Crown of Thorns

By Christopher Mutschler

Four strangers are brought together by a secret society which has possession of a book written in angelic script. Having translated it, it is a road map through the nether world to retrieve a holy artifact: Christ's Crown of Thorns. Stolen from Christ's tomb by the Devil for the power it possesses, the four compatriots must retrieve it before its use can be corrupted by the Devil. This is a story of friendship, adventure, danger, and horror in the tradition of Dante, Milton and Tolkien, with an unforeseeable turn at the end which will take the Reader by surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329780248

Book preview

Crown of Thorns

CROWN OF THORNS

A Novel by

Christopher A. Mutschler, J.D.

Copyright 2003 - 2015©

Table of Contents

CROWN OF THORNS

PREFACE

DEDICATION

CHAPTER I:  SLEEP DISTURBED

CHAPTER II:  NOCTEM UMBRAM

CHAPTER III:  BREAKFAST

CHAPTER IV:  CONTEMPLATIONS

CHAPTER V:  QUESTIONS BORN

CHAPTER VI:  POETRY

CHAPTER VII:  UNBELIEVERS

CHAPTER VIII:  DECISIONS

CHAPTER IX:  LESSONS LEARNED

CHAPTER X:  FROM READINESS TO BOREDOM

CHAPTER XI:  FURTHER LESSONS

CHAPTER XII:  BINDING PHYSICAL & MENTAL

CHAPTER XIII:  FURTHER QUESTIONS

CHAPTER XIV:  TRAVEL PLANS

CHAPTER XV:  PORTAL

CHAPTER XVI:  THE END BEGINS

CHAPTER XVII:  THE DESCENT

CHAPTER XVIII:  VENGENCE IS THEIR’S

CHAPTER XIX:  PRESSING FORWARD

CHAPTER XX:  HORRORS UPON HORRORS

CHAPTER XXI:  COMMON SINS

CHAPTER XXII:  THE VIOLENT

CHAPTER XXIII:  MINIONS

CHAPTER XXIV:  HUMAN FRAILTY

CHAPTER  XXV:  SELF-DOUBT

CHAPTER XXVI:  STANDING ALONE

CHAPTER XXVII:  ANOTHER VOICE

CHAPTER XXVIII:  CAUTION BETRAYED

CHAPTER XXIX:  INTRINSIC EARTH

CHAPTER XXX:  FATIGUE

CHAPTER XXXI:  DENOUMENT

CHAPTER XXXII:  RESOLVE HARDENED

CHAPTER XXXIII:  THE END IS NIGH

EPILOGUE

PREFACE

No one today could duplicate the beauty locked within Milton’s Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, nor in Dante’s La Divina Commedia.  These are works for which the term epic was invented.  Interestingly, however, since these magnificent works were completed, there has been an absence in modern literature of authors willing to undertake an examination of the same nether geographies explored by Milton and Dante.  Perhaps it is because once Milton and Dante had spoken on the topic, everything which could be said, was said.

I prefer to take the road less traveled and cover ground which has not been tread since the fourteenth century.  This book represents my journey.  Certainly, it is not crafted in the tradition of the masterful poetry and prose employed by my predecessors.  Nevertheless, it is a work which tries, in a very modern way, to explore several of the same issues Milton and Dante explored, but with a perspective which comes with the passage of several centuries.  After all, Milton and Dante could never have foreseen or predicted the industrial and technological revolutions.  Yet each of these has had a greater impact on human interaction and society than even the discovery of fire or the invention of the wheel.  It is thus imperative that we continue to reflect on how these developments impact upon our species not only in tangible ways, but in intangible ones as well.

J.R.R. Tolkien oft said that he despised allegory.  With apologies to the fans of Tolkien, I find from time to time that small allegorical forays are worthy vehicles to communicate important points, so the reader will find them peppered throughout my story.  I have, for the most part, attempted to steer a wide path around allegory so that there is no literary impediment between this story and the point I am trying to make.  Most of what you will read is really what I mean, without unnecessary frills, misdirection or symbolism.  Of course, no story worth telling can be told without the use of such vehicles, so there are the obligatory misdirections and symbolisms, but, to coin a phrase derivative of the time in which we live, WYSIWYG (for the uninitiated, this word is pronounced wizzywig and it means "what you see is what you get).

Ultimately, if queried about why I wrote this adventure, I would have to reply that it has a two-fold purpose.  First, it is an homage to Dante and his magnificent work, The Divine Comedy.  No less important, however, is my second purpose in writing it, namely this: if it interests and engages the reader enough, it is my sincerest hope that he or she will want to partake in the journey Dante took, and read his work for themselves.  Dante’s treatment of the subject matter herein is unapproachable in its symbolism, poetry and purpose.  If by reading this paling effort I can provide you, the Reader, with the impetus to read The Divine Comedy, then my ends have been achieved.  So proceed further, dear Reader, than I can take you with my words.

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my daughter, Elise Joy, for without her I would not know that true selflessness finds its root in the boundless love of a child.

Dedicated to Elise Joy’s mother, Christine, from whom all the love in Elise’s soul is derived.

Dedicated as well to my sister, Heidi, from whom I learned that strength is as much spiritual as physical.

Finally, dedicated to my parents, Norbert & Karen, from whom I learned there is great strength in love.

ANTI-DEDICATION

Just as there is no Heaven without a Hell, so too there can be no true dedication of this work without an anti-dedication.  To those of my friends, both personal and professional, who disappeared when I was at the nadir of my life—and you know who you are—it is my hope that you soon discover for yourselves that my words fail to adequately describe the reality of Hell’s torments.

CHAPTER I:  SLEEP DISTURBED

The night was a restless and wakeful one. Though a veil of darkness had long since enveloped the room, it did not seem to cover Sam’s eyes which, despite the failed light, remained attentive to the shadows.  As Sam tossed on an unfamiliar bed that fell several inches short of being comfortable, every minute of consciousness further fueled the unwelcome sleeplessness that had beset him from the moment he laid down.  He had hoped that the small hours of the night would eventually drag him into a restful slumber, but this was not to be.

Remarkably, Sam’s thoughts did not dwell on how he had become entangled in this strange set of unplanned circumstances which now beset him, but rather, they turned to the woman he left behind.  Images of her slipped through his mind like leaves swirling on autumn’s breeze.  Colorful though they were, these visions fell far short of the palate her beauty deserved.  What made it even harder to watch these frames pass was that everything he felt about Ellie remained unspoken.  Cowardice—a weakness which would certainly doom the campaign he would soon be asked to undertake—always prevented him from expressing his true feelings to her.  It hurt him to know that his impending absence would mean nothing to her and everything to him.  In this state of mind, he continued to tell himself that he deserved the pain he felt for lacking the courage to walk into the market in which she worked and confess his feelings to her.

The root which divided Sam from Ellie wound its way deeply through his character, and found its seed in his father’s sense of duty.  Whether his father’s ethic was evident by example or explanation, it was the soil from which Sam blossomed into a man who could refuse no request.  His inability to decline a favor for another did not stem from a weak will.  Neither did he brood in a complacency which offered no resistance to the force of personalities greater than his.  Rather, Sam’s affinity for the affirmative revealed itself in sacrifice and loyalty.  The virtues paramount to him were all of those calculated to make others happy.  If a thing could be done to improve the quality of someone’s existence, whether it meant only a momentary or even subtle improvement on another’s lot, Sam invariably offered to do it without hesitation, and certainly without forethought of either the cost to him personally or of the need for recognition.  This sense of duty was the driving force behind almost every action his father took.  It was now a burden deeply seated within his own character.

Even if he had worked sixteen hours in the black smog of the foundry and returned home with hands bloodied by invisible slivers of steel which cleaved through his leathery skin, Sam’s father would turn around again on a moment’s notice to deliver groceries to a bedridden friend, or provide transportation for a neighbor whose car was in ill-repair, or serve as the jolly old elf himself at a Christmas party.  All the while, he would outwardly maintain the countenance of a man whose burden is a happy and welcome one.  As Sam grew older, however, he learned to recognize that this mask betrayed the weight of his father’s toil and he saw slight transformations in his father.  His gait shortened as rooms were no longer crossed in strides but in shuffles.  Shoulders no longer carried children bouncing with a dulcet laughter, but were now hunched ever so slightly under the weight of their own bedraggled bones.  This marked Sam’s first realization that being genuinely good and stout of heart came at a cost which, once paid, could not be refunded.

Lying there against the gathering night which had consumed the small timber-built room, Sam’s thoughts now turned to his new-found companions.  In this, at last, he slowly drifted into the world of grey shadows, and finally, into a dreamless sleep.

*  *  *

Ben, occupying the room across from Sam’s, was agitated and uneasy as well.  Pragmatism being the better part of Ben’s character, it was both a blessing and a curse to him.  While careful forethought preceded most of Ben’s action, the cost of his judicious deliberations was paid in the currency of minutes and sometimes hours.  Tonight his painstaking circumspection manifested itself as a deliberate insomnia. 

For his part, it had always been difficult for Ben to relate to other people in a way which revealed anything about his true feelings.  It was not that he purposely wanted to be distant and detached.  On the contrary, somewhere deep within himself was a yearning to be more accepted, to be more liked, and to be more needed than he felt he was.  The problem from which he suffered was that the cruelty of children left him with a skin so thick, it would have served well as surface on which to grind stone.

Ben had always been different.  Usually brighter than others his age, school had been more a trial of the spirit than a training ground for the developing mind.  A teacher’s question was answered correctly and quickly, felled like a sapling at the sharp edge of an axe.  But this swiftness of intellect meant that his peers would often lie in wait for him after such expositions of his intelligence and push, prod, or punch him.  School became like a perpetual game of dodge ball.  Knowing which corridor he could walk down and which bathroom he could use at what times of day became the dodges he had to plan in order to avoid the embarrassment of being hit by a balled fist.  Every malicious attack added a layer to that skin which separated Ben’s heart from exposure to the outside world.

This, however, was not the time to reflect on the unkind cuts and unhealed bruises of childhood which ironically, provided their own kind of queer energy as a fuel for Ben’s notable perseverance.  Rather, this was a fateful moment in his life which deserved keen reflection.  After all, it is relatively unheard of, in this modern day and age, for there to be left anything truly unknown.  Atoms split, animals cloned and other worlds walked upon, all these things and more didn’t leave much left to do or discover, and if anything did remain, it was never epic.  But if what he had been told by his newly-acquainted host was true, there was a realm in which epic quests were numbered like leaves in the forest.

*  *  *

Peter paced as furtively as he could up and down the narrow corridor which separated him from the other three people he met this morning in the audience with Giovanni Cardinal Anhaum.  His thick legs were needed to support his barrel chest which now heaved with a very deliberate breathing.  He drew in the cold but clean air of the cabin, and recalled advertisements in which tourism boards attempted to seduced travelers from warm beaches to the mountains with a promise that the air would invigorate.  It turned out to be true.  The air actually did invigorate; well, at least more than the smog of the city which he called home and shared with six million other people.

Peter’s pacing would slow, and sometimes stop, in front of his compatriots’ respective doors as he briefly listened for even the faintest rumblings.  He so desperately wanted to burst into each of their rooms and ask them whether they believed any of the hooey Cardinal Anhaum sold them this morning.  He would have too, if were not for the fact that he was exceedingly polite.  Not knowing these other gentlemen well enough, he cared not to make a bad impression by disrupting perhaps their very last night of peaceful slumber for a long time to come.

Instead, Peter thought about the last few days while he walked alone in the corridor.  He reflected on the trick the church had played on him, and he presumed his new acquaintances as well, by serving them with tickets for the free trip to Europe each had ostensibly won as part of a promotion for a new international airline trying to break into the market.  Being self-employed, unmarried and generally unhappy made it easy for Peter to accept the offer of a free trip to Europe.  He left his partner the keys to their distributorship’s fleet of four delivery trucks and told him he would see him again in two week’s time.  If the Cardinal was right, two weeks was likely to be two months.

Why did they refuse to let him call home, he wondered.  He promised not to reveal anything of what had been said this morning, and he was a man of his word.  Above all else, Peter learned from his father that when everything was stripped away from the person you are, all you have left is your honor, and as part of that honor, you only have your word to give as bond.  Loving his father as he did, Peter never failed to keep his word no matter what expense was involved.

Like anything else, however, a virtue always seemed to come with a hefty price tag at times.  Peter had learned this the hard way long ago.  He once was in love with a girl so fair and so beautiful that he was sure the dawn broke each day only to catch a glimpse of her.  But the love he had for this radiant wisp of a woman was not to be fulfilled.  She grew very ill, and as the cancer slowly ravaged her, Peter took on more and more responsibility for her care.  He wanted to be with her every moment.  Even as she wasted at the hands of this demon, she glowed with a light which spread from her very soul outward like an incandescent gem which seems to generate its own radiance rather than merely reflecting that around it. 

One day, however, Peter was called upon to keep a small promise he had previously made to another to perform a task too menial to be willingly recalled now unless he wanted his heart to explode in his chest with the anguish of this memory.  It was on this single day he was absent from her side that she passed into the next world.  His father had never warned him that keeping a promise could ever cost or hurt so very much.

Tomorrow, he would be asked again to give his word to another.  Tonight, he needed to decide whether he would give it.

*  *  *

Jon listened attentively to the barely audible groans of the floorboards outside and knew instantly that he was not the only person awake in this earliest part of the day.  To him, the night was not so black as it was gloomy.  That gloom, he knew, was nothing more than a projection of his turbulent emotions onto the night air, but recognizing this did little to relieve him of the impression that the darkness actually had a weight of its own.

How could any of what he learned this day be true?  And even if it was, how could he be so implicated in it?  At once, Jon wanted to both laugh and cry because he felt so alone against the enormity of what was being asked of him.  He did neither, however, because he knew that being emotive could be mistaken for weakness, or worse, cowardice, and he suffered from neither of these shortcomings.

A tall and gangly man, Jon would never characterize himself as religious in the traditional sense.  He had always thought himself a spiritual man.  He frequently shared his thoughts with God, but as is to be expected, God never directly spoke to him, and to some extent, Jon accepted that as happy proof of his sanity.  He knew that the day he started to hear voices would be the day he’d voluntarily sequester himself from the rest of the world to save the state the trouble of having to commit him.  Rationality was a gift he treasured, and little voices didn’t fit into his picture of the rational.

So, if he was going to be rational about this, shouldn’t he jump out of his room’s frosty window onto the snow-covered veld below and run away as fast as his legs would carry him?  No answer came immediately to him, and he treated that in itself as an instructive thing.  If everything he had been told was indeed a perversion of the truth, the decision to run should be easy.  But then there was that unexplained feeling tugging at his psyche and telling him the truth of what he heard earlier that morning—and he listened to that voice because it was rarely wrong.

As quickly as that voice asked questions about the truth of what he had been told, it changed direction like the wind on the open sea and started questioning Jon about his role in all of this.  It asked him why he had been singled out from the three billion other men on the planet who were seemingly equally qualified to handle the task at hand.  It just didn’t make sense, and that was the biggest problem for Jon.  Everything had to make sense before he could act, and not just on an intellectual level, but on an emotional one as well for he knew that every act or action in this world had a feel to it.  Whether you decided to cross the street at one place or another, or decided to wed, or decided to reveal an unexpressed thought, or decided to do anything, it always had an intangible texture to it which was woven of feeling and emotion.  Some people called it gut, others instinct, and still others a sixth sense, but the label didn’t matter because at its center it was only and always just a feeling.

Tonight’s feelings were a mixed bag of trepidation, excitement, honor, fright, and concern.  The comfort in all of this mixed emotion lied with the footfalls outside Jon’s door.  They told him he was not alone with his feelings.

CHAPTER II:  NOCTEM UMBRAM

Wind and snow pushed hard against the unassuming little cabin.  For many years now, the cabin survived the punishment meted out by the relentless energy of such storms.  The comely lodge’s longevity was due in no small measure to its having been carefully nestled between a few fingers of trees which stretched outward from the ancient forest like an appendage grasping the land from which it sprung.  Inside, the rotund Cardinal Anhaum sat on a Spartan but comfortable sofa, letting the smoke from his gnarled pipe wander carelessly around his head.  It was never difficult to discern when Cardinal Anhaum was lost deep in thought because his pipe was the barometer of his mind.   The more he was preoccupied, the more he puffed.  It was that simple. 

Watching him from a hand-carved chair next to the ample fireplace was Monsignor Veriti who, in his own right, was lost in thought as well.  Not as round as Anhaum, the Monsignor’s distinguishing characteristic was his stature, or lack thereof.  At 4'11", there were few men within the Vatican who did not look down on Veriti, and some of those in the literal sense.  Veriti had the unfortunate reputation of being a man short on courtesy and civility as well as height.  Despite having this ill-fame, Anhaum selected Monsignor Veriti to assist him with the task at hand because, above all else excepting issues of faith, Veriti cherished reason. And because reason drove Veriti, Anhaum now spent these chill hours carefully formulating his thoughts before fully revealing the magnitude of their present circumstance to his capable administrative assistant.  Then, all at once, Anhaum spoke.

The four men who now sleep upstairs share more than just a few superficial coincidences, he said quietly.

What do you mean? asked Veriti.

"Each was born to a mother who passed away before their memory could be impressed with even the faintest outline of mother’s face.  Each was an only child raised by a father whom they adored.  No man now sleeping above counted himself a member of any organized religion, yet each had been baptized in his respective faith, and each, you must admit Veriti, has a certain unquantifiable spirituality about him.  All have attained the age of thirty-three, and all are in good health and of reasonably sound mind, although, I must admit, I have a few doubts about the one called Peter.  Nevertheless, and most importantly of all, every man meets the Conditiones et Determinationes of the Book of Raziel."

Veriti interjected, Excuse me, Eminence, the book of what?

The Book of Raziel.

I am afraid, Eminence, that whatever teachings I have had are now lost upon my ability to recall them for I remain ignorant of the book of which you speak, replied the Monsignor.

Anhaum continued, Not to worry, my friend, I did not expect that you would have learned about the Book of Raziel in any seminary for its existence is known to only three men in the Church, all of whom are stationed in Rome, and all of whom are sworn to secrecy.

A moment of contemplative silence passed between the two men as the Cardinal drew another long breath through the aged pipe and then continued.

The Book of Raziel is neither a book of the Catholic Church’s possession nor knowledge.  It has been the most sacred and guarded secret of a brotherhood of clerics from all religions.  This brotherhood, known as the Noctem Umbram, which if you recall your Latin as I am certain you do, means ‘Night Shade.’  Our brotherhood has remained these many years hidden from all the powers and peoples of the world, here Anhaum paused, and then continued, for the Book of Raziel was not written by the hand of men as the other Holy books, but its script was burned into parchment by the finger of the Angel Raziel. 

Delivered originally to St. Athanasius as a champion of the faith, and then lost to the sea until recovered by the Angel Rahab, its possessors have included many leaders of the faiths, including those who are not numbered among we Roman Catholics.  It rests now in the most intimate and privileged part of the Vatican library.

Another moment came and went on the burgeoning glow of the pipe’s bowl, and as before, the silence was broken only by Anhaum.

To say that it is a difficult translation is the severest of understatements.  Translating it, even among the foremost linguists, is like asking an infant to decipher a broken tablet of Sanskrit through a fogged glass.  Nevertheless, Monsignor, it has finally been done.

With another long draw on his pipe, Anhaum extended an anxious silence nearly to the breaking point for Monsignor Veriti, before continuing, And now we know its prologue contains a warning accessible to even the most indifferent scholar: Heed the Word always, but guard its power, for His Word is shoal, and combination to the mysteries of nether worlds, and purposes of Divine Might."

Its archangelic author, Raziel, has also been called Akrasiel or Suriel in angelic and Kabbalistic lore, Cardinal Anhaum continued, and is also known as the ‘Secret of God’ or the ‘Angel of Mysteries.’  Apocryphal authors have named him the ‘Angel of the Secret Regions and Chief of the Supreme Mysteries’ as well my friend.   But by whatever name, his book is even unknown to the angelic host.  Ordered by Jehovah to be kept initially secret from man and angel alike, its text is a cipher intended to reveal but one truth to the world of man alone.  A secret which our brotherhood, having come into its possession two thousand years ago, is ready to reveal this dawn to the four souls resting here this night.

Monsignor Veriti had as much faith as any man wed to Mother Church, but the story Cardinal Anhaum wove was hard to imagine as anything other than a fairy tale or hoax, perhaps exaggerated by the effect of pipe smoke on the wits of this seventy-two year old man.  Veriti carefully considered his response, which needed to be respectful, doubtful and reasonably calculated to lead to the discovery of more information all at once.  So he said, Yes, Eminence, the Church’s history as a secular institution is rife with religious lore.  It has oft served the Church as a vehicle to maintain order among the chaos of foregone times when a less-complicated world was in crisis.  Now, Eminence, I am not sure that such lore should so easily be perpetuated in this day and age.  We now live in a time when doubters and critics find the ancient rituals of the world’s many religions easy fodder for the cannons of vengeance and doubt.

Veriti at once believed his goals accomplished.  Certainly, Anhaum could not feel slighted by his comments, nor could Anhaum think him a sponge who merely absorbed the tale of Raziel without question.  Finally, the comment made to Anhaum about the Church’s current critics was sure to prompt a response because Anhaum had long been the Papal emissary to the foreign press, and therefore often had to deal with criticism of the Church’s arcane ways.  Unfortunately for Veriti, however, Anhaum remained quiet, and the longer he did so, the more agitated became Veriti.

He wondered how he could possibly have miscalculated.  He had worked as Anhaum's administrative assistant for more than seven years now, and besides growing to respect His Eminence in that time for his dogged pragmatism, he genuinely liked him and thought he knew him as well as anyone.  Knowing him as he did, however, he felt that Anhaum should have said something by now.  Perhaps there remained a few more surprises hidden within his character of which Veriti had yet to learn.  Veriti knew that it would not be polite either to interrupt the Cardinal while he was pensive or to ask a direct question of him on an issue of disbelief, so he sat there with his gaze fixed on the fire.

Several more minutes passed during which both men lost themselves in thought, until finally Anhaum broke the stillness with a comment: Ahh, my friend, you do know me, don’t you?  I am sorry I have not sooner accepted your disguised invitation to provide you with more details about the Book of Raziel than I did initially, but my thoughts were lost upon a serious matter which we shall now broach.  But before we do, my old bones tell me that the temperature in this room has lost a degree or two under the door and past the window above, so if you don’t mind, I think some tea would do the both of us good.  Will you?

With pleasure, Eminence was the response.

Veriti climbed out of the chair, a task which was no mean feat given that its thick and pliable cushion seemed to take ahold of anyone who sat there for more than a few minutes, and crossed the small but well-furnished room to the kitchen which ran the width of the north end of the cabin.  Like every other room sheltered by the log edifice, the kitchen was undersized, especially for the number of the cabin’s current occupants.  Like a puzzle in spatial relationships, into this small room every appliance of convenience which would fit through the doorframe was jigsawed.  There was no disorder to anything, but the fact that so much was fit into an area so compact gave the impression that clutter was about. 

Despite the conflict between available space and the things pressed into the room, navigation was a simple matter.  The south wall of the room had nothing upon it save for a painting of Christ at the Last Supper.  Veriti thought its placement here a joke in which he found no humor.  He was so disturbed by the fact that this picture adorned the greasy wall, he made a mental note to remove it and place it in an upstairs bedroom after the company departed.

Veriti walked along the wall to the end of the room where a window overlooked the black forest outside.  A small crack in the pane of the window allowed a snake-like vein of frost to penetrate inside and climb toward the low ceiling.  Veriti absently examined the finger of frost while he pulled a warm copper tea kettle off of the gas stove.  For a minute he thought he could actually see the frost winding its way upward, but he attributed this vision to the late hour.  Turning, Veriti used his free hand to remove a bowl with several tea bags in it from the aluminum counter, along with a ceramic cup, and he walked out of the kitchen.

Upon reentering the room, Veriti observed Cardinal Anhaum adding a thick paper birch log to the fire.  At once, the hot fire leapt to meet the log, and cackled in the excited knowledge that its life had just been extended a few more hours with the addition of this hearty meal.  Caressing the log, the fire danced in a golden yellow gown of flame.

Anhaum turned and smiled a slight smile at Veriti.  With a nod he returned to his place on the well-worn sofa, and again took up his pipe.  Veriti set the cup and delicate bowl of tea bags on the table next to Anhaum, who took a bag without pause and dropped it into the large, cream-colored mug.  As Veriti poured the steaming water, he said: Forgive me, Eminence, but you were about to tell me something before I went for tea.

Cardinal Anhaum replied: Ah, yes, I am sorry.  I am somewhat overwhelmed right now given the tasks which lie ahead, and it has made me absentminded.

Veriti said, I did not mean to chastise you, Eminence.

No, no, Veriti, I know you didn’t, came the response.  I was just reflecting on my own role in the things to come and said that as much for my sake as I did to apologize to you.  At any rate, let me say this, my friend.  There seems to come with each age new mysteries.  Our ancestors tried to comprehend the enigma of fire, and once they did, the answers only served to give rise to the riddles of the iron and bronze ages.  Eventually, these puzzles too were answered, and so on, until now when man wrestles with mysteries in nanotechnology, string theory, and wormholes.

So too has the Church waded through her divine mysteries.  From the mystery of faith inherent in the moment Abraham raised his knife against Isaac, to the enigma of the Triune God, and later, to our understanding of the mysteries in transubstantiation versus consubstantiation.  For a long time now, Veriti, the mysteries with which the Church has had to contend have not kept pace with those in the secular world.  We seemed to have conquered all of our divine mysteries, and left to ourselves only those few to examine attendant to beatification and other rites.  While the secular universe expands at a frightening pace, the spiritual has stagnated.

Veriti was compelled to interject at this point, Cardinal Anhaum, with all due respect, I must protest that the spiritual is never stagnant.  Far from it.  Issues spiritual are very dynamic.

Anhaum answered, Yes, Veriti, I know, I know.  I said what I did to some extent for effect.  The exaggeration helps to make my point by emphasizing the distinct differences between the secular and religious.  Of course I do not believe in my heart that the spiritual is ever stagnant, but in a relative sense, Veriti, you must concede that the spiritual seems not to have kept pace with the rapid and constantly unfolding mysteries of the secular world.  Not that it must.  This is not some foot race between the secular hare and the parochial turtle, I admit.  However, what difference there is betrays the Church as languid and listless in her formerly fervent pursuits.  Since the industrial revolution, the Church has spent so much time as an idle watcher of technological development that in the realm of the spiritual, where She could have spent her untold energies, She stilted.  Imagine how many more people of this world we could have brought to God the Father if we found a way to replace the proverbial religious vacuum tube with the spiritual transistor.

Your point is well made, Eminence, said Veriti.  Anhaum continued, Thank you, my friend.  I am sorry if I spend too much time preaching this point, but I feel strongly that it must be made.  If we do not maintain a better stewardship than we have for the people of this world, we will doom ourselves in the next.  God did not intend for the Church to remain uninvolved in the affairs of the world.

It is perhaps because of this that I willingly accepted the mantle I now wear.  This burden was yoked upon me not from the Church but through a secret fraternal academy of religious scholars who for years have guarded the secrets of Raziel’s book.  These men have dedicated their lives to ascertaining the true meaning of the angelic script, and to protecting those secrets as well.  Since my ascension to this post more than twenty years past now, I have been the man assigned the task of finding the four gentlemen who now reside in this cabin.

"The Noctem Umbram wishes not to pervert the secrets revealed in Raziel’s book, rather, we swear fealty to God and man before we are accepted to serve.  And as part of that fealty, it is our duty not only to decipher the truths inscribed in this holy book, but to act on them as we can.  By act, Veriti, I mean that as you were