NFTF: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2, Part II

9:57 pm

My head feels like a hornets' nest, swarming with thoughts. I sit outside Father Michael's office, having been escorted here by Brother Paul and Domenico. They would not say why I've been summoned -- I suspect that Paul did not know, but Domenico had a certain tension around his eyes and would not meet my gaze for long.

Is it possible that Father Michael knows what I've been doing? Can I have somehow tipped my hand? On the way here I tried to gauge the nature of my summons, asking several questions. I tried to keep them light, but I have been described as dour and I know that levity would have left them more suspicious than they arrived. (Truly, I do not believe I am dour. I believe I am focused. If my neutral focused face appears dour to those unwilling to inquire, perhaps they should attempt a level of focus beyond snoozing in the chapel.)

That was uncharitable. I feel out of balance. Perhaps it is good that Father Michael is calling me before him, I could confess my recent ... sins? Do I believe them to be sins? Not really. Then what are they? I have no idea. But even now as I write this I hear Scarborough Faire in my mind's ear, clear as day. Or is someone playing it in the music room? Leaning in that direction doesn't change the sound ... and neither does getting up and peeking around that corner. Who would be playing Scarborough Faire here, anyway? At this hour? In this place? I suppose, technically, it's folk music. Simon and Garfunkel merely spread it about. They didn't write the damned song. Why do I hear it?! Who is playing it? Haunting, lovely, sad, bittersweet, longing ... how well I remember the first time I heard it. Before the dark days.

I hear him coming --

11:48 pm

The world is turned on its head and shaken. What falls out? Everything I had sought to leave behind. I have just spoken at length with Father Michael. Thus:

"Good evening, Brother Ambrose," the handshake and Fatherly hand clapping my right shoulder lightly, just enough to imply camaraderie without overstepping any boundaries. Clearly-defined roles.

"Father Michael," I begin, preemptive as ever when threatened; as he closes his office door behind us, locking it, he speaks over me:

"We've had word from Johannes and Oswald," he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. I sit automatically, shocked; he is sitting in his chair behind the desk as I blurt:

"How -- where?" 

"Before we go any further, Ambrose, I want you to know that I respect your reasons for wanting to leave your past behind you; I have made a point of leaving you to your business and keeping you out of certain activities in which I have asked a few of your Brothers to assist. I would never ask this of you, were it not a dire situation."

"Father, I will do anything you ask if it means getting them back here, whole. Johannes and Oswald --" I'm stumbling over my words.

"As to that," he says, holding up a hand in, what, warning? Caution? "I do not know that we can bring them back whole, if at all."

"What happened? Where are they? Were they able to find why the fires are burning unchecked? Where is the National Guard? Where is the Red Cross? Why do we just sit here when people all around us need our help?! I have been waiting and praying --" I see his eyes widen, his eyebrows raise, and I'm aware that this is more than I've said in months, perhaps years. I start to speak again, then stop.

For a long moment, there is only silence.

"I knew when you joined us that you needed more than just retreat or retirement, Ambrose. I hesitate because I think I understand your pain, but because I do not -- can not -- know what it is like for you. If I show you what we've found, I want you to understand clearly that I am not asking you to do anything about it. I am asking you for your advice only. Anything beyond that is entirely voluntary. Am I clear?"

"Yes," I say, certainty settling into my bones like a comfortable old coat. I know what my answer will be before he turns his computer monitor around and clicks play.

At first I see only people -- the backs of men in plaid flannel shirts with heavy suspenders and tough denim pants, the women in what look like a mix of American pilgrim and Hollie Hobby garb, though every one of them seems to wear some kind of bonnet or ... nurse hat?

Then one of the men turns and looks at the camera. I can hear feet shuffling on gravel and wind and some birds chirping, plus another sound -- a kind of keening shriek; like a boar in agony. There are oak trees, clearly this is local, this is East Bay chaparral, but the man who turns and looks at the camera is Brother Oswald.

"What -- ?" I start, then fall silent as Brother Oswald shifts to the left and the camera moves forward a step to two -- Brother Johannes must be recording this -- picking up the scene beyond.

A filthy, half-naked homeless man is screeching at the crowd, flinging gestures at a man on a stationary hospital gurney, tubes trailing from under the bloodstained sheets; if I couldn't see his face, I would wonder if it were a pregnant woman: he has a large belly.

I recognize this.

Not the place and people. The situation. I sit upright, all my old training clicking back into place.

The rocking, the rolling of the eyes, the moaning from the crowd. This is a cult. A cult in the beginning throes of mob ecstasy. The filthy man must be the leader, people flinch at his shrieking. His words become clear: 

"...Somewhere among you he may yet lurk! This man's twin in all things, even the broken leg! This man with stolen Godspeak come to deceive you with his dark magic! She questions my power because she thinks she can! Yet you all know I hold the power of Life and Death in my hands! See! Ezekiel, bring me the White Sheet! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," someone behind and to the left of the camera shouts; it's echoed by a few others..

A man dressed like the rest comes running up with a clean white sheet.

"Behold! I place the sheet and he will die at my command! So saith the Prophet!"

"So saith the Lord," more people repeat. They sound unhappy.

The filthy cult leader unfurls the sheet like a sideshow charlatan over the unconscious man on the gurney, grinning and leering at the crowd. I am always surprised at what people will put their faith in. The cult leader continues to shriek:

"Lo and behold, the Prophet did see that the man and woman were Of The Devil, and he did ask Almighty God for his thundrous hand to smite them down. And God did as the Prophet asked, so saith the Prophet?!"

Then a voice comes from somewhere, loud and clear but slightly muffled:

"So saith your Mom!"

A woman's voice cries out, "Tad!"

The cult leader is derailed, turning with a start to the gurney as the man I'd thought unconscious and possibly dying whips the fresh sheet down from his face, a big grin lighting his face. Like this is all a joke, or ... more like it's performance. An act. 

The crowd, though -- all of them take a step back, some of them fall to the gravel beneath their feet. A few try to leap forward, rage burning in their faces, but are restrained by others behind them. I think I catch a glimpse of Brother Louis restraining a short, balding man, but I can't be sure.

Brother Louis, I had been told, was visiting family. I turn to Father Michael as the camera turns to Brother Oswald, who scowls and gestures back toward the gurney with a jerk of his head. I save my question for later as the camera turns back and the man on the gurney ("Tad"?) calls to the cult leader:

"Hey there, fucko!" At this the leader whirls to him, like a bad little boy caught setting something on fire. The man on the gurney smiles like a celebrity and calls out, all bonhomie, "Feeling rapey?"

The leader is pointing immediately, screeching,"Tell me now how you did it and I may allow your Whore to live! Tell me how you created your double!"

Still smiling, and including the crowd in his words, the gurney man doesn't miss a beat: "Well, I can't exactly tell you that, Torvald Walter Mayberry. But I can show you, you false prophet and fucker of corpses! Would you like that, Mr. Twistydick?" 

Torvald Walter Mayberry? 

I stop breathing, but feel like I need to gasp.

A woman has laughed and the gurney man turns to his left, waggling his eyebrows at her, I imagine; there are people in the way, we can't see clearly who is over there.

The leader looks like he's trying to flag down an airplane, waving his arms, pointing at the man on the gurney, then keeping one arm up and turning to him.

"Yes, yes, do show us all, Foul Deceiver! Show us your Hellbane and Hemlock!" 

"No hellbane and hemlock here, Torvald," says the man on the gurney.

That name again. I breathe. Can't be coincidence.

"Just good, old-fashioned know-how," the man on the gurney continues, then looks at his right arm; blood has continued to soak the sheet. He turns to his left, speaking perhaps to the same person who laughed earlier; definitely someone specific. "Do I need a tourniquet for this?"

"Yes," two women, in unison. He seems to gasp a little, or laugh quickly. I see panic under that smile. But he's putting on a good show. Ah, I see: he's being brave. He loves one of those women. Both? Is this a polygamist cult?

"Done, ladies. Honey, I love you. Hold on to that amulet."

He throws her a kiss. At least three of the women near the camera sigh. Sounds like the crowd is swayed. This feels final. I sit forward.

He whips the sheet back up over his head, he's completely covered and there's a brief shifting under the sheet.

Gunshot. Mannlicher Carcano, from the sound of it, and a bullet tears through the sheet into the man on the gurney and the woman screams but someone steps in front of Brother Johannes just as I want a clearer look at that gurney.

"Move your ass," I mutter, and am shocked when Father Michael says, "Amen."

Brother Johannes wants to see the gurney as well. He steps around the woman in front of him just as the cult leader pulls the sheet from the gurney to reveal ...

A fat, healthy rabbit. Sitting on a pile of pillows.

The cult leader is shrieking as he falls to the gravel, "Aaauuyyuuughhhhh, no bunnies no bunnies no bunnies NO! BUNNIES!"

We hear Brother Johannes gasp and half-chuckle, but a woman's voice calls out:

"Bearded Ezekiels! Nurse Rachels! NOW!"

Sudden jumbled action, fumbling of the camera (must be a smartphone).

The video ends.

I know immediately what I must do. 

"Torvald Walter Mayberry," I say.

"Yes?" Father Michael is alert.

"I have his journal."

Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose, Day 2

I am entirely uncertain as to the correct course. I have not yet approached the master of our order and I feel deep shame at this deception. But I feel that there may be some wisdom in delay, as the next passages of my transcription carry an entirely different tone. I am getting ahead of myself. Here is what happened:

Yesterday morning I left my room, agitated and determined to speak with Father Michael. He was in a meeting. I went to the redwood chapel to pray and meditate, as I have always found the morning light among redwood trees to be more lovely and peaceful than even the most powerful and ornate rose windows of any of our European cathedrals. As I sat breathing clean air and listening to birds chirping over the now incessant roar of Mt. Diablo, I had the distinct sense that there was a kindness near me, a presence at my right shoulder. The sensation of a hand, possibly even warmth and pressure. The scent of Rosemary, and a breath on my ear  no, that's not possible, but perhaps the impression of a breath as a word came into my mind: persevere.

Perseverance. Yes. My constant companion. In the darkest, most difficult times, I have learned much by simply shouldering my burdens and carrying on. The British seem to have the right idea. Keep Calm and Carry On. Not being one to dash about, though, I proceeded -- calm and collected -- to the library. Not usually in favor of divination, I nonetheless engaged in a little accidental bibliomancy. As I sat musing upon the strangeness of the scribblings within my books, I was idly flipping through a copy of the King James edition and muttering, 'What to do ... what to do ... ?' Which is when my finger fell right in between verses 15 and 16 of II Samuel, Chapter 13:

         " ... And Am'non said unto her, Arise, be gone.
         16 And she said unto him, There is no cause: this evil in sending me away is greater than the other that thou didst unto me. But he would not hearken unto her."

Now, setting aside the nature of Am'non's incestuous rape of his sister Ta'mar, which assuredly does not apply to my case, I disobeyed a basic tenet and chose to take these words entirely out of context. If there is some penance I must later do as a result, so be it. But they struck me, these words of Samuel. Am I Am'non, the unlistening? I thought I had been sleeping, but I was in congress with some source of the writing. Though my congress was not carnal, am I somehow doing greater evil in attempting to send it away? What if the words in my books, however upsetting, come from a good source? Hasty action could lead to hasty conclusion, and in these troubled times after the earthquake, perhaps it would be wise to wait, to listen, to "hearken unto" whom- or whatever is speaking to me in my sleep.

Though this time of contemplation seemed to me to only take a few minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, it was nonetheless a surprise to glance at the clock and see that evening had come. I had passed the entire day in the library, though it felt like minutes, contemplating the words and feelings of a virgin raped by her brother. Is it rape that I have experienced? Is my mind penetrated against my will, or have I been coerced or seduced? I do not feel like a victim in this. And the word that came to me in the redwood chapel: persevere.

These thoughts were foremost in my mind as I joined my brothers for our evening meal: I am still upset by the words in the books. I am upset by what has happened. But I am not certain that this is a bad thing. So, whether I am Am'non or Ta'mar, I believe that I should listen. And in listening, perhaps it would be wise to continue to transcribe. And in listening and transcribing, I shall thus persevere. Who knows what bends await in my trail?

So it was that I returned to my room last night and, intent upon transcribing the continued obscenities and foulness of what had come before, was surprised to turn a page and discover something entirely new. It was so engrossing that I confess I took it to bed and curled up reading it with the avidity of the most secretive of voyeurs -- a chilling thought, in light of its uncertain source and its strange contents. Here, then, is what came next:
    
            "August 29, 1955
            Arkham, Massachusetts
            9:36 am

     Dear ... future me. Today is the first day of our time at The Arkham Conservatory, and I am very excited to be able to attend this truly unique school. We, the incoming Freshmen, Class of 1959, are all gathered in a Lecture / Performance hall on the eighth floor, I forget the name. It's full of lovely woodwork and some very strange carvings on the beams of the rafters.
     I was worried, before this morning, that I would be seen as an outsider by the actors and dancers, and even though I knew I would be in the Divinity Department within the School of Theosophical Inquiry, I had convinced myself that I would be the only one. Not so! I am surrounded by friendly, kind, even titillating people majoring in everything from Parapsychology and Hypnotic Researches, to Musical Theatre. Everything here is laughter and light, in spite of the school's darker reputation. I have found nothing but acceptance, thus far, and though I know that there are bound to be rocky roads ahead (we will have ice cream after lunch, ho ho ho, knock wood), I feel as though I have finally left behind the shadows of my childhood. How odd to leave California and feel better in what will surely be a darker, colder climate for much of my time here?
     President Prescott is heading to the podium, will write more later. Remember to ask about historian and mansard roof.
     -- Torvald Walter Mayberry"

A knock at my door, oh please let it not be

Notes from the Future: Journal of Brother Ambrose

I awakened this morning to find my ink spilled across my desk, the candle burned down to nothing. I was sprawled across my bed, still in my robes. Scattered across my floor was the entire contents of my small library, every book opened and thrown aside. I thought my room had been searched as I slept, a startling thought after so many years away from that world. Now I realize that I have no memory of going to sleep last night. As I was putting the books away, I noticed writing on the formerly blank end pages. This is the phrase I saw that made me fall back and sit heavily on the floor before my bookcase:

"... they tell me this is the Mont Perdu Abbey."

Even now, I can hardly believe it. Looking through all the books, it appears I have filled every blank page and some gaps between chapters with this writing. For it is my handwriting -- if rushed, sloppier than I would allow. 

What impetus has driven me to scrawl thus? Am I in my right mind? Or is there some fiend guiding my hand as I sleep? In all other ways I feel well, no worse the wear for having burnt a fresh twelve-hour candle down to the nub as I wrote through the night. In search of some clue, I herein transcribe my scrawl; my hope is that through earnest investigation I may detect the source and (if possible) truth of what has lead me in my sleep to write of the Forbidden Mountain.

         Friar Rudel stared at the wizard (at once twin to Father Robert and yet not) in a thin white gown with thick, filthy bandages hardened around one leg. The man was pale, dirty, reeking of vomit and shit, a tear in his right arm still weeping some blood. This was the man at whose strange, clean bedside Rudel had found himself standing mere minutes ago. And seconds after his own reappearance here in the circle of flames, this man had appeared with a popping sound and a puff of wind to land face-down in the snow mere feet away from Rudel and Hannibal. They could communicate with one or two words, but other than that this sorcerer -- a word that became less accurate with every passing moment -- looked more like a frightened fool completely out of his element.
         The burning wolf demon, having transformed almost entirely back to human form, had regenerated its legs and most of its body in a soup of its own foul fluids, blood mixed with semen and phlegm and their accompanying greasy black ichor. Wolf form breaking through its human face, the beast had once again asserted itself and once again stood before them in all its horrid strength. Blood, froth and seed dripped from the torn tip of its monstrous, barbed cock. Its three surviving offspring, jealous of Papa, tugged at their own barbed phalli as they grew to the height of their father's furred shoulders. As the burning wolf demon picked up the smallest of its horrid babies, it became clear to everyone within the safety of the circle of flames what was about to happen: Papa was going to throw baby over the wall of flames, into the circle where it could attack and eat anyone. Probably scare the animals. Ah. Yes. Scare them out of the circle, with the girl and Father Robert unconscious, possibly dying, on their backs. Then it would be the simplest thing in the world to just leap and feast. That would be then end of them all. 
         As the beast crouched, ready to throw, Rudel readied himself: no point in running. Better to stay and fight. Drawing his dagger, he felt a little naked. Reaching over to where Father Robert lay across the back of Abelard the donkey, Rudel took a dagger from Father Robert's belt. Looking at the blade, he noticed that there was a line of some lighter metal going up the center. It reflected the blood red light of the fire, making the center of the blade appear to glow with its own flames.
         Just as the beast's shoulders flexed, the shivering, injured man shouted one word. Just one word. The beast paused, its eyes gleaming. Then it dropped its demonspawn onto its own cock and fucked it where the beastling was impaled, in the very spot where Our Lord was pierced in his side by the spear of Longinus. The little creature screamed and squealed and yet seemed to enjoy the pain, turning to look Rudel directly in the eye as it slid further down the shaft of the darkness that was its progenitor.
         The beast stepped forward, gestured, and the newcomer fell to his knees where he stood between Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative (who, it should be noted, had said very little in the last few minutes). Its creature still bleeding to death and now fully penetrated, the beast lifted its left foot, putting first a toe into the red flames, a horror testing the waters of damnation.
         Nothing happened. Stretching it foot with elaborate delicacy, the beast put the rest of its toes through the flames. Still nothing. Looking up at Friar Rudel and Hannibal the Talkative, the beast smiled and, smiling down at the newcomer whose pale face seemed drained of all desire to live, the beast stepped fully onto the circle of flames.
         The flames shifted from brightest red to a smoky red edged with black. In the center of each flame was a soul in torment, Rudel knew this without looking. As the beast had remained whole, he knew something else as well.
         "You fool! You've doomed us all! You've given yourself up to to the beast!" he shouted. His voice sounded small, old and weak.
         The beast reached down and pushed its still-twitching beastling farther onto its cock until the tip ripped through the little demon's back near the opposite shoulder blade; then, with one gnarled, clawed hand, the beast broke the tip from the barb arching up from the head of its infected beastcock, and smiling, brought the sharp, barbed bit of bone to its own lips, murmuring a word or to and kissing the shard before placing it on its tongue. Tilting its head back, it put both hands on the shoulders of its screaming offspring and gave three gigantic thrusts until, on the last, the miniature horror was torn in two -- each half falling to the snow to stain it crimson-black -- and the beast spat the broken barb of bone from its mouth directly at the forehead of the newcomer, piercing the spot immediately above and between his eyes. A spurt of blood and a crunch of bone, and the barb was inside. The newcomer collapsed, twitching, great toadlike noises coming from within him -- though whether from belly or lungs it was hard to tell. 
         The beast chuckled in dark delight and stepped its right foot into the circle. For a moment, silence. The beast inhaled, its ribcage expanding beyond natural capacity as it prepared to howl victory to the unfeeling night.
         With a great spasmodic jerking, the newcomer -- Edouard, Rudel remembered; Edouard the fool -- threw back his own head and arms and cried out in agony: a prolonged sound of pain and distress which echoed, keening, from the towering, jagged stone walls of this desolate valley. Within those echoes, another voice began to speak.
         It was the voice of a woman.
         "You have penetrated a holy, secret place! Your darkness cannot be allowed to thrive here and, like rancid oil, shall be mopped up and left to rot for worms and flies to feast!"
         The flames of the torch burning from the top of Father Robert's staff had stayed deepest brightest bloodiest red, and now grew and sparked until a familiar figure appeared above them all: the nude woman of the fire, She whose threefold enchantment Father Robert himself had broken. No blue sparks now, only red, and the hair of her head and the hair between her legs and under her arms burned bright as the sun, hot enough that snow began to melt around them. Red flames spread out from the base of the staff, snuffing the black from each tongue of fire as they went.
         The beast crouched, cowed, just inside the circle. Too late he tried to turn and run, singeing the tip of his evil phallus and dropping to his knees to cradle and kiss it, whimpering around his jagged, needle-sharp teeth.

This is too much. I must take a rest. I cannot fathom that these words came from my mind, my pen. 

Are these, then, the final days? Could that madman in Oakland have been right all along? Or am I the voice of some new, dark prophecy? Have I perhaps lost my mind? Jesus help me if either of these is so.

Since the earthquake, everything has gone crazy. It could be that this is merely stress from the disappearance of Brother Johannes and Brother Oswald. 

Whatever it may be, how will I find comfort or help without speaking of this to someone? It must be some form of madness, if not full possession. I shall submit myself and all of my writing to the master of our order and await his judgement.