Chapter Four.
Back at his unkempt office, Rupert Baird unpacked his new possession and after shoving several books out of the way placed it upon his desk. It was a remarkable piece. The curves of the gold base and setting looked almost organic as if it had melted and ran into such an exquisite shape, which just so happened to fit the dozens of odd gemstones that make up the main body of the Ghost Light. The complexity of the gems was fascinating. Each one was a small milky rhombohedron about the size of a thumb, slotted together like an intricate puzzle. The result of this feat of artistry and engineering was that the crystals rose up in strange but pleasing curves, a repeating pattern which reminded him of plants, with small pointed blooms at the top. If it had been hung upside down it would have looked like a spectacularly ornate chandelier. It was a magnificent, mysterious piece.
While he had heard about Ghost Lights, even seen Hebbert’s drawings of the one owned by the Hungarian Count Ferenc Nádasdy, he had no idea if what he had was genuine or not, no idea if genuine Ghost Lights still existed, or ever had. Even so, the gold base and the gems were worth considerably more than he had paid for it. If it were genuine, however, then it would be worth enough for him to retire in luxury. He tapped his feet with excitement at the prospect of it. He would need to have it appraised to find out the real value, and there was only one game in town that had the expertise to know the actual worth of something as rare and strange as this, The O.A.
For years he, like everyone else who knew of their existence, had speculated on what those initials meant. He’d heard various explanations, some more plausible than others. Occult Auctions was one that seemed fitting, though his old friend and self-declared sorceress Julia Lytton-Farmer claimed it was the name of the original owners, Oswald and Ambrose. Julia was as daft as a brush though. No one actually knew, and The O.A. only ever referred to themselves by the initials. He supposed it added to their mystique. Only those in the know had even heard of them and it was best not to approach them unless one was serious, so he’d heard.
He picked up the phone, stuck his finger into the dial and rotated it until he had dialled the number he’d plucked out of his pocketbook, waited for it to connect, heard it ring and then…
“Good Afternoon, this is O.A. You’re speaking to Emily Carter, how can I help you?” said the voice at the other end, feminine, high class, perhaps from a wealthy family.
“Ah Good afternoon Emily. My name is Rupert Baird, I’m an art historian at Glasgow University.”
“Ah yes, you wrote that marvellous piece about Caravaggio shaping modern Catholicism.”
“You read that?” Rupert chuckled.
“I did. I liked the way you compared him to Goebbels, very cheeky I must say,” Emily chuckled. “So what can I help you with Mr. Baird, our catalogue for the winter auction is not yet finished.”
“Well, I know this might sound odd, even to you, but it appears I have come into possession of what I assume to be a Ghost Light.” Rupert said.
There was a pause for a few moments before Emily said. “I won’t insult you by asking if we are talking about the same thing, but… are you sure?”
“I’m not positive but it certainly looks like a Ghost Light. It has that gold candelabra setting with various milky gems interlaced into a complex pattern, no seeming power-source. I was rather hoping it could be appraised by yourselves.”
Emily seemed excited by the prospect. “Oh most definitely. May I ask how you got a hold of it?”
“Well, there’s the tale. A couple of chancers turned up at one of my friends, who is an antique dealer, with it, they wanted five thousand pounds. I bought it.”
“You got a Ghost Light for five thousand pounds?” She laughed. “You’re a lucky chap.”
“I think so. So, can we arrange to have it appraised?”
“Of course. I can have someone in Glasgow contact you on… Thursday evening around seven, if that suits?”
“That would be great. So, how much do you think it might be worth, if it was genuine?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly say, the last one we sold was over 100 years ago. I’d imagine you’ll be quite well off though.”
“Right, well thanks Emily. You need my address?”
“We have your address Rupert.” She replied, in a way that left Rupert feeling marginally disconcerted.
Buer.
The amnesia of descent began to thaw. It recalled the last time it had been on this plane. It had been called by an individual known as Hatry, a creature whose lust was greed. Hatry was an incautious man, extravagant with the wealth he had gained through its teachings. By the time it had been called by Hatry, he had already profiteered from a pointless long term massacre known as “The Great War”. It learned much about this slaughter, delighted in the knowing that the creatures were still easily manipulated fools. Their trade had been simple, it would give him the secrets of obtaining more and more wealth and in return, Hatry would supply it with every scrap of information about this modern, industrial world that he could find.
For five years it and Hatry and worked well, and every purchase, every bankruptcy had left Harty stronger. By July of the year they labelled 1929, it knew all it had to know to engineer another slaughter so audacious in its construction that it would take a further decade to come into existence. It convinced Harty that he was above the law, knowing he was not and so in the September of that year, it had left the mundane sphere hours before the enforcers of law had come to his home. Harty’s magic empire disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the collapse of it was the first wave of it’s long convoluted spell. It never got to see the further economic collapses of nations, the financial deprivation that struck the globe in that month and following years. It never witnessed the squalor it had wrought, nor the resentments that built up. Old resentments of ethnicity, new resentments of class. It never knew who the catalyst for its atrocity would be, never could have imagined a spiteful little failed artist would be the vessel for its work. It never dreamed its spell would be so successful. Genocide factories, cities obliterated in an instant, dead upon dead upon dead, in trenches, in bombed out cities, run over by great metal machines filled with explosives. The exterminations of the weak, of the helpless, of the blamed, a species driven mad with the lust of wrath. A species divided by economies, by ideology, by illusion. Walls went up across the continent, a cold war between two competitors left millions more dead across the globe, in revolutions, in great leaps forward, in killing fields and clandestine hits. Governments were deposed, leaders assassinated. 60 years of insanity and slaughter over a magic trick. Its current vessel, Olivia knew more that she could have imagined, from sixteen years of watching television. Her mind held more information than all the news that Hatry could provide. It devoured everything, to add to its knowledge. It even knew that the spell had finally been broken, the walls had finally been toppled, just four months before.
It also knew there was no such thing as coincidence. It had returned for a reason. To do it all again. From this ignorant child, it would call forth a new testament of blood and chaos. It had a purpose. It was time to begin. It stretched out her stiffened limbs, moved into a standing position and walked out of the cupboard under the stairs. It hobbled a bit, given that Olivia was missing a toe. She was still, however, in possession of a library card. She protested at her nudity as it made to leave the house and it thought it wise to listen. It was not about to get caught. It whispered to her, softly, like it would a pet, giving her images of a bright and glorious future if she guided it, helped it. She fell for its lies. In return he was gentle with her, shifted her into a small part of the mind it now inhabited, drowning her in a warm womb-bath of euphoric and soporific neurochemicals until she was blissfully passive and receptive. It walked in her borrowed body through the streets, the air was rich with a billion scents and noises, a breeze of chemicals that tickled her hairs and prickled her skin. It was alive again, truly alive and it found itself giggling at this rare yet familiar experience. It pulled the direction of the library from her mind and followed the route, passing people and tall poles with lights on top, watching metal vehicles of various sizes. Soon it was in the temple of books and used her vocal calls to ask for newspapers. The woman behind the counter gave a funny look but complied and it was not long before it was devouring months upon months of newspapers sitting on the little table. Murder, sport, celebrity news, politics, economics, theft, rape, abducted children, drugs, torture, outright lies, scurrilous conjecture, idiotic opinion, orders, instruction, suggestion, all the sins of the human world from the cardinal to the trivial. It was not enough. As it returned the sheets of ink and waited for more, it flicked through books, history and politics mostly while the woman dumped more papers on the table. Again it turned page after page plucking the strands of event and misery, allure and suffering, greed and wrath. Eventually it was done, it had enough component parts to start work on its plan, a new seed that would germinate into incomprehensible carnage, but first, it needed money. It walked out of the library and pulled some notes from the pockets of Olivia’s clothes. Fifteen pounds. It would find a gambling establishment, a “bookies” and win a lot more money. It needed a better base from which to work its mayhem.
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