Death of the Gods

by Rex Baron

  The benediction completed, the older brothers of the Order stepped forward, and bending down, removed the left shoe from each of the new candidates. Before retreating to their places outside the circle, they stripped off their loincloths, leaving the young initiates' nakedness glistening in the glow of the hundred flickering candles.

  Kurt seized the broadsword from the altar and waved it over his head counterclockwise three times, chanting the name of his alter ego on the unseen plane, commanding him to bring the spirits of the Thule masters to them.

  “Athar, Athar, Athar,” he called out. “Deliver us into the hands of our ancestors.”

  A violent gust of wind swept in from some unseen field of battle, bringing with it the smell of victory and death. The young initiates stalwartly held their ground against the gale, clenching their fists in a stance of steadfast surrender.

  This was the paradox of which Kurt had told them. In order to be a true warrior, in order to become the victor, one must be willing to surrender to the enemy, surrender to death.

  In his mind's eye, Kurt could see Athar, the synthesis of his own warrior perfection. The god stepped forward, presenting his sword as a gesture of allegiance with the hilt end up, forming the cross in the same way the Grail knight had offered his sword to his lord. Kurt imitated the gesture he saw in his mind.

  He had made a connection with the world of the Thule brotherhood. They were present, all around them, in the chapel of initiation. Their voices would command him as to what must be done.

  Out of the shadows, two brothers brought forth a man with a dark olive complexion. He seemed drugged and stared around the chapel in bewilderment. He too had been stripped of his clothes and bathed, but he was obviously not one of those chosen. He was a Gypsy, captured from the nearby woods where his vagabond people were known to make camp. He stood trembling, held up by the two powerful arms that gripped him on either side.

  Kurt gestured for the man to be brought forward and his two captors dragged him into the center of the circle. His mouth wagged, opening and closing as if he intended to speak but the strength of the drugs he had been administered kept him mute. His eyes bulged in their sockets as they caught sight of Kurt, his oiled body glistening like the polished steel he held upright in his grasp.

  Kurt turned to the man and motioned that he be lowered to his knees. He raised the sword over the bowed head, like a sovereign about to bestow knighthood. However it was not this man who was due such an honor but rather the thirteen who stood at the edge of the circle, their eyes dilated in expectation.

  “Who here shall have the honor of making the offering?” Kurt shouted above the phantom sound of the wind in the airless room. “He who is chosen shall be privileged indeed. He who takes the sword in the name of our fathers shall be blessed among us.”

  Each of the older brothers stepped forward, placing themselves before one of the young candidates. Each young soldier stared into the eyes of an older brother, all except Kessler. Kurt smiled softly at the boy and crossed the expanse of the circle to stand before him. He raised his hands to hold the young man's face and brought his lips onto the mouth of the young soldier in a bond of warrior love. In turn, each of the older brothers duplicated the act.

  “You are chosen to make the sacrifice,” Kurt said, leading the dazed Kessler by the hand to the center of the circle where the trembling Gypsy awaited. Kurt handed the broadsword to Kessler and nodded that he might carry out the act.

  Without hesitation, the young soldier swung the heavy weapon over his head and brought it down on the neck of the helpless vagabond. Blood spattered his legs and the front of his body, but mindless of this horror, he stepped forward and presented the sword to Kurt as he bowed his head in reverence.

  Kurt embraced the boy and extended the sword to rest on the young man's shoulder as if beknighting him. Gently, Kurt bore down on the weight of the blade, silently instructing the boy to bow to one knee. With just humility and respect, the boy bowed to his lord, extending his arms on either side in the shape of a cross, as a symbol of his own surrender to the law of the Order.

  Kurt tapped him lightly three times on each shoulder, but before the boy could lift his head in acceptance of his honor, the blade came down a seventh time with the force of a guillotine, severing his head from his body. Kurt placed his hand in the blood of the young Kessler and turned the boy's pale face with its frozen look of betrayal away from view.

  The young initiates rigidly positioned at the circumference of the circle gasped for air. Their eyes rolled in their heads as the possession of the Thule took place, and one by one they dropped into trance and muttered in communion with their godlike forebears.

  Kurt stared down at the body of Kessler. He felt no remorse for having killed him. It had not been murder. It had been a sacrifice, and Kessler had been the most perfect and worthy among them, a fitting General to be sent to the world of the unseen, to lead his legions to victory for the Fatherland.

  “We now have the attention of the Cosmos,” Kurt stated, with a resolve in his voice that reflected the cold blue light in his eyes. “We are aware of its unrest. Let us go forth and execute its desires, shaping to its will the flesh and blood of the unworthy masses.”

  Chapter Two

  Munich

  “It isn't as if we were really married, so stop haranguing me about appearances,” Helen said sharply. “My association with Kurt Von Kragen is of no concern to you.”

  Claxton paced the apartment smoldering with frustration.

  “It's just that you haven't been around here in days.”

  “I’ve been busy. How touching and husbandly of you to miss me,” she said, patting his face patronizingly. “But don't take the role too seriously just because it's the only acting job you've had in nearly ten years.”

  He ignored the insult.

  “It would look better if you stayed home more often.”

  Helen threw her head back and laughed a booming, coarse laugh. “Home… you call this home. I thought you were the one who was always whining about wanting to go back to America. You're the last person I would expect to call this place home.”

  Claxton had, in fact, prompted her on a number of occasions to consider returning to the States, before the meeting with Kurt, but certainly even more so afterward. There was no competing with the hold the craggy-faced dark angel had over Helen. She was openly seen in the company of this man, and Claxton admitted that his ego had suffered, even if only in the role of ersatz husband.

  Helen was excused her open flirtations, because she and Von Kragen each held high positions in the social order of the Party. But this had served as a poor explanation to the wagging tongues that seemed to follow Claxton, whispering just out of earshot.

  “Well I think it's time we thought about going home, back to America,” Claxton persisted. “We came here for your singing career and to make you an international actress, but where are we now, ten years later? I'll tell you. We're cozying up to this pit of vipers and a madman who wants to run the world. They make me laugh, they're such fools.”

  “They're not the fools,” Helen shouted, her tolerance in toying with him depleted. “Don't you see, that's what I want, what I've wanted all along.”

  Claxton's mouth dropped open. He walked to the mantel and stared at her reflection in the mirror behind him. He remembered the day in Venice when he had been shaving and saw her for the first time as the woman he loved. It had been a reflection like this, in the same space, at the same distance, but the woman he saw now was not the one he recognized. The face in the glass was polished and refined, devoid of the haunted look of hunger that he had found so vital and enticing years before. This face was perfect, ageless and without mercy.

  Of course, he knew that she did not love him, but there had been a bond between them that he could not believe she intended to sever. He turned to see her in the flesh, to make certain there was no distortion in the glass, to check who he was actually speaking to.

&nbs
p; “Of course you were ambitious, you wanted success and power. We both did, but I can't believe that you have actually bought into this madness they're promoting. I thought you were too smart for that.”

  Helen recovered her cool demeanor and lit a cigarette.

  “I'm smarter than you give me credit for,” she said, clouding the thick air with the smoke from her lips. “I know what side my bread is buttered on, to use a good old Yankee expression... and that bread now has the side up marked Kurt. This whole conversation is prompted by your jealousy of the man because he has what you don’t. He has me.”

  Claxton slammed the table with his fist. “But these Nazi lunatics have it on their agenda to destroy the world. You'd be having a hand in destroying your own country. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

  Helen drew in on the cigarette and smiled. She surveyed him for a moment before answering.

  “My, but aren't we patriotic all of a sudden. These Nazi lunatics, as you call them, are going places you didn't even know existed. You know as well as I do that they're not just a bunch of soldiers stomping around, but magicians tapped into a power source you'd love to get your hands on.”

  “Now you're being the fool,” Claxton cut her off. “I know very well the power from which they're drawing their energy. It's called fear and it's called hate, and it’s being pumped up into a warp of intensity like none ever experienced before on Earth. But the consequence of the use of that power is destruction, total annihilation, don't you understand that?”

  “I understand,” Helen stated coolly. “I understand that these men, and Kurt among them, aren't afraid to use the power the way pitiful, crawling creatures like you are. You pretend to be the grand sorcerer, telling me lies to keep me from going out on my own, making me believe that I needed you. But I realize now that I don't. I don't want you or your parlor tricks when I can have the real thing. These men have a vision of the future they…”

  “Shut up,” Claxton shouted. “You should hear yourself. My god, you sound like one of their puppets, spouting that dogma, that rubbish. You forget, my dear woman, that we at the Ministry of Propaganda write that crap in the first place.” He spit the words across the room at her. “These people have no more credibility than we have, two failed actors playing at being politicians.”

  “I'm the Assistant Minister of Kultur,” Helen stated flatly, drawing herself up regally.

  Claxton choked on his sickened laughter. His eyes flared and he gasped for air as the months of anger tumbled out of him.

  “And how credible would you be, if your pompous, straight-laced little Fuhrer knew you were only pretending to be married and were nothing more than a murderess and a whore. What would your infallible party think of you then?”

  “You wouldn't dare expose me. You have too much to lose,” Helen said, leveling him in her gaze.

  “What I have to lose is of no matter,” he said. “We're two jaded, rotten people playing at power. What we lose is of little consequence. My god, Helen, I only pray there is something I can do to stop this madness. They're intending to destroy the entire planet.”

  Once again, Helen sniggered. She stubbed out her cigarette and looked up at her would-be husband from under an arched brow.

  “The way I see it, there is very little you can do to stop us. And do stop saying my god this and my god that. After what you've done in your time, I'm sure God stopped listening to your prayers long ago.”

  • • •

  Claxton stepped into the street, filling his lungs with the drizzling cold mist of the morning.

  “Another argument with Helen, a perfect way to put me in the mood to go and write lies for the Fatherland,” he muttered to himself.

  The horn from an auto blasted him into awareness and he jumped out of its path as the car swerved on the wet pavement, missing him by inches. He twisted his ankle and hobbled to the corner to hail a cab.

  He could not stop thinking of how Helen had seemed to be altered in her thinking. She had lost her wicked sense of humor that under normal circumstances would have shown her how ridiculous these Nazis were, with their demands and their lofty ideals. Ten years ago, she would have laughed in the face of someone like Kurt Von Kragen. But for some reason all of that had changed. Perhaps she had really fallen in love with this man, he thought, as a pain wrenched his stomach. He had given up his own ambitions to follow hers. Maybe the time had come for Helen to be struck down by an emotional madness like the one that tormented him… a madness that had brought him here to the other side of the world to be alone and humiliated.

  • • •

  Michael looked up from his desk in the mahogany-lined outer waiting room as Claxton entered his office, soaking wet.

  “Didn't you have an umbrella?” the boy asked, shocked to see his usually dapper employer dripping and unkempt. He took the wet coat and, holding it at arm’s length, carried it to the washroom to dry out.

  Claxton wearily dropped into the chair behind his desk and shuffled through a stack of papers, already aware of what most of them said. They were the usual requisitions for photographs publicizing the good works of the Reich and lists of guidelines from the censors, apprising the publishers and movie makers on this week's collection of restrictions. He had learned to read German exceptionally well in the decade or so that he had lived there, and could make passable and limited witty conversation. But his real contribution to the Ministry of Propaganda was that he could speak English and guarantee the High Command that what passed his desk in the way of requests or letters of intent were clearly and correctly stated and that there could be no misunderstanding due to ineptitude in the use of the language.

  Among the countless requests for prepared speeches to be used by local officials at the opening of a new factory or to dedicate a school, Claxton's eye came across a memorandum signed by the Fuhrer himself.

  He dropped the rest of the stack and read the statement.

  The superiority of a genetically untainted race of people has been scientifically determined. Therefore, the value of the working classes and the wages which individuals receive should be based on their ethnic background and racial purity. It is also advised that the Ministry begin a rigorous campaign discouraging the racially ambiguous group of nomads and vagabonds known as Gypsies from circulating within the areas under the jurisdiction of the Nationalist Socialist Party. Any individual from this group caught in wrongdoing or suspected of any transgression against the State will be punished to the fullest.

  In addition, all those of Semitic or Jewish ethnic extraction, engaged in the lending of money, dealing in jewels or gold and carrying on banking of any variety, will be discouraged from continuing to do so, in order to allow those of pure Aryan blood to pursue these areas unobstructed. The Ministry is strongly advised to dissuade public opinion from any sympathy toward these groups by generating rumors and stories in the press that will support the need for protecting the new State from the corruption of its genetically inferior enemies.

  Claxton put down the paper and tried to laugh but he could not. A lump of apprehension formed in his throat.

  Michael appeared with a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

  “By the look of things, I was sure you hadn't eaten,” the boy said kindly.

  Claxton tightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair in a feeble attempt to make himself presentable in front of the youngster.

  “How are you getting on at your sister's?” he asked.

  Michael's face reddened. “It's a little embarrassing sometimes. I mean, I'm not used to living with a woman, and in some ways, Lexi is even more protective than Uncle Jacob.”

  The smile evaporated from Claxton's face.

  “If you will accept a word of advice,” he said with all seriousness, “I would be careful mentioning the names of your relatives. It might be better if you and your sister were officially orphaned or from somewhere else, without any incriminating relations lurking about… just a word to the wise.”

&nb
sp; Michael nodded his head without replying.

  “Why are you being so nice to us?” the boy asked. “Lexi says that she doesn’t trust you and I told her she was wrong. But you have been so helpful to us. You have kept our secret… Why?”

  Claxton scanned the room nervously, uncertain that they were not being observed or eavesdropped upon by paid informants. He sighed. What did it matter?

  “Because, in some way, it makes me feel like I haven't sold my Soul. There are things going on that are unspeakably evil and we're all part of it. It is a nest of vipers and I have one of the most venomous under my own roof, coiled in my very heart.”

  Michael did not hear the last words, as Claxton stared out the window at the gray rain.

  “Anyway,” Michael interrupted his musing, “I want to thank you for the job and the new necktie.” He looked down admiringly at an unbusinesslike silk field of wild ducks that Claxton had let him choose himself. “It's a beauty. Wait till I show Lexi. I'm sure, in a couple of weeks, she'll come to see what a great guy you are.”

  “The idea of being a great guy is a loathsome concept,” Claxton said, regaining a measure of his old acidity. “And speaking of your sister, there is a requisition order here for a new statue for the Ministry of Education.” He sifted through the mountain of paper for a green form, a directive for the Kulturkammer. “It requests, and I quote: A twenty-five foot high statue of ‘Motherhood,' carved in marble, depicting a lovely but unadorned woman in her young years, bare-breasted, but draped modestly in front. The buttock is to remain uncovered. That's because the Fuhrer is a bare bottom man,” Claxton added with a critical raise of his eyebrow. “It is to display a small child but not an infant, standing unaided, looking away from the mother into its destiny. The child shall unquestionably be a boy, curly-headed and possessing the sexual endowment of near manhood.”