flow of life. The women on the dais were the embodiments of the goddesses, their channeled spirits, and they had come to give guidance at a time of great convulsion.

  “Where do we begin?” a short man asked. “He could be anywhere.” His question was meek and belied his barrel chest and ruddy complexion.

  “We are here to find that answer, Didier. Don’t be too anxious.”

  Didier Labreuf had stayed in England after a romance ran its course. That girl wasn’t missed since he had every woman in his Goddess. She was mother, friend, and lover all in one, and he needed none other. He learned patience and calm in her words and was grateful for it.

  “The Final Consort is imprisoned in an institution and worse in his own mind with self-guilt and regret,” the Mother Goddess answered. The Maiden Goddess finished with, “He needs our help if he is to fulfill his destiny. We must help him.”

  “How are we to do that?” a smirking, whip of a man in a smartly pressed suit answered tartly. “And where is Anicée? Who are you three?”

  Some of the higher adepts looked at the scoffing little fop, burned icy stares into him, but said nothing. They would let this imbecile kill himself with such insolence.

  Mother didn’t reply, but Maiden sighed regretfully while she brought her forefingers and thumbs together, and then moved the hands apart. Between them appeared a shining thread all could see. The skeptic’s eyes bulged and went wider still as the Maiden crept closer to the Crone who reached for the thread but was stopped by the Mother’s subtle head shake no.

  “Channeling the Goddesses is not for threats or petty squabbling theatrics,” said a voice resonant with sardonic wit that dwarfed the hyperventilating little man’s bitterness and doubt came from behind the Three. “Thank you for trying to answer everyone’s questions.” The three women all looked down, chided for their misstep of frightening the little man who only wanted to know who they were and where the high priestess who had invited him here in the first place?

  Anicée DuMonde was a tall, slight woman, the highest-ranking pagan, holy woman and intimate with the deepest mysteries of the ancient beliefs. As these beliefs matured into modern times, they had moved past the intolerance of their oldest rivals. When the Christian inquisitions and witch burnings had gripped the world, their pantheon of worship went on to embrace and include all the gods. They saw each as an expression of the individuality of every member. Similarities of the gods were then raised above their differences and used to mould the now shared faith of birth and rebirth, life and death of the Triple Goddess. The divine feminine that received the seed of life in sex, held and nurtured it in the womb, measured out this life and, in death, gave it an end.

  As the most revered of pagans, Anicée was also one who never had any desire for a Seed Giver. She also revered the feminine. In this seeming contradiction of a high priestess of a fertility religion, she never shagged for fertility. She never shagged any man.

  Her current shag was standing beside her a full foot shorter, but more feminine than Anicée could ever hope to be. Her body was lush and round, and Anicée had been exploring it for the past three months. Helen enjoyed the attention the tall, stunningly beautiful, slight blonde showered on her but did not share her lover’s complete rapture. She was a young woman who enjoyed different partners of either sex and told Anicée her distaste with monogamy at the outset of their affair.

  Despite the anxiety of sharing her with others, Anicée agreed to her demands because it meant their romance would continue. It had proven to be not as bad as she had feared. The comparison of others to Anicée’s experienced lovemaking was flattering every time Helen breathlessly said so.

  With her love beside her, she addressed the crowd further and brought all into order. Before she could go on, Didier raised his hand and was picked out from the crowd. His question was more of a statement.

  “There are signs that the time of the Storm is here. Ritual murders are being committed and they blame us.” He dropped his eyes and waited for a response.

  “That’s true. What do we do?”
a voice from the left shouted.

  “Yes, and the papers are trying to pin them on anybody. They’re even comparing them to Jack the Ripper,” someone else added.

  The Crone Goddess on the platform added her suspicions as she said, “We’ve got to be careful here tonight then, everybody. They’ll liable to tie our rituals here to the killings too if we’re not careful.”

  Anicée exhaled a breath of smoke, and her eyes warmed watching Helen. Her lover’s hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders and framed her angular features. Green eyes darted to different faces while she began the oration for the ceremony most had come to take part in that night.

  She raised her arms, calling for quiet and motioned for Helen to begin the ceremony they were all here to celebrate. Those who had given the skeptic the darkest of glances now began undressing and minutes later a large array of them were nude and dancing around the surprisingly calm and polished little man. Helen also stripped down to the luminescent body Anicée raptly watched, while she led the procession. With each turn about the man, the pageant turned more frenzied and ecstatic. The skeptic fell to the knees of his immaculately pressed trousers and with a far away voice pronounced:

  I fear to take this kinship

  For before me I see

  Blood on the moon

  The shadow of death

  This is fate and your will

  Dark in truth is the fate of Men

  But fear of the shadow is greater than itself

  For from the ashes of the fire

  The phoenix is reborn

  And out of death comes truth in our real selves.