by Athanasios
The older man stood and nodded his ascent as his head dropped to his chest and he folded his arms behind his back. “Yes, it does have something to do with our investigations. Several years ago, the pontiff approached Cardinal Bae and asked him to look into the troubling reports of a priest, preying on vulnerable children. There were many reported instances, though I’m sure that many more went unreported.” Martin went on, not looking at Quentin, seemingly embarrassed by the topic. “Now, we both know this is nothing new. The abuse of the trust given to us as spiritual guides has gone on for centuries. No doubt, you’ve read about them in the codexes before you.” Quentin nodded. “Currently, the abuses are becoming more frequent and the facility, in New Mexico, can no longer cope.”
Many, in the back rooms of the Vatican knew about the center at Jemez Springs. There was also the lesser-known Seton Hospital, in Baltimore. The Pereclete treatment center had been an open secret to the closed administration of the church. Whenever a clergyman showed a few lapses in behavior, he was sent to Jemez Springs, to contemplate and pray. Some, like the Templars — Father Quentin, especially — wanted to completely do away with it and its charges. With those filthy degenerates, excommunication should’ve been the starting point, though a lasting death would’ve been his choice of penance for them. The idea of punishment through contemplation was absurd.
“Yes, your contempt for the Pereclete center is well known. Even your reaction to this shift of conversation is obvious. Yet, I mention it in order to describe a deeper problem, or a more serious explanation, about which we must be vigilant.” Martin looked directly at Quentin and continued, “I am not sure if many people know this, or even if you know this, but the degradation, the abuse and the humiliation of an innocent is central to satanic ritual. At any rate, it is integral to higher ritual. The pentagram, black candles and the like, are important, but the higher ceremonies most often include the defilement and the corruption of our own rituals.”
Quentin nodded, “Yes I’m aware of the obvious, such as the inverted cross and the opposites shown in horror films.”
Martin nodded. “That’s right, but it goes further. The corruption, the perversion and molestation are of innocence. This includes the young, sometimes even infants. Given the fact many priests are committing these profanities on children in their communities, the implications are very troubling.”
Quentin stood up in disgust. “You believe priests are committing these molestations ritually? You think they’re part of a larger corruption? To what end, Father Martin? I can’t follow; I’m lost. By committing these bestial acts, they forsake their vows. They take treason, add betrayal, and create the most unimaginable crime against creation, against life, itself. How can you remain so calm? Doesn’t this outrage and nauseate you? Are you sure of your findings, of your examinations?”
Martin let Quentin go on for some time, heatedly damning what he had been told. He knew the Templar would have to come to terms with these revelations, just as he had done. “I am as sickened as you, Father Quentin, but I have had time to deal with it. Additionally, I placed this within the framework of a larger plot, which made it vital to distance my emotions.” Martin took a deep breath, “I am not pleased to tell you any of this, though I am less desolate, knowing that we are no longer alone in our task.”
After Martin finished speaking, Quentin was silent for some time. Though Martin wanted to continue, he decided that it was better if Father Quentin contributed to the conversation.
“All this is tied together with the birth, isn’t it? They were preparing for his arrival, and now they’re in disarray.
Martin was specific with his next words. “Father Quentin, there is a final thing I must impart. Don’t count on your authority as Seneschal to keep order in your ranks. Those below, as well as above you, may be compromised.” Quentin was outraged and attempted to splutter a reply, but was silenced by Martin’s hand.
“I do not mean any disrespect. I don’t mean that anyone in your ranks is subverting the holy church for Lucifer, but they may tell someone who is, without knowing their affiliation. With this task, the utmost discretion must be exercised. Do you agree?” Quentin easily agreed and Martin continued. “There are those, within our ranks, who don’t even know about the Templars. The world, at large, believes the order died in 1312. Since the beginning of this century, the church automatically excommunicates any Freemason, the dim remnant of your order.”
Quentin nodded his head and agreed, “Yes, you are right. I was outraged at your implications. I’m sorry. You’re right; we exist in the past, and with the masons, are but a shadow of who we once were. They’ve been watched closely, but so far, there is nothing, save for pomp and posturing evident at the levels we’ve penetrated. You never know to whom you may be speaking, so, yes, at this point, discretion is the rule to follow.”
Martin lifted his arms and gestured about him, at the miles of shelving amongst which they sat. “Hence, our own audience chamber, more discreet than the Vatican Secret Archives, and the most guarded of the Vatican secrets, the Templars. I know I am being as discreet as I can possibly be, and am sure you will be, as well.”
“There is a favor I would ask of you, Father Martin. I have known you to be a scholar, but I am only one out of necessity; my true skill is in the field. I must go and move the Apostolic Penitentiary and the Secretary of State to send a team to deal with what we just spoke about.”
“Though the Luciferians are in disarray they will never give up trying to find their Redeemer. We must stop that from happening, and if we can find the child, remove him ourselves.” As he continued, Quentin saw affirmation in Martin’s eyes. “With these texts, I was gaining more insight about his nature.” He indicated the codexes, in which he had been immersed at the beginning of their tumultuous discussion. “Would you continue to read?”
“My good Father, I would be happy to, but what am I looking for?” As he sat down, Martin was already in the process of turning the books to face him.
“With your knowledge, you will know what it is when you come to it. I was not sure until I opened them myself. God guided my hand in selecting these seemingly unrelated texts, and he will guide your eyes in finding what you, and we, will need to squash this oldest evil, our most despised of enemies.” As he spoke, Quentin turned and walked away.
“I will do what I can, Quentin. Godspeed with your task.” Martin knew the battle he must wage in order to get what he needed to make the fight across the Atlantic.
- Meet The New Boss -
TIME: MARCH 16TH, 1963. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, USA
Mordecai sat in a chair, wincing as the last of the ink was applied to his body. He assumed the role that Balzeer McGrath once occupied, and receiving the marks was a required part of the position. Without appointment, different artists came to Whittier Mansion and applied each of the marks of power. They only presented a letter and preceded to weave the patterns, which every master had worn since the church began. They went to Mordecai, alone, wouldn’t speak to anyone else, repeating his name.
Mordecai said nothing as the last artist finished and folded up his instruments. The master did not deign to thank those who showed allegiance. Allegiance was given with their breath, or taken, if not willingly given. He didn’t have time to talk to anyone, save the people whom he sent to find their treasonous savior.
He pulled on his black robe and tied the sash as he walked to his desk, crowded with telephones. He winced as the designs, recently applied to his body, quarreled with the air around them. They were patterns, forbidden to all but the ruling head of the Church of the Lightbringer, the first-born Son of God. Individually, variations of each were from profane rituals, summoning war, famine, pestilence, disaster and death. Mordecai, McGrath and the antipopes before them had worn these profane, forbidden signs and never told anyone of their weight and difficulty.
They shifted and moved around their fleshy, earthly prisons. They did not want to be in the
air, on the earth and inscribed upon human skin. These marks were intended only for native skin from the brimstone rings of hell. They were a constant irritant, with which Mordecai must learn to deal.
The desk, before which he sat, was the same desk on which McGrath died. He demanded that none of the gore be cleaned. He preferred to sit among the remains of his former master. He thought it fitting, though he never shared this thought with anyone else. His days of sharing died with his little Greek, Haggios.
Lifting the first receiver, he had no need to dial. The connection was not magical, but a direct line to the sister chapel in South Carolina. Every phone on his desk was hooked into another at each contact point Mordecai had dictated. The logistics involved with connecting all of them in such a short time was phenomenal, but the threat of death, as well as promises of unheard of wealth, were incredible motivators. By simply lifting a receiver, the other end rang. Upon pain of death, and worse, there was always someone available to answer the calls.
To anyone else, each of the phones appeared black, plain and indistinguishable from each other, but Mordecai knew to what location each phone was connected. Their placement could not be altered, as they were all bolted into place. There was one for each major chapter house in the world, and several for their people in Catholic dioceses, spread throughout the Weakling’s Church. There were others, yet to be added, as connections and infiltrations were established.
Many would be assigned to mercenaries and governments, willing to do anything for the right price. Still others were for organizations with amiable faces, but under Luciferian control. To be sure, the church was in disarray, but only because of McGrath’s old methods of supernatural reliance. The chamber where he left Mossy, as well as all the other fuel for his machinations was lost. Only Balzeer knew how to access it. Each of those souls would die with him, except Mossy, who would linger, in accordance with his punishment. Mordecai smiled at that. A lingering death spanning years was just reward.
Mordecai’s methods relied on man’s most basic and powerful desires: greed and fear. Most of the people he used were paid, never knowing from whom their payment was received. Others exhausted their monetary needs. These individuals — and possibly even their loved ones — were threatened with bodily harm, if not death.
Those motivators had been in place since before civilization and were universally used by many of the church’s unwitting errants: governments, banks, military, criminal organizations and businesses. Most never even knew they advanced the Luciferian cause. Some did, but they didn’t care; wealth and position was sufficient to quell any moral pangs.
Mordecai waited three rings before he heard a response on the other end. Before he became Grand Master, this delay would’ve infuriated him, but now, he simply decided to remember it, in case it occurred too often. If such were the case, no reprimand would follow, simply swift removal.
“Yes, how may I serve you, and in serving, bring closer the age of the Prince?” The voice was that of a youth, unaware of that which he invoked.
“Get me the Bishop, child. I want to speak to Leo.” Mordecai waited a few seconds before he heard a hurried rasp of breath on the other end of the line. This was good; the bishop of South Carolina waited for permission to speak. That chapel had long been in competition with San Francisco for the position of mother chapel of North America. Both were, at different times, second and third only to Milan — the closest chapel to the Weakling’s Citadel. “Leo, you have doubtless heard of Balzeer’s death. His direction shall be missed.”
Leo exhaled slowly and sounded as though he was seething, resenting the fact that he must prostrate himself to this faggot and posturing pretender to the throne — a throne that should’ve been his. Leo did not know why the Artists of Ascension had not come to his door, or why the Prince’s servants didn’t give him the mantel of temporal power, but he was forced to swallow his monumental pride and do as he was bidden.
“Yes, he will be missed. Hail to the new Supreme Tribunal. What is your will of me? Ask and I will obey.”
“Yes, Leo, I know that you are a genuine servant of the Prince and I know that you wanted to be the new Supreme Tribunal, but I am heartened to see that you can control your personal disgust and continue with what we must do. Our problem is that the Prince’s only son, the Sangrael of the Cosmic Dawn, is lost to us.” Leo heard genuine pain in Mordecai’s voice.
“Yes, it’s very troubling that he’s involved with the one who attacked our chapel and killed Balzeer. Why would he do this? Did you see him?” Leo wanted to learn all he could about their savior.
“No, I didn’t, and I believe that if I had, I would not have been spared either. Any high-ranking servitor of the San Franciscan Phalanx the abductor came across was killed without hesitation. We do have some audio recordings of the torture and murder of the grand master,” Mordecai muttered.
Leo’s next exclamation was like that of a child, begging for candy. “You have the voice of our savior? Have you listened to it? What does he say? Can you send me a copy? I beg of you; I would do anything to hear his voice.”
“Yes, I have heard it. I don’t know if it would do any good if you listened to it. The child is older than we imagined. Even if he had been born on the date prophesied, he would only be a year old, though he sounds like he is seven or eight. This cannot be him. This child is too mature to have been born only last February.”
“Can you send me a copy, your Excellency? Whatever the circumstances, He is still our messiah. I implore you, send me his voice and I would be forever indebted to you.” Leo was now begging with fervor, unlike anything Mordecai ever encountered.
“Very well, Leo, I will send you this and will hold you to your promise. Now, to the business of this call…” Mordecai was cut off by Leo’s wet happiness.
“Oh, thank you, your Excellency. Your predecessor never showed such a kindness. Thanks and blessings upon you, Supreme Tribunal. Thanks and blessing for all that you desire.”
“Enough! Leo, get a hold of yourself! I tell you now, however, this will not be the gift it seems. The savior is not pleased with us. He is not following his path and you will be disappointed with the recordings. However, you will understand this better when you hear it for yourself.”
Mordecai continued, “Now, listen carefully. I want you to go to your people in the Freemasons. The man who has caused so much damage to us had all the trappings and iron will of a Templar. Those whom he left alive all describe him as a Holy Knight.”
“A Templar? That’s impossible; they’re only a memory, Excellency. The Masons are all who’re left, and they’re rich, middle-aged men who like to pretend knighthood and the camaraderie of their own kind. Whomever told you that is mad.” Leo scoffed at Mordecai’s words, though the Grand Master brought him up short.
“They are not a figment of imagination, bishop! Indeed, they are real, and as far as I can see from here, where we lost more than two-dozen members, he has struck our very soul. The Templars did not die out in 1312, fool. They have endured under the protection of the Petrine Office and have been the cause of most of our failures.”
“If they have our savior, then why is he still alive?” Leo’s question was as quick as it was perceptive. “The man whom you describe needn’t be a Templar. He could be military, CIA, MI-6, or even Mossad.”
“Bishop, you’ve been watching James Bond too often. However, the point was well made. It cannot be the Templars, or else they would’ve killed him by now.” Mordecai continued to play dumb, attempting to elicit Leo’s analysis of the situation.
“You’re serious about the Templars, your Excellency? They did not die with de Molay, but remain?” Leo spoke, but barely above a whisper.
“Why are you whispering, bishop? Are you afraid that they’ll hear? Yes, they’re real and they put the rest of those amateurs you mentioned — CIA, MI-6 and their celebrity golden boy, James Bond — to shame. Just as in the middle ages, they answer to no one.” Mordecai was losing his patie
nce, detailing that which should have been obvious to the South Carolinian bishop.
“Well, that’s not true. In the middle ages, they answered to the Citadel’s Keeper. Their power was at his discretion. Is this not still the case?” As a professor of medieval history, Leo knew his facts.
“Well noted, Leo. Indeed, you are right again. Now that we are sure that this man cannot be a Templar, what are our options, considering that he has our savior and that he has manipulated him into renouncing his birthright?” Mordecai’s query was met with silence. “Leo, do you have any further insight?”
“We are all sure the boy was born on the prophesied date, correct? In addition, we know he was not born at the prophesied location, because the Prince’s Ceremony of Darkness and Fire, with the sacrifices, or the waiting Supreme Victim, was sufficient to lure him to his intended place of birth. We know who took him, though we don’t know how or where,” Leo surmised and then continued. “According to your own words, Supreme Tribunal, we know very little. It is foolhardy to proceed from here without further information. Is there anyone still alive who can describe the man?”
“Yes, there are a few who saw the man and they are being summoned now. I’ll call you back when I know more.” Mordecai hung up and rose from his desk as three bleary-eyed kitchen workers were brought in and directed to sit in wing-backed chairs, facing him.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m sorry to have roused you from your sleep.” Mordecai glanced at each of them before he continued. “Do you know who I am?”
