The J'argon

By Sea Raven

The J'Argon is the leader of a spiritual alliance that has voice, but not vote, in 22nd Century global politics. She is the Fourth J'Argon, and the first woman to hold the title since the Covenant of the Word was formed in 2047. Her long-time lover, partner, and soul friend, the Arch Deacon of the National Cathedral, is a leader in the Liberation Underground ...

"DEEPLY SPIRITUAL PEOPLE IN DIRE WORLD CIRCUMSTANCES USING THEIR SPIRITUAL AND PHYSICAL ENERGIES ALONG WITH HELP FROM UNEXPECTED PEOPLE AND MAGIC, OLD AND NEW, KEEP THE WORLD FROM DESCENDING INTO DARKNESS ... THIS EXCITING STORY COMBINES COMPELLING CHARACTERS IN A RICH BREW OF WELL-DEVELOPED PLOT LINES." Jim Negrette, Reclaiming Quarterly ? The Magazine for Witchcraft and Magical Activism.

"THE J'ARGON IS THE MOST POWERFUL NARRATIVE OF SPIRITUAL INTRIGUE, RITUAL, AND POWER...NOT SINCE I READ MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY'S MISTS OF AVALON HAVE I FELT SO MOVED TO MY SPIRITUAL CORE." Maria Cristina Gonzlez , Ph.D., D.Min., Senior Lecturer, Arizona State University, and former Dean, University of Creation Spirituality, Oakland, California.

The Year is 2157. The United States has become a repressive theocracy, where a great Evil holds sway and plans to conquer the world. The Arch Deacon must open his prophetic Christian mysticism to the J'Argon's ancient earth-based magic and awaken his own Adept power, so that together they can defeat the Dragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 6, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462079179

Sea Raven

Sea Raven, D.Min., holds a Doctor of Ministry in Creation Spirituality from the University of Creation Spirituality in Oakland, California. She is a writer, musician, creator of ritual, and spiritual seminar leader, and lives on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. with two cats and a magic garden.

Book preview

The Jargon

Sea Raven

Writer’s Showcase

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Jargon

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Sea Raven

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons or situations is purely coincidental

ISBN:0-595-08976-3

ISBN:978-1-4620-7917-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Covenant

I

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Chapter 2

Exile

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Chapter 3

Commitment

I

n

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Chapter 4

Death

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

Chapter 5

Liberation

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Chapter 6

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

Chapter 7

I

n

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

Chapter 8

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Afterword

"I teach Black music to White folks

cause y’all might need it someday."

Isaye Barnwell

Sweet Honey in the Rock

Foreword

All families descended from those in the theocracy established by the United States civil war of 2045 maintained histories of the times leading up to the take-over by the fundamentalist Religious Right. For those opposed to the dismantling of the 300-year-old North American experiment in Democracy, the stories became an oral tradition that kept the dream alive.

In a classic reenactment of forgotten history, the U.S. election of 2032 put a charismatic, authoritarian, fanatic Christian purist in the White House. The Christian Coalition Party danced in the streets at the inauguration—some called it the anointing—of the Coalition founder’s grandson. It was the last free election. In 2040, the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution was repealed, allowing the president a third term. On election day in 2044, martial law was declared when it became clear that the opposition liberal candidate had a good chance of winning the Electoral College despite government intimidation throughout the election campaign. California, Nevada, Washington State, and Oregon declared themselves break-away republics; The Dakotas, Minnesota, and Northern Michigan did the same. Millions of people poured across the borders into Canada and Mexico. Millions more died in the attempt, as the borders were brutally closed—not by the U.S. military, but by militia privately funded by the Rev. Luke Abrahamson, Secretary of the new Cabinet-level Department of Church/State Relations.

At the Winter Solstice 2046, on Abrahamson’s order, eleven organizers of the fledgling Liberation Underground were publicly summarily executed without trial in Rockefeller Center Plaza in a ghastly recreation of a 15th Century Auto-da-fé. The group included the best minds in U.S. political and religious life. Among them were the President of the Bishops’ Council of the Catholic Church in America; the Editor-in-Chief of the Christian Science Monitor; the Moderator of the Baptist Joint Committee; the Executive Director of People for the American Way; and as an example to the younger generation of would-be counter-revolutionaries, 25-year-old Michael Morgan Benedict, Campus Student Minister at Villanova. The eleven were brought to the plaza in oxcarts, tied to seasoned oak stakes, doused with gasoline, and set afire. Screams from the victims and the horrified, rioting crowd were dubbed out in the delayed telecast and replaced with the Metropolitan Opera’s virtuoso basso profundo Grayson Thomas, singing Handel’s aria from The Messiah: For he is like a refiner’s fire. The whole world watched American Democracy and human rationality go up in flames. After seeing the evening news, Thomas threw himself from the 22nd floor balcony of his apartment across the street from Lincoln Center.

At the Summer Solstice of 2047, a late 20th Century attempt at a global religious United Nations was reframed and the Covenant of the Word was born. The Covenant became a powerful political Voice for spiritual truth in contrast to the so-called Christian terrorists exporting their Revolution from the New Confederate States of the Americas. To emphasize the universality of mystic experience, albeit couched in sometimes esoteric language, the leader of the Covenant of the Word was ordained J’Argon.

Chapter 1

Covenant

I

The smoke flap on the tepee slapped once as the wind shifted in its travel around the tree-lined clearing, but the pyramid structure barely trembled. Snow crystals pounded against the layers of poly-enforced animal skins, making a constant grating noise. A small pot of water steamed on the central heat source, softly glowing in the fire pit in the middle of the tepee. The J’Argon paused at the end of the paragraph she was typing into the autonotebook, and listened for a moment. The mooring lines and flexible pine poles were holding. Beyond the gritty sound of the driven snow, and the big wind singing through the ancient white pine, all was primeval stillness. The J’Argon would have heard a field mouse approaching the entrance hole because she knew how to listen under and beyond the immediate and the distracting.

She returned to her message. I think I’ll be snowed in for a while, but I’m perfectly safe. Now if the communication chip works, you’ll be reading this very soon. Happy New Year! I love you.

The J’Argon did not sign her name. If the transmission were intercepted, Michael could always plead bafflement. So far none of their communications had been detected—a major miracle given the length of time of their partnership. But they were discrete as well as bold. They seldom sent anything through the official Web channels, and there was just too much world wide traffic on the sub-Web net for even the most anal of the Guardians to monitor.

She activated the Web Access Modificator. The communication chip glowed red briefly. Done.

The J’Argon was ready for a long night of vision travel, but some perverse instinct whispered to her to go and just look outside for a moment—to feel the strength of the wind, and the icy bite of the driven snow. She grabbed a deerskin from a pile and wrapped it around her body, then released the bindings, folded the door covering back, and looked outside.

The tepee faced east, so the westerly wind sailed the snow right by, piling it into a curving drift a yard or so from the opening. She would be buried by morning, but the opening should remain free. Heat streamed out around her, so she had no sense of the minus-40-degree Celsius wind-chill outside. She saw nothing but swirling blackness beyond the pool of light divided by her shadow on the snow before the door. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Sixth Night of the New Moon—high magic night, Bless the Work as our Souls take flight she thought. A gust of wind blew around the tepee, sprinkling snow in through the door. Thank you, Grandmother.

The J’Argon closed the door covering, replaced the deer hide on the pile, and turned to the small pot steaming in the fire pit. She took a handful of flash-fresh mugwort from a stasis bag, put it into a small bowl, and poured hot water over the leaves. Then she removed her deerskin leggings and tunic, and sat naked on the edge of the bed, holding the bowl in both hands, breathing in the steam, and sipped the mugwort infusion. Half-tranced at the steam, she wrapped herself snugly in a soft, light-weight fox fur, then finished the potion and sank down into vision sleep.

This Solstice quest was the 15th she had made since becoming the Fourth J’Argon of the Covenant of the Word in 2142 of the Common Era. She was neither young nor old. In normal world time reckoning she was 50, but there was no silver yet in her black hair, and only a few lines around startling dark blue eyes and a mouth that was accustomed to smiling or tasting, or kissing, or singing, or speaking the old words of English or French or the new ones of the Dakota Federation or the Confederacy.

Three others had worn the mantle of J’Argon in the 110 years since the formation of the political entity known as the Dakota Federation and the global spiritual community called the Covenant of the Word. All had been shamans or holy elders in the various traditions that comprised the Covenant: a Native American, a Kabbalist Jew, and a Tibetan Lama. As High Priestess of the Old Religion, a direct descendant of the Faery Folk of prehistoric Caledonia, she was the first woman—still a significant fact 200 years after the great resurgence of feminism in the 20th Century.

The J’Argon took a deep breath and as she exhaled, her consciousness descended further into vision trance. She watched blackness at first, then plunged into and through a great expanse of stars and flew free like a leaf with the winter blizzard toward the southeast.

…Michael…

She materialized as a puff of air that blew a flame in a beacon candle burning in an alcove in a private apartment.

Michael Benedict, Arch Deacon of the National Cathedral, looked up from reading her sub-Web message on his high density com screen and gazed at the disturbed beacon. He was not an Adept, and could not know that their eyes met across the flame’s aura. Even after 20 years of intimate clandestine partnership, he was unable to visualize the psychic links she created, but he did sense her contact. In a world where the walls have ears, even in the privacy of his own study, the Arch Deacon would not speak out loud.

Hello, Love, she heard him think to the candle flame.

She danced in the heart of the wick in reply, bending the flame to her woman’s shape. Then she reached once more for the star path, and a long tongue of faerie fire followed her to the alcove ceiling before subsiding to normal candlelight. She didn’t see the corners of his mouth tremble into a smile.

Human need satisfied, the J’Argon let go into the Death Trance.

This was the most important and the most dangerous of the duties assumed by the J’Argon. In the profound depths of the Trance she would learn the wisdom of the rocks, the waters, the trees. From all the life forms of Earth she would gather memories and certainties necessary to the daily life and work of the People of the Covenant. The danger lay in the fact that the Trance mimicked an intractable coma. If heroic measures were taken to break the coma, the shock of forced sudden return would snap the link between astral identity and earthly body. If she were lucky, she would die; if not, she would be trapped in a kind of insanity between the worlds.

This understanding of consciousness and spiritual identity was so foreign to traditional Western Christian theology that few outside the oldest of the world’s spiritualities had ever been taught how to do it. Natural adepts could and did figure it out on their own. But failures were simply reported as deaths, and successes had become the sources for those same aboriginal spiritual paths.

While the J’Argon tranced, her body remained snug in the tepee. The central heat source was programmed to raise and lower the temperature on a schedule commensurate with the J’Argon’s biorhythms. The 13 days since the Winter Solstice had been spent in physical and spiritual preparation for an extended fast.

The longest Death Trance known to the fairly short history of the Covenant of the Word was 30 days. At the Summer Solstice 1998, when the danger to the lifestyle of the old United States was at its height—and before anyone had a clue that there was a danger—a Shaman-in-Training, a 16-year-old youth from the Shawnee in Central Wisconsin, went into spontaneous Death Trance during a weekend with his spiritual mentor. Fortunately for the boy, his mentor realized what was happening. He called in an emergency support team of elders and shamans from the Tribes, and they drummed and danced and prayed and waited.

When the boy returned, he simply opened his eyes and said Grandfather, it’s too late. And it was. Too late to move to Canada, too late to change voting patterns, too late. On a small farm in central Wisconsin, a female White Buffalo died, shot by a disgruntled National Rifle Association member. The Tribes spread the word as far and as fast as possible for people to get ready for the greatest repression since the Middle Ages, and they put in place the framework for the Dakota Federation.

The J’Argon awoke gently, on her back. She saw bright blue sky through the smoke hole. The tepee walls were translucent with morning sun. The air seemed chilled, but she had waked naturally during a cool cycle of the central heat source. She had no clue how long she had been in the Death Trance. All she remembered was visiting Michael in the candle flame.

She flexed her toes against the fox-fur, scissored her legs experimentally, and extended arms and hands above her head, out of the warm cocoon of air surrounding her body. She arched her back in a long stretch and took a deep orienting breath. Then she opened the covering and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Too fast. Dizziness swayed her body and she braced herself on one arm. She must have been gone for more than one night. She sat quietly for a moment, then reached for her soft deerskin morning robe that hung close to hand on the sloping wall of the tepee. She shrugged into it, still seated on the bed.

She looked at each of the items in the small universe of the tepee, slowly returning fully from the Trance.

The heat source in the center fire pit glowed into life again. Its sensors had detected her movement, and the accompanying subtle change in her body temperature caused it to switch into normal workday mode. The temperature would be up shortly.

Stasis bags of flash-fresh herbs for teas and potions hung from hooks over a small dry sink on the opposite side of the heat source from her bed platform. Jars with incense sticks and a few books in a small bookcase occupied the back wall opposite the entrance, along with pouches of dried fruits and vegetables, flour, and a small stone jar of olive oil.

She was suddenly thirsty. She had long ago learned that what the brain interprets as food hunger is really water thirst. The water skin was still pregnant with a full supply beside the entrance. She picked up the bowl that had held the mugwort potion, staring into its empty ceramic earthi-ness, then stood up.

Good. No dizziness, she thought.

She walked normally to the water skin, unzipped the top, and plunged the bowl into the clear liquid. It smelled sweet and fresh. She stood sipping, then on impulse, unfastened the door covering and pulled it back.

The morning sun—about 11 a.m. on whatever day it was—had some warmth to it, but its position still in the southern section of the eastern sky told her that at most a week had passed in the Death Trance. The snow that had stormed around the tepee still lay in thick layers of drift beyond the entrance. She was effectively buried in a minimum of four feet of powder. The air was a knife of frigidity. No wind, fortunately, but it meant that standing in the open door allowed as much cold air in as warm air out.

At 40 below your face falls off, she quoted to herself, and closed and fastened the covering.

Ginseng! her mind chattered. Scones! Orange marmalade!

But the J’Argon knew better than to listen. She doubted anyone’s mind ever really ceased offering inappropriate ideas in moments of stress. Even the old Lama in the week before he died had stopped suddenly in the midst of the most esoteric of teachings, eyes twinkling so that he looked positively devilish.

What is it, J’Argon? she had asked him, sensing a joke to alleviate the heaviness of the final week of her training as his successor.

Chocolate, the old man had said.

But we’re fasting today.

We can dream.

On impulse she had bought some Balkan chocolate in the market the next day and she had it with her as he lay dying. After he sent everyone out of the room so that he could confer his final blessing upon her alone, she broke off a tiny square and held it up so he could see it and smell it. He had laughed and nodded, and she placed it in his mouth.

Bless you my child, he said—and died smiling.

She often wondered what he might have said if she hadn’t distracted him.

She distracted her own mind from its attachment to instant gratification by assembling the prescribed first meal from the supplies in the cupboard below the dry sink and from the shelves. She filled the teapot with water from the skin, and sipped from the ceramic bowl while fruit plumped, vegetables steamed, and Waking Tea steeped.

She spread the sacred mat on the floor before the central fire pit, oriented so that she sat in the North, the place of Wisdom, facing South, the place of Unpredictability. The fact that the North was also the location of the Dakota Federation and the South the location of the Confederate States added a touch of irony to the ritual. The Waking Tea she placed to her left, in the East, the home of dawn and consciousness. The Water she placed on her right in the West, the home of emotion and intuition. The fruits and vegetables were directly before her, also representing the South.

Then she stood and began the Returning Chant. She praised the aspects and elements of the four directions. She praised the spirits of the creatures of Earth and the Cosmic creators of the mysterious reaches of Space for safety in the journey, courage to teach what she had learned, wisdom to recognize the Truths she had returned with, and the strength to carry on the work. She took ritual tastes of each of the elements of the Waking Meal beginning with the East and continuing deosil to the South, the West, and the North. After that she took whatever she wanted until

she was feeling awake, grounded, normal, refreshed, energized—and curious at last about what day it was and what she was to do next.

With the Waking Meal finished, and the ritual objects cleaned and put away, the J’Argon retrieved the autonotebook from the top shelf of the bookcase, activated the Web Access Modificator, and contacted the world outside once more.

First she found she had been in Death Trance three nights, from Monday, the 6th Night of the First New Moon of 2157, or January 2, to the morning of January 5th, the day before the Christian 12th Night. She made a note in the notepad program to meditate on that fact later, but knew that her Adept mind was already mulling it over, searching for meaning, hoping for clues from the unconscious places she had visited.

The Global Pagan Alliance announced the Annual Convocation of The Covenant of the Word would be held on the Northern Hemisphere Summer Solstice at the Avebury Ring in Wiltshire, England.

A note of support for the Death Trance from her Mother in the family castle in the Highlands held no mysteries—all quiet on the home front, thank the Goddess!

A note from her Administrative Assistant reminded her to contact the World Council of Churches in Geneva regarding ecumenical dialogue with the Greater Roman Catholic Churches of Europe. Perhaps some movement had occurred at last regarding women’s ordination.

Naaaah! she breathed. But at least they had divorced themselves from the horror that had taken over the Confederate States.

The last, from the Sub-Web, in Michael’s code, meant someone making their way through the Underground. The J’Argon clicked the icon.

She frowned, surprised, as the message automatically ran through the decryption program. While the Confederacy routinely swept the North American Sub-Web, the chances of being detected were slight, and encryption was unnecessary unless the sender suspected direct surveillance.

The J’Argon clicked the jumptext icon that would open the file at her password and sat back on her heels, sucking in her breath in alarm.

Michael had sent a scrambled ID holograph. Refugees from the Confederacy were never ID’d with graphics. She couldn’t remember ever seeing actual pictures of anyone in the whole 20 years she had been working with Michael on the Underground. He was either in extraordinary danger, or this case was of unprecedented importance.

A young man and woman, apparently husband and wife, appeared in tiny holograph format on the grass mat flooring. She increased it to child size.

Nice looking kids, thought the J’Argon, Typical old-fashioned all-American.

The man looked fresh out of the Ivy League: blond, blue-eyed, classical features. The confident direct eye-contact of a member of the dominator elite was unmistakable.

„Why does he want to leave?"

The image centered on the woman. She too fit the stereotypical presentation of a young matron as she walked toward her companion and took his hand. She didn’t meet the holocam directly, however, but gazed somewhat wistfully off into the distance.

Searching for God, no doubt—or the ideal God-fearing husband, the J’Argon said to herself. ’Where God is male, the male is God,’ she quoted. These two seem to have found each other at last. What’s the story?

Something about the eyes and the set of the man’s jaw looked familiar. She clicked the next jumptext icon, and the holo dissipated.

An official Confederate resume appeared on the autonotebook’s popup HD screen. As she read, the J’Argon began to feel queasy.

"John Robertson Powers DOB: June 7, 2132 AD POB: Gross Pointe Hills, MI

ANCESTRY:Mr. Powers is a direct descendent through his father’s male lineage of the Rev. Bobbie Powers, influential founding pastor of the True Church of God in Christ Jesus.

Mr. Powers’s sainted Mother, through her father’s male lineage, is a direct descendent of the Rev. Joe Robertson, the Founding Father with the Rev. Frank Geraldson of the New Confederate States of the Americas. Mr. Powers’s sainted Mother is also a direct descendent. through her sainted Mother’s female lineage of Melinda Day, the Supreme Court Justice who’s vote in 2001 at last overturned the infamous Roe v. Wade decision and saved countless millions of unborn children and, consequently, preserved for the Rapture the Species of the Saved in Christ of the Confederacy itself."

Goddess, whispered the J’Argon.

She continued to read, ignoring the increasing manifestation of fear at the base of her spine.

EDUCATION: Mr. Powers holds a B.A. in Management from Harvard Business School, a JD from Harvard Law, and D.Div. from Texas Christian Seminary. His prep school education was at Gross Pointe Academy.

An impressive list of publications followed, mostly concerning esoteric treatises on the nature of sin and women’s spirituality. The J’Argon’s expression became cynical.

He doesn’t seem to have any opinions on the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin, she said, scanning the screen, Who IS he?

She reactivated the holo, memorized the faces, then clicked the icon for the woman’s resume.

Deborah Day Robertson Powers

DOB: June 7, 2132 AD

POB: Gross Pointe Hills, Michigan

DOM: June 15, 2152; Husband: John Robertson Powers; Children: None; no pregnancy achieved.

Hmmm…she was given both his father’s and his grandfather’s patronymics, so he really is important. But no pregnancy in five years? Perhaps this is a divorce case.

She was tempted to skip ahead and search for the bottom line but knew she would remember the details, undercurrents, and truths more easily if she took it in order.

Why didn’t you send a covering note, Love? You’re beginning to scare me.

The J’Argon continued reading, braced for shock this time.

"Mrs. Powers, known as ‘Debbie,’ through her sainted Mother, is descended from the great female justice of the 21st Century who at last struck down the baby-killing laws of the 20th Century. For the past five generations, these women have been known for their femininity, fecundity, and intelligence. Progeny have included the greatest biblical preachers and counselors of the history of the Confederacy: Seth Abrams, Adam Andrewson, Luke Johnson, Jeremiah Jordan, and John Powers.

John Powers? the J’Argon spoke out loud. Are these two cousins? How did the Confederates ever allow—

She read on.

Debbie is an honors graduate of the Mothers of the Way Academy for Little Girls, the Holy Sisters of Jesus Academy for Young Women, and the College of Women of Light. Debbie is seeking entrance to the University of Women Martyrs to the Faith.

I’ll bet she is. She can’t produce the required son within the first five years of marriage.

A flash of anger made her stop for a moment, close her eyes, and center herself. Get the facts, then get angry, she told herself.

There were two more icons to choose from: Press Accounts and Official Disposition. The J’Argon made herself choose Press Accounts, knowing this would give the whole story from official tabloid to underground rag. The Official Disposition would just be the stark announcement of criminal process, in all likelihood.

Summary from Official Tabloid Press Heiress to Our Legacy of Life Proves Inexplicably Barren," screamed the first sub-head from The Washington Star Times. "Deborah Day Robertson married Pastoral Heir John Robertson Powers in what was billed as the ‘wedding of the century’ five years ago. Such a union should have produced a son and then a daughter of the most powerful Christian faith since the founders themselves. But after intensive counseling, including the rare use of fertility aids, no pregnancy has resulted. Church Fathers have concluded that there is no explanation other than deliberate use of contraceptives, an evil with consequences rarely imposed except in the most recalcitrant of cases.

"Because of the impeccable ancestry of both partners in this important marriage, Mrs. Powers will be allowed to choose sterilization and rehabilitation rather than death, in the hope that she may eventually make a useful contribution to Society through her great powers of intellect, since she is unwilling (or because of evil influence and misuse of knowledge unable) to pass those gifts on to future generations.

"Provisional Rev. John Powers is reported to be devastated by the betrayal of his patriarchal heritage, and has requested a period of asylum before seeking a new wife from among the faithful heiresses in the College of the Women of Light. In the spirit of true Christian charity, Pro. Rev. Powers has declined to institute disqualification proceedings against the

College. For its part, the Administratrices of the College have asked for and received permission from the Church Fathers to remove the College from the active choice lists, and to engage in monastic penance for a period of five years. All women enrolled in the College since the beginning of the current Year of Our Lord 2157 will be allowed to choose sterilization and a teaching career in the National Academy of the True Christian Faith in Washington, D.C. The College will not accept new students until the year 2162. The administratrix of the National Academy is delighted for the opportunity to expand the teaching faculty."

Rich Bitch Fucks Luck sneered the Official Scandal Sheet.

The J’Argon settled down for a careful reading behind the lines of the titillating verbiage. The OSS usually had the real truth buried in the midst of the flame-throwing. Most of the good population of the Confederacy dismissed the scandal sheet as a radical underground, and seldom admitted to reading it. In actuality, the OSS was a clever way for the Church Fathers to make sure their version of things prevailed. The J’Argon read on.

"Debbie Day came to the College of the Women of Light with a pedigree as long as your arm. Who would have thought that a child prodigy of the lineage of Melinda Day would in flagrante defy the laws of the Church and the State and, in the pursuit of sacrilegious pleasure, marry her own brother."

Great Cernunnos! gasped the J’Argon. It’s actually happened—and the Guardians themselves are claiming it’s true!

Under the laws of the Purity of the Patriarchy of the New Confederate States of the Americas, boys and girls were allowed to live in traditional families with two opposite sex married parents until they reached the age of six. At that age of reason, boys were inducted into the Keepers of the Flame secret society. They were allowed to continue to live at home, and attend the public boys academies. At puberty, boys were initiated into manhood by the local Pastor, and taught the arts of fatherhood: sports, teamwork, leadership, strength of mind and body, economics, warfare, strategic planning. At age 21, the young man was allowed to select a bride from one of the Convents.

Little girls were placed into foster care in Convents at age six. Competition was fierce among the Convents to arrange for husbands for the graduates from the best and brightest and richest of young men. The Convents taught girls all the aspects of women’s work in the Patriarchy: sewing, cooking, medicine and healing, child-birth, child-care, music, poetry, chastity, and obedience. Girls were permitted to Choose not to marry, and to have a career instead in any part of society. However, if they made that Choice it was irrevocable: they were given hysterectomies and placed on hormone replacement therapy for the rest of their lives. They could then pursue any economic path they chose, from corporate executive to fighter pilot.

Needless to say, such a Choice was not made without intense counseling and testing. No woman was permitted to pursue a career outside the marriage home. A Choice could be made at any time, however, and was the only saving refuge for women trapped in abusive marriages. Requiring the Choice was the usual punishment for abnormal behavior, like that apparently indulged in by Debbie Day Robertson Powers.

The J’Argon had long believed it quite possible that opposite sex siblings, separated in early childhood, would eventually marry one another. Despite a reputation for ruthless and intrusive control of all aspects of citizens’ lives, the Regime was often the victim of its own bureaucratic inertia. The J’Argon had seen reports from the underground networks operating in the Confederacy of increasing infertility and genetic mutation in the general population—proof of the failure of yet another attempt at social and moral engineering since the Revolution of 2045.

The J’Argon clicked the icon for the underground publication, Railway Express. The Express did not publish a sub-Web edition. It was circulated in hardcopy in the spirit of samizdat, the old Russian term from the Soviet Union of the early 20th Century. Michael had run the story through his scanner in order to include it in his message to the J’Argon.

Guardians of the Purity of the Patriarchy Require ‘Choice’ From Victims of Church Dogma

"With breath-taking aplomb, the Guardians of the Purity of the Patriarchy have accused Deborah Day Robertson Powers of deliberately seeking for and marrying her twin brother John.

Separated at age 6, as all opposite sex children are, Deborah and John met again at the prestigious College of the Women of Light when John applied to interview candidates for his marriage. What the Church Fathers did not know, however, was that John’s choice of Colleges, and his choice of bride, were deliberate. In an interview with the Director of the Jesuit Underground Railroad, this reporter learned the kind of incredible story that can bring hope to all citizens of this once great nation.

The J’Argon smiled at the waxing prose, and checked for a byline. She did not expect to find one—the risk was too great in a hard-copy circu-lation—and this story, if proven true, could be the catalyst for international intervention.

"John and Deborah Powers were born into a pure ancestral line leading back to the founding of the New Confederacy in 1971. What no one knew, however, was that their 22nd Century parents were part of the Underground Jesus Movement, teaching the historic truth about the Christian Church, and the prophetic and universal traditions of the lib-

eral Christian faith. The night before they were to be separated forever, the Twins received the blessing of their mother, and in a sacred ceremony, were dedicated to find each other again and work for the liberation of women and men from the tyranny of the Church Fathers. The Twins never spoke of one another again.

"Deborah graduated with honors from the best schools for girls, learning as much as possible about the history of the Confederacy, its laws and rules. She also applied herself to learning the dogmas that apply to women so that her resume would be impeccable.

"John followed the normal life path of boys and young men in the Confederacy. He was prepped at an early age for National Ministry, and eventual induction into the Guardians. Through it all, the parents maintained the fiction. On the day John selected Deborah as his betrothed, however, the parents disappeared. Their whereabouts are known to some in the Railroad system, but will not be revealed until the Twins are safely out of the country.

Incredibly, the family histories of each of the Twins remained intact. The Twins were allowed to marry, amid much hype and rejoicing. This was the political marriage of the century, uniting two families in an unimpeachable purity and power. The progeny of this union would be awesome. How such a mistake could have been made is the subject of intense interrogation and investigation among the hierarchy of the Guardians of the Purity of the Patriarchy. It is the opinion of some in the Underground Railroad that the true identities of the Twins were known very well to the Guardians, and that they hoped to use the Twins to engender the legendary race of angels that would combine the powers of God and the Universe in a world-wide Confederate regime.

Such a theory casts doubt on the integrity of the parents, however, and is not the consensus of the leadership among the various Underground Railroad networks. Needless to say, the genetic horror of all this is felt in the very DNA we carry within us. Legend will no doubt insist that even if John and Deborah had not kept their psychic bonds alive through their own memories and learning at their mother’s knee, they still would not have mated successfully because somehow they would have known not to. Arch Deacon Michael Benedict of the National Cathedral responded to a similar question in the official press: ‘That’s very romantic, but highly unlikely. I imagine that their mother knew some hypnotic techniques that helped the process along. Remember, in our enlightened system, Deborah would be the one who left the family. It would have been fairly simple to assure John’s participation in the plan. But for Deborah to resist the indoctrination of the best girls’ schools for 15 years took an incredible mind, and undoubtedly some assistance from outside sources."

Very clever, my love, the J’Argon said to herself, Damns the Twins, their parents, and the most prestigious women’s university in the Confederacy!

She read on:

The whole story will not be known until John and Deborah have arrived safely in one of the havens of the Word. Until then, all who read this account must pray in whatever manner you can for the safety and well-being of the Twins, their parents, and the networks of assistants who must remain behind. Blessed be.

The J’Argon clicked the last icon and the Official Disposition appeared in stark simplicity:

"John Robertson Powers and Deborah Day Robertson Powers are fugitives from the Guardians of the Purity of the Patriarchy. They are wanted ALIVE for prosecution of crimes against God, Man, and the Confederacy in order to save their immortal souls from the flames of Hell. Anyone with information leading to the apprehension of either one or both of these flagrant dalliers with Satan will be rewarded with a lifetime stipend of gold bullion. All persons found to have assisted in their flight from justice will be punished to the full extent of the Purity laws. In His Holy Name. Contact: [e-mail]"

The J’Argon sat on the bed for a moment, one foot tucked under her, staring at the small screen.

The best strategy in diplomatic dealings with the Confederacy had always been to make no secret about how the rest of the free world felt about the human rights disaster carved from the heart of the once-mighty United States. The J’Argon had confronted the Confederate Ambassador to the United Nations before on high-profile political prisoner and fugitive cases, but always after clear and irrefutable evidence had been gathered and corroborated from independent sources. The nearly universal moral taboo against incest at the heart of this story made it so outrageous that no one would want to believe it. Nevertheless, if the story became known outside the Regime, it could shift the delicate balance of tolerance afforded the Confederacy by the world community, making due process difficult if not impossible.

In addition, and of personal import to the J’Argon, the Confederacy’s international rings worked constantly to undermine if not overthrow governments and global organizations that did not follow its particular brand

of classic Augustinian Christianity. The regime would lose no time in increasing the number of routine back-door assaults on her Website.

The J’Argon encrypted Michael’s entire message into her private code, and sent it through her secured channel to her office in Wells, Somerset.

Honi soit qui mal y pense, she quoted, tasting the roundness of the ancient French words.

She rubbed both hands down the sides of her face then stood up to stretch. She had yet to complete all the prescribed returning rituals.

III

The J’Argon packed a small kit with supplies for the Ritual of Coming Forth, and dressed for a short trek outside. Thanks to the wonders of the second century of the space age, winter ritual clothing made from animal skins was both feather-weight and warm. The J’Argon rolled back the door covering and stepped out.

The sun was just past its highest point in a cloudless sky. She took a deep breath, tasting the air like a cat through her nose and partially opened mouth. No more storms coming for several days at least, and no chance of any warming trend either.

She walked in flexible snowshoes over the drifted snow to the eastern edge of the clearing where she stopped for a moment, and reached into a pouch-pocket of her cloak for a pinch of tobacco and cedar. She scattered the herbs on the snow before her, lifted her hands, and began to chant: In the Beginning was the Word Star of the East, Song of the Bird Quick as Thought my Spirit has Flown From realms of Air I have returned!

She opened her eyes and saw a small white squirrel take off from the end of a snowy pine branch, and spread his four feet so that the air caught his bat-wing fur and he floated to a perch on the other side of the path leading away from the clearing toward the east.

The J’Argon turned to her right and walked around the edge of the clearing to the south entrance. Once again she scattered the cedar and tobacco, stretched her arms to the sky and chanted: Southern Fire, Great God, Home Sun Ancient burning sacred One Surprise and Change are your gifts of power Passion’s Flame for the Work Begun.

She heard a piercing call, opened her eyes, and saw far overhead a bald eagle circling. It dipped down in greeting, then soared up and away.

She continued deosil around the clearing to the western point, scattered the pinches of tobacco and cedar. Sister Waters, blood of Earth Thunder beings, Moon of my birth Oceans, rivers, tides, and snows Heart’s deepest speech will move the World.

The sun darkened as a small cloud passed overhead, dropping a spatter of rain that did not freeze. Power shivered up her spine. The cloud disappeared and the sun’s brilliance returned.

The J’Argon walked to the North Gate, offered the last of the cedar and tobacco.

Grandmother, Great Spirit, Dark Vastness of Space, I am Earth-Being, rooted in place. Yet I have lived in your darkness and peace; Shrouded in mystery, I still see your face.

She opened her eyes and saw a figure in a black hooded cloak disappear down the path before her. A great longing to follow came over her, but as she took a step forward, a gust of wind caught the edge of her deerskin coat and the minus-40-degree Celsius cold touched the inside of her thigh. She was instantly chilled to the bone. Wrapping her coat

tighter around herself, she returned to the tepee to make the second returning meal.

Part of the preparation of the second meal included setting a signal fire in the central pit that would produce a white trace of smoke through the flaps at the top of the tepee. That trace, and the appearance of the animals and other manifestations from the ring of trees surrounding the clearing, would announce to the Tribes that the J’Argon had returned from the Death Trance. In the village a few miles from her campsite, preparations for a celebration feast would begin. Her mentor, Shenandoah TrueMan, would set out at the proper time with the dog team to pick her up at the rendezvous.

The J’Argon spent the afternoon packing for the trek out of the clearing.

The tepee and its ceremonial contents belonged to the village of Bear Paw. The small Winnebago Bear band had been in charge of this sacred site for 75 years. Many Shamans from the Tribes used it for spirit journeys and gatherings of the Elders. Shenandoah had introduced her to it very early in their work together, and the J’Argon had used it for the Death Trance retreat at the Winter Solstice every year since she had taken office. The Western Tribes of the Dakota Federation were honored that she continued to use it not only for personal retreat, but for the highest and most sacred of her many duties as J’Argon. The only personal items she had with her were her ceremonial clothing, the modified autonotebook, and her magic tools.

She was anxious to be gone. The well-being of the escaping twins weighed on her mind. She was especially anxious to debrief with Shenandoah. The second and third meals added nutrients that elevated her energy level, and assured that she would be fully awake and aware when she began the 10-kilometer ski trip through deep snow to the rendezvous point.

She would spend one more night in the tepee and leave at dawn. One personal ritual remained.

As the fat waxing crescent moon set, she bundled up in her ceremonial furs and went out again into the snow. She walked deosil around the tepee to the north side, and stood for a moment, looking at the North Gate to the clearing. The moon, with Venus riding close beneath, shone through a gap in the trees on the western side of the clearing. The J’Argon began walking a circle on the snow’s surface, her snow shoes tracing a boundary between the tepee and the forest edge. When she reached the south point of the circle again, she took her Athame, an antique dagger, from a sheath belted at her waist under her cloak. She kissed it, then lifted it high in both hands so that it caught the moon’s pale light. Blue fire raced from the tip down to surround her hands clasped on the handle. She took the Athame in her left hand, her right hand stretched to the moon. The blue fire continued to move from the extended fingers of her right hand, down her arm and across her shoulders, then down the left arm, and out the end of the double-edged blade. She walked the circle once more, trailing blue fire. When she reached the south point again, she brought the Athame back up and caught it in her right hand, then extended it down, thereby enclosing herself in a sphere of blue-flamed mist. She traced a pentagram across the opening point, then plunged the dagger through the snow and into the earth, where it held the seal. The snow inside the sphere vanished. She