Buer.
The Fall was always the same as the first time. A sudden ejection from endless nothingness into the direct experience of the numinous all, that familiar blazing, agonising sensation of being as the limitless light. A plunge, down into division, the separation of it from everything, subject, and object. Both fractured further. Light shattered into various spectra of colours, sounds, flavours and scents, and experience partitioned into sensations of sight, hearing, taste and smell. The tortuous tragedy of absence and loss, of no longer being all, but one perceiving all. The anxiety of weight came next, engulfed into substance, of time and space, of matter. It crashed into the lowest most debased level of existence. It raw identity, was thought without form, called forth from the void.
It knew no name other than the utterances of the creatures who had summoned it; Buer. Primitive and ranting, demented by plants and devotion, they prayed in darkened caves and called on the name; Buer! Clothed in animal skins and painted with the blood of slaughtered animals they shouted for it from frozen, barren mountaintops; Buer! In front of pyres of their children they had wept; Buer! Writhing in cold stone halls of lonely monasteries they had pled for it to come. Buer! Buer! Buer! If their need had been great, their rituals satisfactory and their offerings enticing, it had answered their calls, though not of any volition of its own.
It did not mind the appellation, for it had no real interest in acquiring such a thing as a name.
Once more it had come, leaving impressions of its thoughts within the thick, pungent, incense smoke of the latest candidate. Something with which to express its presence within the world of phenomenological illusion, this domain of atrophy, known by its highest creatures as Earth. The candidate had seemed a pitiful example of its species. Something had been taken from them since the last time it stalked this plane, some essence of being or strength of will. It could not decide, nor did it care enough to concern itself with such matters. This was no confident master of the Aethers, this was a callow pretender with painted black hair and painted white face, a man-child who knew little of the arts that brought it here, only how to read. It wondered what this creature could possibly offer it in exchange for its obedience. As it was, traditional fare was offered, a young woman. Though unlike in previous eras this was no fresh-faced virgin, nor had the proper sacrificial techniques been used to prepare her, no distillation of blood into silver bowls, no dismemberment nor incineration of limbs. The young woman was alive, wide-eyed but there was little vitality behind her vacant brown irises. It recognised the trick, but cared not, the offering was acceptable just as it was. The candidate only had to tell it his desire and the deal would be done.
Something then happened that it had not experienced in any of its previous visits to this rotting sphere. The ritual was interrupted.
Through a door in the tiny room barged two men, older, tougher than the candidate, they were dressed well, one held a machine with two long dark metal tubes and aimed it at the candidate. It watched and listened to the drama, the aggression, the shouts, the threats. There was violence and the candidate’s nose cracked and bled as it was smashed by the fist of one of the men. Angry at the assault, he made threats which the two laughed off. The candidate was not impressed by their mockery and so pointed and screamed, “Kill them”. The men lost patience. The machine with the two tubes exploded hot shards of metal into the body of the candidate with such force that he had moved across the room and crashed into the wall, his blood spraying in front and behind him. The candidate died instantly, but a deal was a deal. It decided to be creative.
It took a modicum of control of their nervous systems with ease and forced them down upon the large soft seat in front of the Fire of Iraal that the candidate had somehow managed to procure. Crippling their ability to move had been easy, turning the Fire on them, had been enjoyable. It watched them suffer as the subtle energies of the Fire washed through them, causing their skin to bubble and boil. They screamed silently as they endured intolerable pain throughout every cell in their dribbling, squirming bodies. The hours of their torture were pleasant but all too swift. Their demise somewhat a disappointment.
The sacrificial offering witnessed all of this with a dispassionate bewilderment that intrigued it. It decided that it had greater options than to torture this woman to death, it could do so much more and so it wore her, possessed her. She did not put up a struggle when it inhabited her, not at first. It understood why as soon as it took over her body. Morphia, or some derivative, had pacified her. This was another age-old tradition.
When the compounds were filtered out by her system, the vessel annoyingly struggled to wrest control from it, to regain dominance, but the creature was too weak to cause it much trouble. Fusing its consciousness with the woman’s nervous system had been an unendurable shock. It had forgotten just how sharp and vivid experiences were within a sensate being. Every perception was torturous and so scuttled into a cool, quiet, dark place, in order that it could readjust to the duress of inhabiting a vessel within the furious entropic conditions of space-time. It found a hole under a set of stairs, filled with strange implements and waited to settle into its new home.
For days it lay immobile as it began to build up a tolerance to the sensory world it found itself in. Eventually, it found it could move without agony and using only its will, heaved an arm through the air with great effort, feeling every molecule of the thick fog of gases that tingled against the woman’s raw skin. The end of the limb split into five fingers, and a thin line of blood ran down three of them. It found itself excited as her mouth filled with rich, tasty saliva, flavoured with a cocktail of hormones. It stretched open the orifice and inserted two of the appendages, using the slippery wet tongue to slather the fingers in the bitter fluid which mingled with the red. The sensation was ecstasy and it felt itself expand, swell up inside its host until the woman seemed like she might burst. The tension ran along every fibre and it could sense, somewhere, a delectable storm of terror and pleading from the host. Such a world of marvels. Basking in the awe of its experiences, it was, once again, almost overwhelmed by this world’s wonders.
It was shaken from its hedonistic experiments by something from outside of its resting place. From high above it heard a thump. Curiosity led it to slide part of its awareness from the woman and up through the dark, through various materials until it was, once again, in the room where it had been called forth. There was a living creature that moved furtively around the area. Another man, scrawny compared to the vessel it worse, carefully avoiding those it had made stop moving sometime before, when it had come to this dominion of wonders. This being was an invader, uninterested in its handiwork. The creature merely picked up the Fire of Iraal and after a few moments, left through the window.
The invader held little interest. It came back to the dark little area under the stair and focussed on some of the artifacts stashed in there with it, marvelling at the inventiveness of them. A long coil of thin metal strands wrapped in some odd material, a thing that looked like a bone, but with three metal digits sticking out in a triangular fashion, an object with two long wooden tubes attached to two flat metal angles, both of which were sharp. It pulled at the handles and noticed they were joined by a fulcrum and the whole thing open and closed with a glorious scraping snap.
That gave it an idea, and it stretched out one of the woman’s lower limbs, with its five little stumps. It opened the blades around one of the toes and using the handles, closed the metal angles rapidly and with some force. An explosion of sensation surged up the limb and into its centre. It shuddered with pleasure. It wondered what else it could discover with its new toys. It decided that now it approached some form of stability within the woman that it should ransack the host’s interior domain, to see what it could find out. She was screaming inside, a kind of undulating wave that acted like a fog, obscuring her secrets. It would have to teach the host who was in charge. It tore through that fog with savage anger and the self-image of the little creature unfolded, all its thoughts, fears and memories rushing at it like a tsunami of internal experience. It drank in her knowledge, of music and drugs and sex and personal history.
He had been called Harris, the candidate, her lover and abuser. The fool had thought himself a Magus, her his high priestess and whore. He had tried to show her his art, to make her see the worlds beyond theirs and so they had called it down. Buer, the demon.
It picked everything she was apart, in order to access her name. She had wisely kept that locked away as best she could but to no avail. Olivia. She was little more than a naive child. It decided that it would soon remedy that.
Chapter Two
Montgomery looked at the array of antiques in the window with dismay. He had thought they would have been snatched up by now, but business had been quiet over the last few weeks. Mostly he was disappointed that the Minton lidded turquoise vase with pink carnations in the centre was still gathering dust. He’d picked it up for thirty quid, it was worth over a thousand and in perfect condition, not a single chip nor crack nor imperfection in the lustre of its glaze. He looked out the window, watching the few passers-by in the hope that someone might stop and look in and caught the eyes of a dodgy-looking lad staring right into the shop from across the road. Montgomery was already suspicious. He knew the type. A drug addict, probably heroin, they’d come in from time to time, seeing if there was anything they could shoplift. He’d need to keep an eye on that one.
Brian noticed the old bloke staring at him. He had to decide, go in or split. So far he had found selling the lamp difficult. Giddy Allerdyce had told him to fuck right off and no one he or Pete knew were the types of people who would have a clue as to its worth. It wasn't a TV or stereo or jewellery that could be easily sold on. Brian wasn’t getting shot of it quickly for some smack, he knew the lamp was valuable and knew he was not getting shot of it for less than five grand. Pete kept insisting he take what was offered but none of the fences they tried was willing to give them anything over fifty quid. He told them all to fuck off, much to Pete’s chagrin. They’d argued about it but he insisted he wasn’t selling it unless he got some serious cash. The antique dealer would know better than anyone, all he had to do was cross the road and not act like a total daftie. In he went. The place stank of furniture polish and old folk. All the ancient varnished wooden panels made the interior look like an antique never mind all the junk the guy had collected.
Montgomery groaned as the boy came into the shop, a sound muffled by the little bell ringing from above the door. A sweaty little junkie, trying to stop his eyes rolling around his head like snooker-balls. “Can I help you?”
“Awright mate. Here, I wunnered if you could dae us a favour? See ma maw passed away recently, God rest her soul and as me an’ ma Aunt Grace wur sortin’ oot her stuff, we fun this ‘hing in the attic,” Brian said, trying his best not to slur his words.
Montgomery nodded. “I see, so you were looking to see if it was something of value, is that it?”
“Aye. So, anyway” Brian continued, “there's ma auld aunt an' she's like “Did you even know yer maw hid somethin' like this?” An' 'am like, I don't even know whit that is, Aunty Maggie.”
Montgomery stifled a chuckle, the lad couldn’t even keep his story straight for five seconds. “Curious, would you like to let me see this marvel?”
Brian nodded and removed the lamp from the three layers of plastic Tesco bags he'd stashed it in. “Aye cheers.”
Montgomery’s eyes widened as Brian placed the lamp in front of him on the counter. He had never seen the like. It was a lamp of some sort, the design and craftsmanship exquisite, the heavy gold base was of no style he’d ever come across. It was old, definitely. He needed to check the base, to see if there were any identification marks. He stretched his hands out to pick it up and then looked at the young man. “Do you mind if I…?”
“Fire away,” Brian croaked.
Montgomery picked it up and looked at the bottom, humming and hawing. There was something there, he noticed but it was tiny. He picked out his jewellers lens from his waistcoat pocket stuffed it in his eye like a monocle and examined the manufacturer’s mark. It was a small circle, Cyrillic markings, a language he recognised but of which he had no understanding. Eastern European, he concluded, centuries old.
“Where did you find this?” He gasped.
“Telt ye, ma maw left it tae ma auntie in her will,” Brian replied.
“Oh yes, sorry,” Montgomery replied again trying not to laugh.
“No problem, so what is it?”
“I have no idea, to tell you the truth, stunning though. I’m wondering what is powering the light.”
“Dunno, canny find any oan or aff switch.” Brian answered. “I jist want tae know whit its fur or if it's just y'know… wan of they…” He trailed off, attempting to remember. He got it, clicked his finger and said “...ornaments”.
The antique dealer shook his head. “As I said, I have no idea what this is, but I know someone who knows more of these sorts of curiosities than I do.”
“I'm no leavin' it wae ye, nae offence...” Brian said.
“None taken. No he's a colleague who works up the road at the Uni, an art historian, I was going to call him see if he'd come down and take a look.” The antique dealer said.
“Aye, fine, if he's quick.” Brian conceded.
“Oh I’m sure he will be. Just let me phone him.”
Brian nodded and watched the old man swan into the back shop. He had warmed to the old chap. Sure he was a poncy old grey-hair and probably a bender but that olive suit he wore was sharp as a tack and he had made Brian feel at ease rather than treat him with contempt, especially since he’d clocked right away that Brian was a chancer. The old dealer was muttering away in the back-shop and Brian took the opportunity to browse. His eye had settled on a painting at the back. It depicted three filthy men sitting on piles of what appeared to be coal, eating some sandwiches. He looked at the label. “The Miners’ Lunch.” Thomas McEwan. Date Unknown, £750. Brian wasn’t an artsy-fartsy type, but he liked it.
The antique dealer came back out. “He’ll be ten minutes at most.”
Brian was still enamoured with the painting. “Aye, nae bother.”
“You like that?” Montgomery asked.
“It’s no’ bad, eh?” Brian replied. “Surprised it’s no in a gallery, that’s the sort of paintin’ they’d make us look at when we were oan school trips.”
“Many of McEwan’s works are in galleries these days. His style of art is not particularly fashionable.”
“Hence the price tag I take it. Should be worth mer’ than that. Cryin’ shame.”
This tickled Montgomery. He had no idea that the lad had even a shallow appreciation of art and then chastised himself for being so judgemental. “I agree, but his work is not particularly uncommon or unusual.
It turned out the contact was quicker than ten minutes. The bell rang and in barged a larger than life character who looked like the type who'd left school, went straight to university then never left. All milk-bottle glasses and tight curled wiry copper hair draped brown Tweed, he was practically a stereotype. His overly theatrical gasp upon looking at the object didn't warm him to Brian either. “Is this it?” he stated as he peered at the lamp on the counter with an exaggerated affection.
“Rupert, good to see you.” Montgomery asked.
“Uh-huh.” Rupert said, too busy with his examination of the lamp. “Where on earth did you find this?”
“Ma maw’s hoose.” Brian stated.
Rupert turned, noticing Brian for the first time. “Wonderful… astonishing,” he gushed, genuflecting in camp awe. “How much do you want for it?”
“Five thousand,” Brian said, “Cash,” he added, firmly.
“Cash? I don't have five thousand pounds in cash. Isn't a cheque fine?” Rupert suggested.
“I don't really have a bank account if you take ma meanin',” Brian answered, apologetically.
The man looked him up and down and nodded before sneering an elongated “Yes.”
“How about you Monty? Can you pay the lad? I'll write you a cheque right now. I'll give you ten percent, finders fee, deal?”
“I can, but I was thinking more a thousand, to be honest, I would have thought you would have been gracious enough to give me a finder's fee anyway, Rupert.”
Rupert, his name was Rupert, Brian could hardly stop himself from laughing.
“Can't blame me for trying, very well, you have a deal,” Rupert conceded.
“So… Rupert.” Brian asked, nearly laughing. “Whit is it?”
“Hmm? Ah Yes… it is known as a Ghost Light. They were originally quite popular amongst the Eastern Aristocracy, Russia and that sort. A late seventeenth-century fashion, probably to ward off accusations of witchcraft. Apparently the crystals shone fiery red in the presence of great evil.”
“So, a fancy lamp?” Brian asked. As he did something was niggling at the back of his mind. The light had changed colours in that room. He dismissed it, money was about to change hands, he needed to concentrate.
“Aye, a fancy lamp.” Rupert agreed.
Montgomery came back up the stairs still counting a large wad of notes. “Two thousand in hundreds, two thousand, in fifties, five hundred in twenties and in tens.”
Brian held open his now empty plastic bags. “Jist, stick it in there.”
“You don't want to count it?” Montgomery asked, surprised
“I trust you,” Brian replied. He was thinking to himself that “Monty” kept quite a lot of cash on the premises. Which might be something worth keeping in mind for the future. He could make some money if he robbed that place. That’s what it was all about.
Comments
Post a Comment