Khepera Rising

By Nerine Dorman

Jamie Guillaume is the man your mother warned you about, and South Africa’s wickedest man is about to raise more than hell. Haunted by the sinister Burning One and hunted by a pack of religious extremists, Jamie’s neck-deep in trouble.

Who does a black magician turn to when it seems like his carefully constructed world’s about to disintegrate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nerine Dorman
• Release date: Nov 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301613779

Nerine Dorman

An editor and multi-published author, Nerine Dorman currently resides in Cape Town, South Africa, with her visual artist husband. Some of the publishers with whom she has worked include Lyrical Press, Dark Continents Publishing and eKhaya (an imprint of Random House Struik). She has been involved in the media industry for more than a decade, with a background in magazine and newspaper publishing, commercial fiction, and print production management within a below-the-line marketing environment. Her book reviews, as well as travel, entertainment and lifestyle editorial regularly appear in national newspapers. A few of her interests include music, travel, history, Egypt, art, photography, psychology, philosophy, magic and the natural world. Her published works include Khepera Rising, Khepera Redeemed, The Namaqualand Book of the Dead, Tainted Love (writing as Therése von Willegen), Hell’s Music (writing as Therése von Willegen), What Sweet Music They Make, and Inkarna. Her short fiction regularly features in anthologies. Titles co-written with Carrie Clevenger include Just My Blood Type, and Blood and Fire. She is the editor of the Bloody Parchment anthologies, Volume One; Hidden Things, Lost Things and Other Stories; and The Root Cellar and Other Stories. In addition, she also organises the annual Bloody Parchment event in conjunction with the South African HorrorFest. She is also a founding member and co-ordinator for the Adamastor Writers’ Guild; edits The Egyptian Society of South Africa’s quarterly newsletter, SHEMU; and from time to time assists on set with the award-winning BlackMilk Productions.

Book preview

Foreword to the Original Electronic Edition

Hollywood, conservative regimes, fundamentalist religions and popular media have filled our lives with very definite concepts of good and evil. There is not always a place for rebels or mavericks, though it is often these people who blaze trails into the unknown.

Jamie gives voice to a dark vision, a morally ambiguous character going out of his way to provoke, yet who is unafraid to partake of life on his own terms.

The following passage pretty much sums up his ideology: I’d be safe if I dressed like them, behaved like them. No one would bother me. But all the while the monster would be howling and seething beneath the surface, itching to be free to snap its teeth at anyone within reach. The smart thing to do would be to pretend I’m the same, but smart isn’t fun now, is it?

I guess what I’m trying to say is life is too short to always follow the rules. To paraphrase Alan Watts, I feel existence is like a dance. It’s not about getting through the music as quickly as possible. It’s about savouring every experience, good and bad, and really moving to the music, even if you get blisters on your feet or twist an ankle.

Foreword to the Revised Print Edition, 2012

It always astounds me when I look back in just a handful of years and see how much the publishing industry has changed and, indeed, how much I have changed—not just in my perceptions of self but also what motivates me to continue creating.

I’m always amazed that I was able to home the first novel I ever wrote, because since I wrote the opening sentence of Khepera Rising, there have been a fair amount of projects I’ve buried very deeply at the bottom of the garden. By equal measure I’ve written stories I’d never have believed myself capable of if they’d been mentioned to me on that first morning when I opened my mail to read those fateful words, Dear Nerine, we are delighted to inform you…

The rest, as they say, is history. It has been lovely to have the opportunity to polish this story a little more, so that you now hold a lovely book in your hands. While electronic publishing has made it so much easier to share our words, it’s always fabulous to have a physical reminder we can take off our shelves and admire.

Special Thanks

A special thanks the second time round goes to Carrie Clevenger, who’s lent me her eyeballs and offered her unfailing support. You’re awesomesauce, lady. Never forget that.

Then, to my illustrator, Daniël Hugo, who understands how to translate my warped visions after several rounds of coffee. I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve read my mind.

Lastly, to Donnie Light, a big thank you for your patience and your solid, behind-the-scenes support when it comes to the technical stuff associated with publishing.

Chapter 1

Rebel without a Cause

The suburb of Fish Hoek is an ugly little misbegotten excuse for a seaside town. Today is one of those rare summer evenings when the southeaster isn’t ripping the world to shit, adding to my displeasure in making this place my least favourite spot in the world. Even my sort has business in this little hellhole from time to time and, in any case, I feel like walking, the gods be damned, and have come forth from my house on the hill.

Already the high season has been laid, fever-like, over this part of the Mother City. Shop! Shop! Shop! Spend all your money on shit you don’t need but think you want! Christmas decorations have been bleaching in shop windows since mid-October, their siren call beckoning to wallets still fat with the promise of a thirteenth cheque or end-of-year bonus. Teenagers laze about in the skate park, some cupping furtive cigarettes in their hands while others bring their boards down on the tarmac with loud cracks, like gunshots.

Main Road is a constant rumble of cars, trucks, buses and minibus taxis, the sound rattling my collarbone with each passing vehicle. Cross without watching at your own peril. Oh, fuck, and are the buildings ugly: square, blockish structures, few recalling the art deco, most evoking the generic, post-World War II economic boom. If only someone could have put the town planner out of his misery while these hulking shop fronts were still only being doodled on paper.

The shadows turn blue and long, yet there’s still brightness left to make me squint against the shafts of light reflecting off windows. Despite this, I like watching the people. Tired, fat black mamas toss words in Xhosa across the gulf of tar. They never spare me a glance, which is great, since I couldn’t care less for them. Otherwise, it’s the typical dross: the inhabitants of the avenues, the nearly-deads with their Zimmer frames and the assorted white trash and dregs of society starting when they see me for the first time. Edward Gorey meets the suburbs. I, James Edward Guillaume, am the resident master of the Gothic and macabre of this city’s southern coastal neighbourhoods, and I excel at adding a little dash of darkness to this pastel-shaded suburban nightmare.

She’s just another one of the tired bodies surging past, but the little lady with the lilac-framed glasses finds the balls to squeak out a Jesus loves you before slipping me an inane, saccharine smile. Her eyes dart over my chunky, inverse silver pentagram and slide up warily to meet my gaze, causing me to break my stride.

Self-righteous, dried-out cunt. I flip the old duck the bird and growl, Go fuck yourself.

She blanches and pulls back like she’s just been bitch-slapped. I turn from her so she doesn’t see the wicked leer imposing itself across my features, my teeth pulling back from my lips, ivory against a smear of black lipstick. Fuck the bitch. What the hell does she know? Should I rather tip my hat and say, Why thank you, ma’am, I know—I spoke to Jesus just the other day, and wish her kindly on her way?

What does she see, hmm? A skinny white chap of colonial descent, yes, with a bounce in his step, his long black hair teased out to make Siouxsie Sioux proud. Black eyeliner, black nail polish—wouldn’t be caught without those, luv. My face is powdered to perfection, accentuating cheekbones so sharp one could slice one’s fingers. Add black PVC trousers, skin-tight, and finish with a loose black shirt. Don’t forget the top hat and the knee-high boots from Hell.

Call me vain, if you will, for I represent, in garish detail, every fear these perennially dull folk entertain. Not only do I look the Devil, I am, in fact, the only bona fide black magician in this neck of the woods. This world isn’t going to change. It has little time for me. Why should I pay it lip service? Why should I bow, offering platitudes and niceties? Sure, I don’t have all the answers, but I refuse to lose my sense of place in the miasma of the mundane. Damn it. I can be anything I want to be.

I’d be safe if I dressed like them, behaved like them. No one would bother me. But all the while the monster would be howling and seething beneath the surface, itching to be free to snap its teeth at anyone within reach. The smart thing to do would be to pretend I’m the same as everyone else, but smart isn’t fun now, is it?

* * * *

Mondays always leave me out of sorts. Today is no different. I’ve been to that place where Mother lives, with its urine-stinking corridors and narrow wards where old people wait for death to swallow them. It’s always the same: the blank milky stares, their uncomprehending vocalisations bearing little resemblance to human speech. As always, I can’t wait to get out when visiting hour draws to a close at four. The disinfectant scours my sinuses for hours afterward, and leaves a pall that lingers across the rest of my day.

Stuart drops by to see me for a tarot reading this afternoon a half-hour after I arrive home, still rattled from seeing Mom. He’s an old friend who usually visits my shop on Tuesdays, but we had agreed to meet a day earlier at my house. In the inner sanctum of my dining room, I spread the cards on the dark stinkwood table. I’ve drawn the curtains so the westering sun cannot rob the house of what coolness the walls retain. Stuart perches on the edge of the chair, causing it to creak, and leans his arms on the table.

The cards are silk to my fingers. There is always something comforting about the way they slip onto the polished wood with a satisfying slap. The spread takes shape, and with each arrangement, I turn the cards over to reveal their story. There are the usual minor arcana speaking of wands, cups, discs and swords.

The art of Lady Frieda Harris evokes William Blake’s watercolours with a subtle kaleidoscope of shades, shapes and patterns. Using Aleister Crowley’s standard layout of five sets of three, it’s the final trio that causes my breath to stop when The Tower is revealed in its flaming inferno, dignified by the Nine of Swords accompanied by The Hanged Man. Not good. Not good at all. The Tower usually indicates the end of all illusions, and the Nine of Swords tells me there is a malicious person making trouble. Combine this with The Hanged Man and one has all manner of interesting possibilities speaking of some form of sacrifice to be made.

My fingers, of their own accord, try to run the tangles out of the hair spilling down my shoulders and I swallow, thinking hard of how to lie, to tell Stuart there’s some good in the way the cards are dignified in this layout.

A disembodied whisper brushes my ear. "This is not for him."

I jump to my feet, almost knocking my chair over.

What is it? Confusion marks Stuart’s face. It’s been so quiet up until now. Only our breathing and the ticking of the antlered cuckoo clock on the wall mark the time in this room.

It’s nothing. I try to disguise how much my hands shake as I scoop up the cards. The tarot is not speaking to me today. I can tell when the cards are a bit off.

Stuart, a tall, bronzed Apollo out of place in my lounge, with its black walls and silver candlesticks, gives me a weak grin. Maybe next time, bud. It’s crazy season at the moment. I understand.

He doesn’t.

A smile fakes its way across my face and a cold sweat starts beneath my armpits. Hollow eyes glance at me from the mirror above the fireplace.

* * * *

Please remind me why we’re going through this much trouble, Jamie, Lee complains as our boots sink ankle-deep into soft white sand near Surfer’s Corner in Kommetjie.

Aleister Crowley and Victor Neuberg slogged all the way out into the bleeding North African desert to do summon Choronzon. Something happened out there, Lee. All we have to do is walk for half an hour to the fucking wreck of the fucking Kakapo and you can’t stop moaning the entire way. Just think of what we’ll achieve. You can shake the sand out of your boots when we get back to the car.

Easy for you to say. You’re not carrying all the shit I am.

Shut the fuck up. If you want to be a half-decent black magician, you gotta do what I say. Or should I start charging you for your lessons?

He swears beneath his breath while we press on. Yes, I’m making him carry the rucksack with all the gear in it. So what? He came to me six months ago wanting instruction in the black arts. Who am I to say no to a willing student? The boy’s not stupid either. He’s already read most of the Great Beast’s writings and shown an inkling of understanding, which is something for a seventeen-year-old. He’s not a cat-killing, blood-drinking wannabe cultist.

Walking behind him gives me the opportunity to admire how firm his thighs are, the way the tight black denim rides up to the sweet mounds of his arse. His God-fearing parents would writhe and shrivel if they knew the way that Lee’s mouth has bruised my own on more than one occasion, the way his fingers and tongue have gained knowledge of my flesh. Lee, my catamite, my morsel—always hungry for more.

The sun kisses the cold Atlantic, burning bright orange in a burnished sky while it dips below the horizon. The beach is perfect because one can see people approach for miles from either side of the wreck’s rusted cylinder. Behind us, a headland hides Kommetjie’s beach house,s and waves crash against jagged brown teeth. Before us, obscured by its screen of milkwood, lies Noordhoek, with the shadowy hump of Chapman’s Peak domineering the sleepy village.

In the shadow of the wreck’s old boiler, we are sheltered from casual sight. We pause to smoke a cigarette and share wine while watching the sun take its final dip beneath the sea. We smile at each other when we pass the bottle and our fingers brush. He’s as excited as I am. We’ve never attempted this ritual before. It’s the first time I’ve had a willing partner. No one else has been as brave or foolish to go this far.

The breeze from the sea lifts feathers of dyed-black hair from Lee’s face, and his fine-boned features and sharp nose remind me of a creature almost elf-like. What will he look like one day when he fills into his frame? How will age treat him? Will he coarsen and thicken to become a pale, pasty replica of his father? He smiles, almost girlish in his appearance. If only this moment could be frozen forever.

We spend the remaining light discussing our intent. Choronzon is not an entity to be invoked without considering the consequences of potential madness. Most Golden Dawners would be waggling their fingers at us with stern reprimands, fear etched across their faces. Pity that there aren’t any around to be doing just that. We’d laugh at them.

What do true black magicians have to fear from demons? Nothing, really. We’re supposed to be their little cousins, little shadows of self in the material realm, exploring notions of self-deification.

What is Choronzon then, to strike so much fear in the hearts and minds of magicians the world over? Crowley, in The Confessions, reckons Choronzon not as an individual entity but a boundless possibility of form. Meaningless but malignant, as Crowley was wont to say.

Think of a chattering monkey that utters as many sounds as possible, twittering away for fear of being contained, forced into a static mould. Yet Choronzon wants an outlet, wants to be as real as us. He is a powerful ally and a dangerous opponent, for he can clad himself with the form of our fears. Crowley describes him as a dust devil and here we are, at the beach, with miles of sand impregnated with countless footprints.

For a while, Lee and I debate whether we should follow through with a standard ceremonial working with its protective circle and triangle. Lee’s keen to stick to the old-fashioned method.

There’s a reason for all this.

Nonsense! Circles and triangles are for wimps. Are you scared?

No. He withdraws, sullen, to take a long sip from the bottle. I just thought—

No, you’re not thinking. We have nothing to fear. We’ve gone over the reasons for the standard workings before. All those typical ceremonial magicians wanted to do was to unify themselves with the concept of the divine. They wanted to sublimate their egos becoming one with the All, then insist in their arrogance on a deity that should be treated with respect, not cursed and limited with the names of God.

I can’t see any difference between us and them, in that case. He pouts. Why would you want to destroy your concept of Self by invoking Choronzon then?

It’s the ultimate, don’t you get it?

No. Enlighten me.

Choronzon is the ultimate ally. If I can gain insight into his being, break down whatever illusions I have about myself, I’ll rise above this dross that we call humanity. I gesture to my chest.

A frown plays across Lee’s forehead. He’s not convinced. Well, he’s not the vessel. He’s not the one who’s going to have the Dweller of the Abyss shredding his mind. The pressure of excitement has been building in my belly for the past few hours. Ever since climbing out of the car, I’ve been like a groom about to violate his bride on their wedding night. I can’t wait.

Dunno, Jamie. Everyone I’ve spoken to says this kind of thing should only be attempted by someone who’s spent years, if not an entire lifetime, practicing magic.

Look at me, gods be damned. I’ve been practising magic since I was fifteen. You were fresh out of nappies when I cast my first circle.

Gee, thanks for that.

Oh, he doesn’t like it when he’s reminded of his age. He just doesn’t realise how lucky he is that he doesn’t have to spend three years of his life bumping his head against the illusions of Wicca. He can progress directly to the black arts.

We lay out our gear, the black candles, the uas sceptre, the dagger with its dragon-headed hilt and the chalice, and shrug into our robes, naked beneath the black fabric. The last bit of light bleeds out of the grey, allowing pinpricks of stars to shine through. By now it’s impossible to hide my erection and Lee pauses, still shirtless, to cup my face in his hand and kiss me so I can taste the wine staining his breath. His skin is hot to the touch and, in spite of his earlier misgivings, he’s as aroused with the prospects of this evening as I am.

The sand is easy to smooth and crumbles beneath my flattened fingers. Lee inscribes the pentagram and I place the candles at its points, one of which faces north, where we bury the seal of Choronzon, scribed onto virgin parchment with a mixture of blood, saliva and semen combined during the last full moon.

We stand next to each other, our arms loose at our sides while we prepare ourselves by falling into ritual breathing, visualising the energy points in our body flaring up like small suns in the aether. We face north, toward the element of fire, allowing it to ignite us. Lee’s hand trembles near my own. It’s too late for him to back out now and he knows it.

My voice sounds thin on this desolate beach, yet I intone the words that make this space sacred. Lee marches around the pentagram, calling forth the quarters, his timbre a reedy tenor to complement my baritone. He finishes and stands before me. He shivers when I pull him close, cold despite the evening’s balm, the brine and iodine-laden kelp drying in the air.

Our tongues twine and probe, mingling with the sea of his tears. Tears of fear, or joy? I don’t stop to ask. The ritual calls for some sort of energy release and what is better than the sex between two young males at their prime? This not the sex between a man and a woman, where the woman takes what the man gives, creating a closed circuit. This is the energy of two like poles, where the force of attraction is as great as the energy trying to keep them apart. There is more friction, therefore more power.

His muscles slide beneath the velvet of his robe and his phallus is hard against my thigh, responding to my hand when I cup the member. Ah, and there is the scent of him, a hint of frankincense oil and jasmine. He goes willingly to the ground, crouching before me with his sweet asshole pressed against my belly.

There is initial resistance then he bears down onto me, crying out with mingled pain and relief. I fuck him hard, so he squeezes me until all my essence burns through him in a hot white pillar of light. We fuck until I can bear it no longer. I pull out before I ejaculate, allowing my seed to spill on the sand.

We rise to our feet, eyes glistening, unafraid, raising our hands to the dark bowl of the sky, to the myriad stars punctuating the night with their coruscating brightness. Our breath explodes, ragged. There’s no denying it—Lee came just as hard as I did and we can’t help but grin maniacally at each other.

It’s difficult to explain but there’s electricity crackling in the air, a quality impossible to place into the limited vocabulary of the English language. The next part of the ritual will transport us to spaces we’ve never attained. Everything is perfect, hanging on the edge of some great shift.

It seems we are spiralling upward into an infinity of brightness.

The moment is obliterated by a sudden gust of wind driving sand over our circle, which causes our candles to gutter out. The wind snatches my words of dismay. This could mean a dozen things. Maybe this has been a success. Maybe random phenomena have given me a big fuck you for pretending to be something more.

* * * *

Gabby dropped out of the scene about three years ago. The last I heard, she joined some esoteric order of black magicians so secret she wouldn’t share the name of the organisation with me.

She’s the last person I expected to see here, at The Event Horizon. She looks almost lost among all the children of the night, wearing nothing but a pair of torn black denim hipsters with a Bauhaus t-shirt that has seen better days. She has not bothered with makeup and her lustrous red hair has been pulled back in a severe bun to reveal sharp, high cheekbones. Her only concession to any occult influences is a small silver udjat—a winking eye of Horus—hanging from a chain around her neck. She looks more eighteen than thirty-something. What surprises me even more is no one pays her the least bit of attention. Any other person would have received at least twenty baleful once-overs for not observing the strict dress code of PVC, leather, lace, satin or velvet.

She slips nonchalantly onto the couch next to me, and squeezes my knee none too gently. A wicked grin plays over her angular features, displaying canines too pointy for a member of Homo sapiens sapiens. Gabby is not a pretty girl but there is something to her face, her striking eyes almost emerald with a hint of topaz highlights. With a figure like a skinny teenage boy—all elbows and long, thin limbs—one would be forgiven for mistaking the lass for a lad.

Hello, Mr. Guillaume. Still the dandy, I see. She removes my gin and tonic from my limp grasp and takes a prolonged sip, quite clearly enjoying mocking me with her eyes. She uses the bat-topped swizzle stick to fish out the slice of lime and, with absent abandon, nibbles off the tender flesh.

I can do nothing but manage a rather uncouth gape for an instant or two. Lee is too busy flirting with Sebastian, a foppish prick who’s been trying to get into his pants for the past two weeks.

I swallow hard. Gabby. What on earth?

I’ve missed you, Jamie. Surprisingly. It’s been, what, three years?

That long?

Yes. She lights one of my cigarettes after returning my drink. Her hands betray a slight shake. Curious.

Can I buy you a drink?

Nah, it’s cool. I’m not going to stay long.

I try to look as if it doesn’t bother me that she’s sitting in front of me after disappearing out of my life. I shrug with what I hope is a casual air, making a show of smoothing out my silk shirt over my patchwork leather trousers. So, how’s your organisation? I know better than to try fishing.

It’s fine. Perfect. She pauses, looking around at the folk about us. Her eyes narrow when she looks at someone to our left, someone she must know from back then. Her lips pull back in a slight snarl. Did you finally go on that trip to do a meditation in Karnak like you said you would?

Nah, too busy with the bookshop and stuff. I’ll get it together one of these days.

Gabby snorts and shoots me an indecipherable look. I’m not here to kiss and make up. Her eyes gleam dangerously in the UV light. The distant, flashing strobe highlights the hollows of her cheeks, making her appear more predator than woman. I’ve come to warn you. You’re making yourself too much of a target. I shouldn’t even be here with you, but let’s just say that my associates up in Gauteng and a few of their friends and acquaintances who dabble with the more esoteric side of things have run into stinking trouble.

She drags deeply on the cigarette, the ember lighting up small flashes of red in her pupils, which, for a second, seem to contract to mere slits. This could be a trick of the light and my fevered imagination. She exhales a plume of narcotic blue smoke that curls up toward the extractor fan.

The DJ spins Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Peek-a-boo on the dance floor.

"You may be a total asshole, but I don’t want to see you get yourself into kak with these people. A lot of us misjudged these guys badly. It got very ugly, very quickly. Two of my less prudent associates had their homes burnt. They barely escaped with their lives, let alone their careers."

Oh, please. There is no force in my retort, my mind already bounding to other, more uncomfortable thoughts. Stuart hasn’t returned any of my calls since Tuesday. Could someone have targeted him? His meditation centre could be considered evil in certain circles. What about me?

I’m a respected, slightly eccentric bookstore owner in a nice, quiet, seaside suburb. Who’s going to bother me? They’ll have to burn down the entire row I trade in. We’re all kooky in Kalk Bay.

Slightly eccentric, my ass. Listen to me—for once in your life, stop being such a prat. Just tone things down for a while. We can’t be sure, but we’ve sources that speculate that these Christo-militants are down here in the Cape, about to target anyone who is ‘treating with the Devil,’ as they like to say it. Just be careful. Please.

I’m not about to give in to vicious rumours from some occultists who spend more time being mouse potatoes than actually living their art.

She hisses, looks away. Oh, yes, that’s one of her big red buttons all right. She looks at her watch. I have to go. My lift is double-parked outside and the car guards are probably hassling him by now. Call me if you need anything. My landline at work hasn’t changed."

It’s a different Gabrielle getting up and leaving, all businesslike, as if she’s dealing with a client at a meeting. Not the Gabby I knew back then. Her departure is as abrupt as her arrival and, if I sniff carefully, I can catch the lingering traces of her perfume. She still has a penchant for Opium.

The ghost of her touch lingers on my knee.

Who was that oddball chick you were talking to? Lee wipes a strand of his hair out of his eyes. She looks kinda familiar but what in the hell is she wearing?

An old friend. Lee was still in primary school when Gabby and I used to go out clubbing, catching the last train out and the first train back with the birds. I sigh.

My gin and tonic tastes far too sweet. Later the beer is too bitter, thickening in my throat. Somehow I cannot enjoy the rest of the evening.

Chapter 2

Kalk Bay Dreaming

A terrible dream assails me during the night. It’s one of those nocturnal horrors where I run through a shadowy landscape neither urban nor rural, not knowing where I want to be. There is nothing to remember save that I trip while attempting to escape some nameless thing before I wake with a start, my heart beating in my throat, my breath short.

It is half-past one in the afternoon. The shop should have been open more than three hours ago. It is tempting to stay in bed, but this Saturday is Eugene’s day off. I have to go, even though it’s not possible to hide that the skin beneath my eyes is puffy and bruised-looking. What’s important is presenting the face to my customers, no matter how hellish I feel after a night on the town.

The makeup covers more than most would suspect.

Outside it is a typical, depressing summery day. It’s far too bright. The southeaster is whipping up white horses down in the