by Gary Tenuta
Copyright © 2011 Gary Val Tenuta
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
The events and characters in this book are fictitious with the exception of the historical figure, Aleister Crowley (1875-1947).
Cover art: Gary Val Tenuta (www.bookcoversandvideos.webs.com)
Table of Contents
Dedication:
PREFACE: The Facts Behind The Story.
PROLOGUE - Part 1
PROLOGUE – Part 2
PROLOGUE – Part 3
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38: 45 Minutes Later…
CHAPTER 38: The Next Day
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40: The Next Day…
CHAPTER 40: Thirty Minutes later…
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
EPILOGUE – 1
EPILOGUE - 2
A personal note from the author:
About the author:
Dedication:
To Julie, for always being there and listening to me rant about how I was going to get over the next stumbling block in the story and for offering helpful suggestions to keep me going.
To my son, Gabriel and his wife, Mercedes, for chuckling at the right places when they read the first parts of the manuscript in its early stages.
To my Mom and Dad who would roll over in their graves if they could read this book.
Also by the author and available from amazon.com:
THE EZEKIEL CODE - A novel in paperback and on Kindle
A BITE OUT OF TIME – Award-winning short story, Kindle only
PREFACE: The Facts Behind The Story.
Let me make it crystal clear: reality is a blurry thing. So, before I begin to tell the strange and horrific present-day tale of death-metal musician, Rodney Duckworth, there are a few facts I should present without delay, facts that will help clarify the story that is about to unfold. To do so we must begin by going back in time to introduce an entirely different character, a man whom the British press once referred to as “The wickedest man in the world”. His name was Edward Alexander Crowley.
Edward Alexander Crowley, named after his father, was born into a wealthy and fanatically religious Christian family at a place called Warwickshire, England, on October 12, 1875. When young Edward would misbehave, his mother would berate him––spewing all the righteous hellfire and damnation she could muster––calling him The Beast. This was, as you may have correctly surmised, a reference to the Beast of the Apocalypse associated with the number 666 in the book of Revelation in the Holy Bible. Such a scolding was apparently the loving, Christian thing to do to the young child.
Years later, while attending Trinity College in Cambridge, Edward changed his name to Aleister. This act symbolically disengaged him from his father whom he both loved and despised (and who, by then, was long dead anyway) and, thus, the young Crowley effectively established his own unique identity. That identity, however, did not escape the influence of his mother. This was evidenced by the fact that, later in life, he would publicly refer to himself as The Beast, a title seared into the consciousness of his inner child by his mother’s scorching tongue.
Crowley was highly intelligent, cynical, sarcastically witty, and completely obsessed with the occult. His adult years were spent traveling the world, meeting and befriending––as well as making enemies of––some of the most influential literary and artistic figures of his time. During his travels he studied and learned all he could about mysticism, occultism, and ritual magick, or what some might call the Dark Arts.
For the sake of saving the reader from having to recoil in utter disgust, I shall refrain from describing some the most vile activities in which he was often engaged. Suffice to say, in his later years, he had dragged himself down into the deepest, darkest depths of depravity and would likely––with great pleasure––have plummeted even deeper, had he but discovered the means by which to do so.
Notorious for his use of narcotics, his heterosexual, bisexual, and homosexual escapades (quite often as part of his magickal rituals) and known for his lengthy, critical, and insightful writings on the nature of ritual magick, Aleister Crowley became arguably the most important figure in all of modern-day occultism. To this day Crowley’s influence continues to attract the attention of all who take an interest in such things.
Curiously, but perhaps not unexpectedly, many of those who adore, admire––and in some cases, worship––this master of mysticism, are musicians of the hard rock variety. Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones, Ozzie Osbourne, David Bowie, The Beatles, and Iron Maiden are reportedly among such luminaries. Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page even went so far as to purchase the home in which Crowley once lived. Not surprisingly then, we could––and we will––add the tortured soul of singer/guitarist Rodney Duckworth to the list. But not yet. We’d be getting ahead of our story. Before we leave Aleister Crowley––God rest his tattered soul––there is one more piece of information concerning him that is most essential to our tale.
Crowley died, financially broke and heroine addicted, at the age of 72 on December 1, 1947 in the comfort of a large estate called Netherwood on the southern coast of England. In accordance with his wishes, his body was cremated. Now, ordinarily that would be the end of it. But nothing in the life––or, apparently, even in the death––of Aleister Crowley was ordinary.
The cinerary urn containing Crowley’s ashes was sent to a man named Karl Germer in New Jersey. Germer was a wealthy German living in America. He and Crowley had been members of the Ordo Templi Orientis (OTO), an occult organization with links to the Order of the Rosicrucians. Germer became one of Crowley’s most dedicated followers. And since Crowley had a talent for squandering away whatever money he managed to scrape toge
ther, Germer helped provide him with a livable income for many years.
When Germer received Crowley’s cinerary urn he buried it on his property, in a garden, under a tall pine tree. Some time later he decided to leave his home in New Jersey and move to sunny California. He planned to take Crowley’s ashes with him and rebury them in Malibu. That plan, however, met its own strange fate and spawned a mystery that has remained unsolved until now. What became of Aleister Crowley’s ashes is a story so unbelievable it could only be true.
PROLOGUE - Part 1
December 23, 1947, New Jersey, USA
Karl Germer shivered from the bitter cold as he climbed the concrete steps to the solid oak door of his stately two-storied, brick home. He retrieved the house key from deep inside the pocket of his woolen overcoat, stomped his feet on the mat to shake the snow from his heavy boots and entered the house. He removed his coat and hung it on the rack just inside the foyer and exchanged his boots for the comfort of his old leather slippers.
He moved to the living room, put a log on the dwindling fire and was about to fix himself a brandy when there came a knock at the door. Perturbed by the interruption, he went to the door and opened it. There stood a delivery boy holding a package.
“Karl Germer?” the young man inquired.
Germer nodded.
“Package for you, sir. Christmas present, perhaps?” The young man attempted his best pleasantries in spite of his teeth chattering from the cold.
Germer grunted. Christmas was just two days away but it held no significance for him. “Doubt it,” he muttered under his heavy, dark mustache.
The young man seemed not to hear the smug response. “Sign here, please.”
Germer signed for the package and started to close the door but noticed the young man was still standing there as if waiting for something. Germer rolled his eyes and drew an impatient breath. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a silver dollar and handed it to the young man.
“Thank you, sir!” the young man chirped as he made his way down the steps. “Merry Christmas to you!”
Germer grunted again, shut the door and returned to the living room. It was only then that he noticed the return address on the package and realized instantly what had been delivered to him. He’d been expecting it, hoping it might come, but when it didn’t arrive several days earlier he wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t arrive at all. Now his whole demeanor was transformed from dour to delight, punctuated by a gleam in his eye.
He carefully peeled back the brown paper wrapping, opened the box and removed the wads of newspaper tightly packed around the cinerary urn containing the ashes of the Beast.
He removed the object from the box and held it gently, reverently, cradling it in his hands with the tenderness and care typically reserved for the handling of a newborn child. A knowing smile crept across his weathered face. “Aleister, my dear friend. You’ve arrived.”
The slick black ceramic urn was simple in form with a graceful contoured curve, almost pear shaped, narrower at the base, wider toward the top. The name, Aleister Alexander Crowley, was inscribed in an elegant script followed below by Crowley’s date of birth and the date of his passing.
There was a single adornment attached to the urn, positioned just above Crowley’s name. It was a round, ruby-like gem about the size of a half dollar. It was oddly faceted in such a manner as to produce a strange sort of geometric design the likes of which Germer had never seen. He puzzled over it momentarily, tracing the faceted pattern with his finger as if it might trigger some distant recollection, some memory of having come across such a design anywhere in his extensive experience with magickal sigils and talismans. But nothing came to mind.
With great care and a sense of excited curiosity, he lifted the lid of the urn and peered inside to see the remains of the man he’d so admired in life. But gazing down into the opening was like staring into the dark void of death itself. He could see nothing. For a moment he fantasized Crowley’s form rising, ghost-like, up and out of the container like the genie emerging from Aladdin’s lamp. I must see you one more time, Germer thought.
He tipped the urn until a few particles of ash slid toward the lip of the opening. His elation suddenly turned to melancholy as a flood of memories rose up from the depths of his past, memories of his relationship with the most unusual man he’d ever known, a man whom he was convinced could turn day into night, black into white, simply through an act of will.
Germer’s desire to touch the ash, to once again connect with the Master, was overwhelming. But dare he? A brief, intense argument ensued between his better judgment and his longing desire. Would it be sacrilege? Yes––! No––! He brought a finger toward the sacred dust but at the last moment he stayed his hand. No, he thought. The profane should not touch the sacred. With some reluctance, but knowing it was the right thing to do, he replaced the lid, closing up forever the remains of the Beast.
Tracing his finger over the strange jewel again, he nodded thoughtfully. Rest in peace, my friend.
He placed the urn atop the mantle above the fireplace and the glowing embers of the dying fire abruptly burst into fingers of flame reaching upward, desperately grasping to hold onto some tiny spark of life. Germer gasped and jumped back, momentarily stunned by the pyrotechnic display. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over, the flaming fingers shrinking to nothing and leaving naught but dead, gray ash at the bottom of the grate.
Germer released his breath, shook his head and grinned. Even in death Crowley could work his magick. “Tomorrow, my friend, we will give you a proper burial. I have the perfect place reserved for you.”
***
The next day, Christmas Eve, Germer placed the urn inside an oak wood box he had constructed weeks ago in preparation for this special occasion. A biting chill was in the air and the frozen grass crunched beneath his boots as he carried the urn and a shovel across the yard toward the garden where he would bury his friend in a perfect spot beneath a tall pine tree.
Having broken through the frozen ground, Germer dug a shallow pit and lowered into it the box containing the precious urn. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small book, tattered, dog-eared and bound in dark red leather. It was his only copy of Crowley’s eminently influential work, Liber Al Vel Legis, The Book of the Law. It was a strange and prophetic, poetic work that Crowley produced in Egypt in 1904. Crowley claimed the text had literally been dictated to him by a mysterious entity, an ethereal being, calling itself Aiwass. In effect––among other things including hints of a mysterious alphanumeric cipher––the text was an announcement of the coming of a new age beginning that year of 1904. This was to be known as the Aeon of Horus––referring to a god of the Egyptian pantheon––and Crowley was to become the appointed prophet of this New Age.
This small book was the source of one of the best-known phrases among the world’s practitioners of ritual magick:
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
This mantra formed the entire philosophy around which Crowley would conceive and implement his unique brand of magick and for which he became like a god to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. Germer knew the book by heart and could recite it word for word.
Words, magickal words––being key elements of ritual magick–– were in fact the inspiration behind Germer’s choice of what would be his final words of ceremony spoken on this special occasion.
He laid the book upon the box and covered the box with the frozen dirt. Standing over the tiny grave, on what was now hallowed ground, he recited the short and final verse from The Book Of The Law:
“The ending of the words is the word Abrahadabra. The Book of the Law is written and concealed. Aum. Ha.”
He remained standing over his friend for a few minutes in silence, lost in a sea of memories of days gone by, good and bad, joyful and horrendous, comforting and frightening, unpredictable and completely expected, familiar and strange. These were not just descriptions of the time
s spent with Crowley. He realized, just then during those solemn moments, these were reflections of the man himself. Aleister Crowley was all of these things and more. But now he was gone and, for all Germer knew, perhaps the world would soon forget about the Beast altogether. He chuckled. God knows there are plenty of people who wish they could forget him.
With that final thought, Germer picked up his shovel and returned to the house for a stiff brandy and the warmth of a roaring fire.
***
In the Spring of the following year Germer decided it was time for a change. He’d not been particularly happy living in New Jersey and had often contemplated a move to sunny California. Now was as good a time as any to do just that. Having made preparations for the move, he certainly had not forgotten his old friend still resting peacefully beneath the pine tree.
Travel plans in place, bags packed and ready to go, he grabbed a shovel from the garage and went out to dig up the box containing Crowley’s urn. His plan was to take the urn with him on the trip to Malibu, the town he’d decided would be a good place in which to settle down. There he would rebury the urn in a new plot of ground overlooking the rolling surfs of the blue Pacific Ocean.
Within moments of the first dip of the shovel into the well-thawed ground, a confused look came over his face. Where was the box? Surely he had not mistaken the sacred spot. He knew it as well as he knew the back of his own hand. Frantic now, his brow crunched into a look of frenzied confusion. What the hell?
Quickly, he dug into the ground a few inches to the left but found nothing. To the right. Nothing. Again and again, here, there, but still nothing.
Breathing heavily, his chest heaving from exhaustion, he stopped digging when, to his horror, he realized the futility of the search. He cursed the ground and heaved the shovel against the tree. His friend was gone. How or why, he could not comprehend.
Had Crowley, somehow in death, risen up and removed his own urn? What other explanation could there be? It was an insane idea and he knew it. But, in the weeks and months that followed, it was the only idea that brought him any peace and he carried that idea with him to his new home by the sea and eventually into his own grave.
