VIII. Ceremonies of the Golden Dawn

“Dorian!”

Penelope scans the manor entrance hall, waiting for an answer that does not come. A beat, and a stirring in the kitchen rouses her attention.

“Penelope?” Dorian shouts over the clattering of fallen metalware.

My sister runs for the kitchen and storms in. “What are you doing?” she demands.

Dorian is lying on the table in his underwear, flailing his limbs. Bapo Hrobar has him by both arms and holds them behind our brother’s head. Mami Hrobar has a magnifying lens in one hand and is investigating his chest. With uncanny precision she dodges and ducks to avoid his knees as he brings them up to her face.

“Is research,” Bapo Hrobar coughs out, more question than statement.

“Penelope, stop them. They think I’m a vampire.” Dorian squirms in the giant’s hold, “They want to lock me up too!”

“He was bitten by devil boy,” Mami Hrobar snaps. “He will turn soon. Is only way to stop spread.”

“I don’t see any bite marks,” Penelope says. “Let him go.”

“You have a gun! Just shoot to wound or something,” Dorian says. “Don’t let me die here. Please!”

Bapo Hrobar looks to his wife then back to Penelope.

“Do not let boy go,” Mami Hrobar commands.

“Let him go,” Penelope says.

“Husband,” Mami Hrobar snaps.

“Let. Him. Go.”

“He will infect us all,” Mami Hrobar shrills.

Bapo Hrobar releases Dorian and throws his hands up. “Bah, let him,” he mutters as he shambles out. He says something about checking the houses once he is in the hall, but the swinging door muffles his words. Mami Hrobar stares at Penelope in disbelief. Then she curls her lip up and follows after her husband.

“Thank you for all the little charms on the porch,” Penelope adds.

Mami Hrobar slams the kitchen door on her way out.

“Are you okay?” my sister asks.

Dorian sits up and rubs his forehead with both his palms. “Of course not.”

“What happened?”

“It was Marcel. He came back.”

“Did he bite you?”

“No, he… he touched me. There was this colorful light that came out and it felt like… it felt like I was dying, but… in a good way?”

“A good way?”

“That wasn’t the scariest part,” Dorian says. “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak or do anything unless he willed me to do it first. Then everything melted away and we were flying. Somewhere else.”

Penelope cranes her head back. “Somewhere else meaning… Paris?”

“If Paris was a chessboard in Hell. There was blue fire everywhere, outlining almost everything… a big fortress somewhere far away, and the sky – there was no sky – it was this screaming desert of red and black sand.”

“Let me look at your chest,” Penelope says. Dorian leans in towards the lamplight and she sees the ‘bite’ Mami Hrobar was worried about. A little red dot, slightly inflamed like a bug bite.

“This itching won’t stop, it’s worse than bug bites.” My brother scratches at his chest. “What about Crowley? Cryptic as usual?”

“I wish he had been more cryptic this time,” Penelope says. “He… he’s been following us all this time for a reason.”

“Why? Is it Doctor Arthwitte? You think he’s after one of his patents? A djinni curse?”

“It’s because of us. Olivia.”

“Olivia?” Dorian asks. “But she’s de–”

“She’s not dead. I’m not having this discussion again.”

“Penelope, she–”

“They never found her plane, they never found any bodies, they never found anything. There’s no reason to think she can’t still be out there. She was smart, she was resourceful, she couldn’t just die alone in the ice.”

Tears well up in my dear sister’s eyes. How I wish I could reassure here, be there to let her know how saved I truly am. That to stay in the world of man, to never brave the Antarctic wastes, would have been death – cold, alone, adrift in a frozen wasteland.

“…Penelope…”

“Maybe she landed the plane. Maybe she found an cave, or a boat. Maybe she’s living with some native tribe nobody has discovered yet. After everything we’ve seen, after everything we’ve been through, you can’t believe that?”

“Or Aleister Crowley is lieing to you. Which is more likely?”

“Why would he lie about this?”

Dorian sighs. “Why wouldn’t he?”

Our sister does not have an answer to that. Instead, she walks out into the entrance hall and down into the shadows.

“Why would he know her?” Dorian asks, following. “Olivia was an anthropologist, she was into archeology and exploring the world, not sitting in rooms full of candles talking to ghosts. Her living with some lost tribe of snow people and living off penguin meat makes more sense than knowing him.”

“She was Crowley’s student,” Penelope says. “His protégé.”

Dorian keeps making wide swipes across the same red spot on his chest. “Okay, maybe he wasn’t lieing to you.”

“Why?”

“Olivia was scary,” Dorian replies, bluntly.

“Ah, there you are,” Angelica Mathers says from behind them, carrying an oil lamp. She stops short when she sees my brother. “What happened? Was there an attack?”

“It was Marcel,” Dorian replies.

“Marcel?” Angelica studies the little dot on my brother’s chest. “He did this to you?”

“I was on the porch when he flew up behind me.”

“He flew?” Angelica asks, incredulous. “I’ve never saw him fly before.”

“Maybe I’m special then,” Dorian grumbles, itching feverishly at the little spots.

“Or the wards don’t work,” Penelope adds.

“Mami Hrobar has served as the village mystic for years,” Angelica says. The glint of brass in the candlelight catches here eye. “What a novel hair ornament.”

“Oh, thank you,” Penelope says, blushing. “I know it’s too pretty for me.”

Angelica chuckles, “Nothing is too pretty for anyone.”

“Is Doctor Arthwitte in the room?” Dorian asks, scratching his chest.

“Yes, of course.” Angelica leads them further down the hallway. “He found the lamps and immediately set to work. He reminds me of my grandfather, always locked away in some corner working on who nows what. I have high hopes now that you’re all here. Surely you can cure the villagers and save my son before we run out of time.”

“Your grandfather was an alchemist too?” Dorian asks.

“No but my grandfather was the only one in our family who took an interest in these things. The rest of us preferred to… avoid it.”

“Is he the man who founded Rukriz?” Penelope asks.

Angelica Mathers leads them down the hallways as they speak and opens the door to their room, “No, there were people here before he came, but he’s the one who built this house and helped expand it to what it is… er, used to be.”

“He must have been a generous man to do all of that,” Dorian says.

“Or he was running from something and bought the loyalty of a village to hide in,” Penelope mutters.

Angelica the door to their quarters. “You’re a scientist, you should know better than anyone that the truth is complicated.”

Their room is lavish, at least compared to the rest of the Mathers estate home. The corners of the walls aren’t thick with dangling cobwebs and the furniture is dusted. A solid light cast by lanterns set on every unused table and chair lend the dim illusion of electricity. At the center of the room is a wide bed with clean sheets. Above it rests a large oil portrait of a stern, elderly man wearing a ceremonial robe and golden laurel crown.

Doctor Arthwitte has his alchemy table out on a desk in the far corner of the room. His overstuffed bag sits on the nearby Murphy bed with the contents laid out as if the seams burst and its contents exploded in a bid for freedom. When he hears them come in, he stands from the desk and tips his hat.

“Complicated hardly begins to describe your grandfather.” He wipes his hands on his pants and keeps doing so without explanation. “The man who rekindled the flame of occultism in Europe, who–”

“Who squandered his wealth, drove the family into poverty with scandal, and fled to the middle of nowhere to avoid the press when his student turned traitor.”

Doctor Arthwitte clears his throat. “Yes, quite the dreadful affair at that, but it is my stalwart belief that he was wrongfully maligned. It comforts my soul to know that he was surrounded by family and those touched by his generosity when he passed.”

“The Order?” Dorian asks.

“The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn,” Penelope mutters.

“Yes,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “I wouldn’t have thought you to know about that. I don’t recall mentioning it before.”

“You haven’t.”

“Something bothering you, child?” Doctor Arthwitte asks.

“Perhaps a bath,” Angelica says. “I know that always brightens my mood. We’ve water heated in the kitchen, and a tub and brush in the bathing room down the hall. I could set it up.”

“Nonsense,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “We’ll see to our own hygiene, madame.”

“Absolutely not,” Angelica says. “You’re my guests and even if we are… burdened by vampires, I would like to remain a gracious hostess.” She darts out the door before Doctor Arthwitte can refuse, carrying a lamp with her.

“Thank the heavens you’re safe, Penelope,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Whatever possessed you to run off by yourself in the midst of all this?” He sizes Dorian up, nose twitching as he takes in my brother’s unchastened state. “Perhaps the safer of the two options you had at your disposal – is that a chigger welt on your breast, boy?”

“It was Aleister Crowley,” Penelope says. “I saw him again.”

“I knew it,” Doctor Arthwitte scowls. “The old pervert was grooming your naïve, sheepish poof of a brother the entire time. I’ve seen him do it before, and though I am remisce to cast aspersions, you do yourself no favors wearing tailored suits and rigorously pomading your hair.”

“Crowley didn’t do this to me,” Dorian spits. “She’s the one who chased after him.”

“He was calling me,” Penelope says. “It was like he was putting the words directly into my head.”

“Parlor tricks,” Doctor Arthwitte scoffs. “I saw a good deal of it in the Golden Dawn.” He nudges Dorian with his elbow and whispers, “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of our host but between you and me the entire organization was a glorified spocial club for bored socialites and artistic pedants. More than half of the members who claimed they could conjure the voices of spirits were throwing their own. Poorly.”

“What was the Hermetic Dawn – what did you call it?” Dorian asks.

“The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn,” Doctor Arthwitte says emphasizing each individual word. “General Mathers started it along with two of his collegues. It was a secret gathering for those interested in the inner mysteries of this world and the worlds beyond. Alchemists, magicians, artists, we gathered the lost fragments of occult mysteries, magical rites, and everything pertaining to the apocryphal texts.”

“Was Olivia in it?” Penelope asks.

“Olivia?” Doctor Arthwitte asks. “Why, no, she wasn’t even born yet. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn ended in 1903 – in no small part because of one man who would have the world call him, ‘the wickedest man in the world’.”

“Why would they let him in?”

“He was not the man you know today when we met him,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “A melancholic youth driven by the loss of his father, he ascended the ranks of the Order with due haste and quickly fell under the tutelage of the General himself.”

“Where were you in all of this?” Penelope asks. “You’ve never talked about this before.”

“There is little to tell that I haven’t already written down. Alchemists were not viewed… favorably by their upper echelons. They rejected our chemical approach to the divine.”

“What?” Dorian asks.

“They couldn’t get drunk,” Penelope says.

“It was far more than that, I assure you,” the doctor snaps, defensive. “Their magicians believed that abstinence was the key to all working of the craft. They refrained from all wordly pleasures as a way to strengthen their Will.”

“Doesn’t seem like the kind of place Crowley would want to be,” Penelope says.

“There are other, more carnal organizations which he also frequented – but first there was simply the Order. Crowley was a humble young man, a touch eccentric, but who isn’t? Then he announced he would commit a ritual that few had ever dared – one that called forth every manner of demon known and, in the end, promised unspeakable power.”

“Did it work? Is that what changed him?”

“Oh, who could say? If what he received got is endless, omnipotent might then he’d best demand a refund lest his invoice include more than he bargained.”

“How did he destroy the Order?”

“When he demanded that the General teach him this ritual, Mathers refused. In petulance, Crowley revealed our secrets to the public, slandered the good name of the General, and soon the media circus was whipped into a frenzy – the Golden Dawn collapsed, forever.”

“Didn’t you reveal their secrets too?” Penelope asks.

“I, er-uh…,” Doctor Arthwitte lets his mouth hang open for a few seconds while he formulates an appropriate response. “All the secrets I divulged were with the express permission of General Mathers and the London Council. Ah, Mademoiselle Mathers, you’re back.”

“Herr Raubtier is bathing right now,” Angelica says, carrying a stack of folded cloth towels and rags with her as she enters the room. “He was very cross when Mami Hrobar stormed in insisting that we keep watch tonight.”

“Might I say,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Your ability to maintain an air of grace and civility in this trying time is a testament to the Mathers lineage. However, I must confess, I was under the impression that the General died almost thirty years ago. How is it he came to found this small village?”

“One of his tricks,” Angelica says. “Public life became near impossible after all of his scandals. My father told me that he faked his own death and left for the countryside.”

“He faked death by the flu?” Penelope asks, incredulous.

Angelica chuckles, “There wasn’t much to it, he simply paid off the right people and the press printed it. A carriage ride under the cover of night, a train out east, then he went on horseback the rest of the way.”

“Brilliant,” Doctor Arthwitte cheers. “I knew the old codger was a wily one. Ever the vitalist, I’m certain the robust air and soil kept him vital until the very end.”

“It must have, he made it a few years past a century,” Angelica chuckles. “And grandpa always had the energy to go frolicking with his ‘little andel’. When I was a child I thought this place was a punishment. I missed the city, the theatre, the museums, and electricity! He insisted that the village never go electric, that it interfered with communicating with spirits. It sounded ludicrous to me but then again, I… I always sensed something about this house. Like there was something alive in walls.” Angelica lets out a nervous laugh. “But ‘the spirits’ always helped him. They told him to found an Order and, almost overnight, he found investors.”

“The London Council,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Never met them, allegedly they spoke remotely through astral projection directly to Mathers.”

“Aleister Crowley didn’t mention the London Council,” Penelope says.

“Crowley?” Angelica asks, slowly, methodically, as if suppressing a tremendous rage that bubbled up at the mere mention of his name. “You mean, the Aleister Crowley?”

“Yes, yes,” Doctor Arthwitte says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “The ‘wickedest man in the world,’ the ‘Beast,’ the ‘Marked One, 666,’and so forth.”

Angelica rises from the bed. “He’s here?”

“It is our great misfortune that the vainglorious prat follows us all over the globe. Pay him no heed, madame,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “He is most assuredly harmless.”

“I’m the one who intends to harm him!” Angelica paces furiously in front of the bed, wringing one of the old cloths in her hands. “Every time that bastard was in the press, my father would have to move, or lose his job. Sometimes both. And you’re telling me that he’s still alive and here of all places?”

“I thought Crowley was Mathers’ favorite student,” Penelope says. “What happened between them?”

“I should warn Mami Hrobar.” Angelica makes her way out of their room. “Crowley must be the one responsible for all of this. It’s one of his curses!”

“Oh dear, I may have inadvertently provoked her,” Doctor Arthwitte says after the door closes. “Do you think it’s possible Crowley is responsible for these vampires?”

“Not unless it’s about stars–”

“He said it was Olivia, that–”

“One at a time, children,” Doctor Arthwitte says, his hands wiping back and forth as he sits in his desk chair. “I do not know much about the rituals of the Order. Few alchemists ever ascended past the first degree – a deplorable bias of magicians. There was one ritual, and it was quite a task, but it was required of all initiates that they conjure all manner of spirits.”

“And these spirits were like the Salamanders,” Penelope asks. “Just voices nobody else heard but the person they were speaking to?”

“Sometimes the spirits spoke to people, sometimes through people.” Doctor Arthwitte leans in with one hand to hide the side of his mouth, “General Mathers had a habit of conjuring all sorts of entities to play games of chess: gods, the dead, fairies.”

“He moved both sides’ pieces with an empty chair on the other end of the table, didn’t he?”

Doctor Arthwitte wipes his hands across his thighs again and nods. “Indeed. Although, remarkably, he did not always win.”

“That doesn’t prove any–”

“Communion with spirits was the entire locus of ascension within the Order, and while I have a passing familiarity with the tomes, their most treasured books were kept secret from the uninitiated.”

“But you wrote about the books they used,” Penelope says.

“None of my works actually included rituals for practice,” Doctor Arthwitte says, gesturing towards his bed. “More an encyclopedia or treatise on the various categories of magicians. The actual texts containing their talismans and rituals were never recovered. There were strict rules to uphold, of taking an heir or destroying the book before death.”

Penelope does not say anything. She realizes now that that was exactly the task that Aleister Crowley set her upon performing. Perhaps my book is one of the Order’s lost works. Perhaps this far-gone book is quite nearby, sealed by a mysterious force, and penned by me. My book is not their book, my spells not their spells. It is something unfathomably stronger.

“Why do you keep wiping your hands back and forth like that?” my sister asks.

“A mild reaction caused by working with the amanita muscaria – the mushroom of visions, famed the world over for its mind-expanding solvents and solubles. Perhaps, dare I wager, the key to unlocking this mystery we’ve afoot here.” He motions towards the Murphy bed, “Take a seat, the both of you, and forget about the ravings of magicians. Now you shall bear witness to the mystical science of alchemy.”

“And Dorian, lad,” Doctor Arthwitte clears his throat, “in my duffel you will find an old coat and some knickers. Try not to let them become casualties in the ongoing war against your remaining clothed.”