by Devon De'Ath
Bill looked up and down the street. “Seems peaceful enough.”
“That’s the way my friend likes it. Raven’s not a city person.” Vicky checked her watch. “I’d guess she’s packed up by now. She often closes an hour early if the weather’s fine and business is slow.”
Bill set off with her down the road. “Could business be anything but slow in a place like this? How does she stay afloat?”
“Internet orders comprise three-quarters of her trade. She mixes remedies on-site at the shop and sends out inventory from there. You’d be surprised how popular her place is with the locals, though.”
“People seeking natural alternatives to manufactured drugs?” Bill asked.
“That’s it. She produces hand cream and bath oils too, so it’s not all medicinal.”
Vicky turned off the main street. She followed a remembered route from her last visit, to a compact but attractive end of terrace cottage. The road faded into a track out onto farmland here, beyond a five-bar gate.
Bill noticed tie-dyed purple curtains adorning the windows. A shiny black cat leapt onto the sill, afternoon sunlight reflecting in a sheen from its luxuriant fur. It stared back at him with striking green eyes like fiery emeralds.
Vicky tapped the glass with affectionate fingers. “It’s Morpheus.” She spoke at the window. “Hello, fella.”
Bill coughed. “Morpheus? Right. I’d have guessed: Merlin.”
Vicky frowned. “Bill, play nice.”
Bill held up his hands in surrender.
Vicky was about to knock when the squat front door, with its quaint frame out of true, shot open. A petite woman around Vicky’s age fixed her visitors with a confident, ebony stare enhanced by heavy black eyeshadow. At a mere four inches over five feet, she oozed wild beauty and pagan power in a diminutive vessel of clay. Straight black hair with an off-centre part tickled alabaster shoulders. These led to a stick-thin waist redolent of someone wearing a corset. A tight, lacy black bodice, thinning to see-through gossamer net, revealed modest dark underwear like shorts. Black, lace-up stockings completed her seductive, Gothic-inspired ensemble. The two women watched each other for a split second, before the homeowner reached up to throw both arms around Vicky.
“I’ve been so worried.” She pulled pack to clamp her palms on either side of Vicky’s cheeks. “The drugs-related murder of a Kent detective has been all over the news. Police are looking for you and this guy everywhere.”
Vicky wiped an involuntary tear from her left cheek with one hand, as the shorter woman let go. “This is Bill Rutherford. We’ve been framed, Raven.”
Raven tutted. “Of course you have. You don’t think for one minute that I believed those stories, do you?”
“No.”
“You’d better come inside.” She stepped out the way to allow them access to her home.
Vicky and Bill entered the property. Thin, black beams clung to a low ceiling. A heavy stone inglenook filled one wall of the primary living area. An open doorway led off to a kitchen out back, featuring a steep, winding staircase. The fading aroma of sandalwood incense blended with fresh air blowing through from a garden at the rear.
Morpheus hopped down from the windowsill to rub himself around Vicky’s legs. She reached to stroke the animal. Every caress required a mammoth strain to keep her rising wave of emotional turmoil from spilling over. Seeing Raven and Morpheus again reminded Vicky how much the cult had taken from her.
Raven closed her front door then offered her old friend a sympathetic pout. “I’m so sorry about Chuckles. I know I said it on the phone, but that’s not the same as in person.” She waved to her cat. “Go on, pick him up and have a cuddle. You know he likes that.”
Vicky complied. She held Morpheus close to her breast.
Bill snickered at the sight of a besom broom leaning against the hearth.
Raven raised an eyebrow. “Something funny?”
Bill coughed. “It’s the whole ‘Raven,’ black cat, witches broom thing…” His voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, I’ve never believed in all this stuff.”
Raven crossed her arms. “How about when your camera caught fire?”
Bill gritted his teeth.
Raven went on. “That’s right. Vicky told me. It was the last time we spoke, the night after you came home to find her house ransacked.”
Bill sighed. His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“You’re the private DICK?” Raven asked. “If we’re playing with stereotypes, shouldn’t you wear a trench coat and talk like Humphrey Bogart? I don’t think you’re immune from scrutiny in the alternative lifestyle stakes. That’s a broom. I use it to sweep the floor. And I’ve always liked black cats. Ever since I was a girl, okay?”
Bill huffed. Raven bit back with teeth disproportionate to his initial jibe. It caused his hackles to rise. “I find it odd we’re fighting against devil worshippers and then show up at the home of-”
“Dick-head.” Raven cut him off.
Bill blinked. “Excuse me?”
Raven shook her head at Vicky. “Please tell me you keep putting up with this guy because he’s got a nice arse?”
Vicky laughed. “Nothing like that. If it weren’t for Bill, I’d be in police custody by now, charged with murder.” She let Morpheus scamper off into the kitchen.
Bill flushed.
Raven froze him with a forceful glare. “I haven’t time to explain the difference between those who invoke or worship demons and low spirits, and a village ‘wise woman.’ And with you, I imagine that would take hours. Reason this out, genius: After everything Vicky’s been through - and I know you’re aware of her childhood - do you think she’d be best friends with someone into the same shit as your enemies? Would she seek refuge with one?”
Bill hung his head and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and frustrated. Here I am on your doorstep needing sanctuary, and I’ve offended you.”
Raven gripped one of his buttocks with rapid, sudden force, like a striking serpent. She gave it a cheeky pinch.
Bill jumped so hard he almost smacked his head on the low ceiling beams.
Raven helped Vicky remove her backpack. She cast a fake, demure glance back across one shoulder at Bill. “Now we’re even. Get your kit off.” She caught the look of surprise and semi-panic on his face. A sly smile flickered across her lips. “I’m talking about your pack and coat.”
Vicky sank onto a two-seater sofa opposite the inglenook. “We’ve been sleeping in a tent for the last three nights. An acquaintance of Bill’s drove us out of Maidstone to London. We spent the first night in Greenwich Park, then visited a historian at Temple Church. They’d suffered the same vandalism at the hands of our ritual pilgrim. Identical to Dover and Strood. Professor Faust, the historian, gave us a map and addresses for other Templar sites. In Essex we caught sight of the hooded figure again. Bill took a snap of his car. At Royston Cave he fitted a GPS tracker to it, while the menace was doing his thing inside. We checked, afterwards. I’m sure those caves are haunted. It freaked me out. Our pilgrim hit an old church in Hatfield, later the same night. That’s where we’ve come from.” The story tumbled out in one long stream, Vicky not pausing for breath.
Raven pointed at the sofa, then stowed Bill’s pack and holdall alongside Vicky’s gear in one corner of the room. Bill sat down. Raven touched Vicky’s shoulder for an instant. “I’ll put the kettle on. Some camomile tea will do your nerves a power of good.”
Ten minutes later, all three sipped on a refreshing brew. Bill fetched his palm-sized camera from the holdall to show Raven their most recent pictures.
Raven sat in a chair opposite the sofa. She flicked from shot to shot on the camera’s small rear screen. “I had my suspicions when Vicky sent me the first photo. This confirms it.”
“Confirms what?” Bill sat back down.
“This symbol is a sigil. The fact your robed quarry ejaculates over them afterwards, underscores that assumption.”
Vicky leaned forward. “What’s a sigil?”
Raven passed the camera back to Bill. “A sigil is an emblem representing significant meaning to its creator. They’re designed to encapsulate specific, desired outcomes. These days, even mainstream ‘manifestation’ and ‘law of attraction’ types use them. They’re often formed by creating an intention statement and converting it to a symbol for magical purposes. It’s odd that this powerful cult would employ chaos magic.”
“Chaos magic?” Bill repeated the term.
“Chaos magic is a less powerful form. It’s used for smaller things: boosting your confidence, getting a pay rise at work, meeting someone new.”
“If this monk is squirting his junk all over church walls, he might want to meet someone new.” Bill relaxed again.
Raven exchanged looks with Vicky.
Vicky sniffed. “He likes to ease tension with digs and humour. So, tell us more about sigils.”
Raven sipped her tea, cup in both hands. “Chaos magic is about affecting change outside of any morality or belief system. With sigils, most people write out their intention in the present tense. Next they cross out the vowels and repeated letters and shape them together inside a circle. The result is a cryptic emblem activated through focused energy. Sex magic is a classic example of one such activation method, hence the masturbatory emissions you found. Afterwards the sigil is destroyed.”
“But the symbol our guy paints isn’t contained within a circle,” Vicky said. “I can’t make out any letters from it, either. It looks like a jumble of random lines.”
“They don’t have to be circular or made up of letters. That’s a modern practise that came in with chaos magic in the 1970s. The word derives from the Latin, ‘Sigilum.’ A seal. They were once associated with spirits summoned by the caster, back in the mists of history. Angels and demons.”
“Or Baphomet?” Bill asked. “We heard the pilgrim mutter that word as he let go. Professor Faust told us Baphomet was some androgynous pagan deity they accused the Templars of worshipping before their execution. He believed those were fake charges.”
Raven put down her teacup. “I’m inclined to agree. The sigil of Baphomet looks nothing like this, anyway. It’s an emblem used by Satanists.”
Bill shrugged. “Aren’t these guys Satanists?”
“No. Not in the traditional sense. They’re something different. Far darker.”
Bill’s eyes bulged. “Darker than Satanists? Oh joy.”
Raven smiled. “Human sacrifice isn’t a core part of Satanism. Their ethos is more a pushback against the control of organised religion. It’s about individual carnal power. And no, I’m not a Satanist, before you ask.”
Vicky locked her fingers together. “So if the Templars didn’t have anything to do with Baphomet, why are this group interested in Templar sites?”
“You referred to the robed figure as a ‘pilgrim.’ That’s a good analogy. Like a regular pilgrim travels to sacred sites to pray, worship and revere spiritual figures associated with them, this pilgrim is performing an inverted version of that. He’s going from site to site, drawing and activating the same sigil. That’s not uncommon. You can use them as often as you like. This pilgrim knows each sigil will be destroyed when they’re discovered next morning. Site wardens perform that part of the chaos magic process for him. If I had to guess, I’d say these would-be Baphomet worshippers are tapping into latent energies connected to locations once owned by those tortured and executed in its name. Mass murder based on wrongful accusations will have left a significant rip in the spiritual fabric at those places. Even if the actual executions didn’t occur there.”
Bill scratched at his five o’clock shadow. “What’s that got to do with the ritual murders we witnessed at Hirsig House?”
“Whether they’re summoning Baphomet or darker entities masquerading under that moniker, many believe Baphomet represents ‘Spiritual Magnetism.’ Socialists especially; the non-atheistic ones. If this group wields the political and societal influence it appears, that could offer a clue to their intentions.”
“What’s that magnetism thing?” Vicky asked.
“Spiritual Magnetism? A synthesis of science and religion leading to a perfect social order. Famed occultist, Aleister Crowley, believed Baphomet represented the spiritual nature of spermatozoa. That may also key into how your pilgrim activates his sigils. Incidentally, one of Crowley’s most famous, intimate contemporaries was Leah Hirsig. She died back in Switzerland, the land of her birth in the early seventies. He penned a six hundred and sixty-six word poem about her called ‘Leah Sublime.’ It’s regarded as the most obscene thing ever written.”
Bill smirked. “I missed out on learning that one at school.”
Raven shook her head. “You missed nothing but a turned stomach, I assure you.”
“Leah Hirsig. Hirsig House?” said Vicky.
Morpheus wandered in from the kitchen, seeking attention from each person.
Raven stroked him. “It’s an odd name for a medieval English manor. I’ll wager if you checked the records, you’d find that’s a recent change. One enacted by someone familiar with the occult. Hirsig recanted many of her beliefs and associations in later life, so who knows? I’ve been putting discrete feelers out in the esoteric community. Many disturbing rumours abound of similar groups meeting at other country houses in several counties. One isn’t far from here.”
Vicky buried trembling fingers in her lap. “It seemed unlikely these people were confined to Kent. Do you have any idea what it’s all about?”
“The increasing regularity of ceremonial events plus this series of desecrations you’ve tracked, points to something big on the horizon. I’d say they’re trying to initiate a change or secure greater power for whatever their endgame turns out to be. Control and manipulation, most likely. From politics to business, to religious authority, everything comes back to those two things eventually. The oldest ‘drugs’ to afflict humanity.”
Bill nodded in slow assent. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only cynic in the room over some matters. Vicky said you have a computer. Can we login to the GPS tracker site? I’d like an idea where the car is. We’re betting on somewhere nearby. Temple Bruer Preceptory appears the next obvious sigil target.”
“Sure.” Raven reached into a cupboard. “We’ll set it up on the kitchen table.”
Vicky, Bill and Raven gathered around a circular pine table in the cottage’s compact, rustic kitchen. Raven launched an Internet browser, then slid the laptop towards Bill. He keyed in a web address, entered some login information and brought up an electronic map painted with a trail of blue dots.
“Here we go. There’s the SLK’s movements from the moment I attached that tracker at Royston Cave until now. No surprise to find he drove straight to Hatfield. Now we’re certain it’s the same guy, not an accomplice.” He zoomed in on St Etheldreda’s Church. “The brazen bastard pulled up right outside.” He panned northward. “Result. The last location pulse occurred at this point outside Carlton le Moorland. Not far away.”
Vicky studied the map. “He must be preparing to hit Temple Bruer tonight.”
Bill rubbed his eyes. “What is all this leading up to?” He zoomed the map out. “Beyond Lincolnshire, sites lay scattered all over. We’ll only know where he’s been, after the fact. We're playing catch-up every step of the way. And that would require using devices with Internet access to check the tracker. Not so easy on the run. It’s a shame the pilgrim doesn’t leave us a forwarding address.”
Vicky sat bolt upright as if zapped by an electrical charge. “What if he does, Bill?”
“Huh?”
“Grab the map from Professor Faust, would you?”
“Okay.” Bill disappeared into the living room. When he returned, Vicky and Raven sat studying the image of the first symbol from Dover Vicky e-mailed her.
Vicky fumbled in her pockets. “Have you got a pen, Raven?”
Raven grabbed a pen from a m
emo pad holder on the kitchen wall.
Vicky removed its top. “Pass me the printed map, Bill.”
Bill unfolded it, then sat down beside her.
Vicky leaned over to point the nib at Temple Church, Dover. “These sigil incidents started here.” She drew a line connecting it with Strood, then London. “From the city, he travelled to Cressing Temple Barns, Royston Cave, and then St Etheldreda’s in Hatfield.” The line continued. She extended her arm up to connect Hatfield with Temple Bruer. “Let’s assume this is the next target. Et Voila.” She held up the map alongside Raven’s computer screen.
Bill gasped. “Join the dots? Good Lord, it’s the sigil; or a decent chunk of it.” He turned to Raven. “But that’s not an intention. Why have a sigil comprising connected site locations?”
Raven peered at the map. “What if it is an intention? A spiritual path to a final ritual somewhere, hoovering up powerful negative energies along the way?”
Bill studied the map and symbol vertexes. “Nine locations. There’re two more dots to connect. Under this interpretation, we can discount other sites that don’t match the sigil.”
Vicky rested the paper back on the table, flicking her attention between it and the screen. “Based on the shape, his next target after Temple Bruer would be this one.” She drew a line southwest to Bristol.
Bill compared the map and list of addresses. “Temple Church, Redcliffe. Also known as Holy Cross Church. What about the last one?”
Vicky approximated a position relative to the symbol’s proportions. “That can’t be right. It would place the last location off Devon’s north coast. Crap, I thought I was onto something. Unless it’s a shipwreck?” She thought, then shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t work.”
Raven tugged the laptop towards herself. “You are onto something.” She pulled up Google Earth, then deposited markers at the visited and predicted spots, bar the last one. Next she created a path to connect the points together. “Let’s see now.” She drew a shallow, angled line from Bristol to the area Vicky highlighted, then zoomed the map in close. A miniature blob of land emerged from the southern section of The Bristol Channel. “Lundy.”
