The Final Rite

By John T O'Halloran

"In the final analysis, it is for us, the inhabitants of this frail planet, full of frail people who are dominated by greed and evil - by the hidden enemy - to stand up and be counted and join our mysterious saviours in their final hour."

Following the bloody battle of The Second Conflict, good has failed to prevail over evil. The Magii come toget

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chisel & Stone
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992624644

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Yellow neon lights shining from the lamp posts hardly penetrated the wet fog which embraced the night; beneath them only dim pools of light like stepping stones showed the way and Andrew, head down against the wind and driving rain, trudged slowly but determinedly from one to the other, counting them as he went. Every so often, he stopped to swap hands because one of the polythene bags he was carrying, seemed to become heavier and heavier with each step. After another hundred yards or so he looked up and sighed because the visibility through the swirling mist was so bad, he could not see the gate that led to his house, but he knew how many lamp posts there were and kept counting, fifty, forty nine, forty eight. Gradually his pace faltered and it was not long before he stopped altogether because he was finding it difficult to breath. Thirty, he sighed and looking up again saw that he had reached the top of the hill. Then his watch bleeped to remind him it was time to take one of his daily cocktail of pills. Rather than wait until he got to the house, he decided to take one straightaway because of the sudden pain in his chest, which he knew from experience would only get worse if he didn’t do something about it, so he put his bags down and searched through his pockets with numb fingers, but couldn’t find them and after several more attempts gave up. Bugger and blast, where are they? he cursed as he picked his bags up and struggled on again despite the increasing pain in his chest, and as it got worse he tried not to panic, especially when his breathing became more difficult than he could ever remember. Two, One, Zero, he gasped and at last made it to his padlocked garden gate, which gave access to the stone path leading to his house, The Old Vicarage, beyond. Putting down the bags he searched his pockets again, this time for the key to the gate as well, one then the other and back again. The more he panicked the worse the pain became; this was a battle he knew he could not win so he gave up the search, turned his back and allowed himself to slide down the gate’s wet, slimy surface, not seeing the puddle of water beneath him into which he slowly sank. Thank you very much, he said, before sighing and sitting back, then a feeling of sickness washed over him and to make matters worse, his left arm and jaw ached and his vision began to blur. He was familiar with these symptoms of a heart attack and raised his black, bushy eyebrows; a resigned smile then creased his face and a prayer for salvation entered his mind. Just before the darkness arrived he saw the blade of a flaming sword scything towards him and smiled again, because this time he knew that his prayer would not be answered.

When Andrew finally opened his black, bulging, blood-shot eyes, he found himself looking straight into the pink ones of a blonde albino Labrador. He blinked quickly several times and the Labrador responded by giving him an enthusiastic licking with its coarse pink tongue, causing him to splutter and cough. Where am I, what is going on? Andrew cried. For a moment he looked confused and turned his head backwards and forwards, surveying his position until gradually his memory caught up with events. The dog did not move and continued to peer closely into Andrew’s eyes, moving its head from one and then to the other. Andrew smiled and reaching forward with his left arm, gently pushed it away. He then looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was eight thirty, an hour since he had left the shop. Remaining where he was, he looked up and shook his fists at the dark rain filled sky. Why don’t you release me, why must it go on and on and on, what have I done, what is the point of my existence? he screamed, the effort made his chest tighten and prompted him to raise his hands to the heavens again. All right, alright, I’m sorry, life is sacrosanct, I agree. Sitting back, he smiled once more. Now I remember, he and after undoing his raincoat and reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the key to the gate and his pills, two of which he swallowed after extracting them from their foil wrapping. Remaining where he was, he waited for the pain in his chest to ease and after a few minutes he felt exhausted, but better. Then with a great deal of effort he turned sideways and pushed himself up onto his knees and grabbing hold of a loose panel protruding from the gate, he pulled himself up on to his feet and unlocked it. Not hurrying, he put the key back in his pocket and gathered up his two shopping bags. He then gave the gate a good kick and advanced just as one of the bag handles gave way, spilling tins of cat food which rolled through the gap where the gate had been and back down the hill he had just climbed. The gate being attached to a spring recoiled with the same force with which he had kicked it and collided with the remaining carrier bag, smashing two litre bottles of vodka. Andrew hung onto his temper and continued silently down the garden path, clinging tightly to the remnants of his shopping. When he reached his front door, a light came on which lit up the path behind him. His paranoia then got the better of him and turning, he checked that he was not being followed before punching some numbers into the keypad beside the old iron studded, oak doors; almost there, he said to himself and listened to the five locks inside turn before the doors swung open. Once inside the house, he walked down the tall galleried hall, past pictures he had painted and the old oak staircase, which curved and separated, toward the square railed landing above. Before entering his kitchen which was just past the staircase, he looked back down the hall and watched, while the front doors closed automatically and the locks slid noisily into place.

When it was clear that Andrew was safely inside and the doors shut, the blonde Labrador emerged from behind a rosebush close to Andrew’s front door and ran back down the garden path, leapt over the gate and trotted across the pavement towards the open door of a black Range Rover with black tinted glass, parked at the side of the road. As the dog jumped in the door closed and the vehicle moved quietly away; moments later a battered and rusty white, Thames van took its place.

Andrew put down what remained of his shopping in the kitchen sink and made his way upstairs to the bathroom, where he kicked his boots off and undressed before having a hot shower, emerging only when he felt the heat had penetrated his cold bones. He then towelled himself down, dressed and hobbled back downstairs to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of tea. He was then joined by Ra, his gray and white Persian cat, who jumped up onto the draining board and began whining incessantly. Andrew didn’t need another hint, and taking a plastic bowl from the cupboard under the sink, he plonked it down beside the cat. Then very carefully, he reached into the split bag and took out a tin of cat food which he opened and emptied into the bowl. Then looking back into the bag, he saw that the makings of a salad he had bought was covered in broken glass and that all that was left were four tins of beer which he took with him into the lounge just down the corridor at the opposite end to the front door. He sat down carefully on the settee but after a couple of sips, he felt sick again and putting the beer to one side, he put his head between his legs. Now he remembered that on top of everything else that had happened to him that day, he had forgotten his insulin jab which could prove fatal in his current condition. Wasting no time, he got up and went to his desk, where he removed an insulin pen from the top drawer and then lifting his tee-shirt, he pinched a piece of fat round his middle, stuck the needle in and pressed the plunger. Feeling that things could not get any worse, he lay down on the sofa, but this time he did not black out. For the first time in a long time he just sat and listened and noticed how unusually dark and still it was outside and that the only sound inside was the constant, slow tick-tock, tick-tock, of the tall, black and gold Grandfather Clock, which stood in the hall outside the open door of his lounge.

Andrews’s eyes moved slowly around the room and lingered on old familiar objects which surrounded him. After a few minutes, he rose from his chair and took a cigarette from a packet lying on his desk, lit it, inhaled deeply and walked over to the old inglenook fireplace at one end of the room and not knowing why stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the mantelpiece and picked up a picture frame standing beside it; turning it over he gently pushed aside the silver catches on either side and removed the old black and white photograph. Putting the frame back, he stood for a long time looking at the four faces staring back at him. Finally he turned it over and traced his fingers over the dried, purple ink signatures on the back. This sensation and the sight of these figures caused him to sob uncontrollably. Who are you, leave me alone? he cried, while tearing the photograph into four pieces, which he threw into the cold hearth. He returned to the sofa, where he slumped down again and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the tears running down his cheek.

When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed Midnight, Andrew stirred from his slumber, got up and paced up and down the room; stopping at the fireplace he looked down and saw the faces in the photograph. He thought they were mocking him and he had no idea why, and when he passed his writing desk for the umpteenth time, he saw that the computer screen was blank and that in front of it, there was a three quarters empty Vodka bottle, with an empty glass beside it. Ah, good, I forgot, he said, sounding relieved and sitting down in his black, leather wheelie chair in front of the desk, he sat back and ignoring the glass, took a several big slugs of vodka straight from the bottle which made feel better than he had all day. From where he sat, he let his bloodshot eyes roam the dust packed bookshelves stretching out from either side of his desk. Most of the books were upright, but some were stacked on their side and had little or no dust on them. Thinking about what he needed to finish the task in hand, he made a couple of notes on a writing pad beside him and when he finished, reached up and turned on the two blue adjustable reading lamps which were clamped on shelves either side of his desk. He then opened the desk drawer and removed a folded sheet of cloth two feet square, which he spread out flat on the desk, smoothing it with his hands to ensure there were no wrinkles. Then pushing himself backwards, he got up and wheeled his chair to one side, before kneeling down on the floor. Then taking his penknife from his trouser pocket, he opened the blade and before returning it, used it to prise free a black floorboard beneath where his chair had been. After removing it, he lent it against the bookshelf and reaching into the space where it had been he removed a long, thin aluminium tube which he placed on his desk. After putting the floorboard back and sitting back down again, he removed a cork plug from one end of the tube and gently tapped out a goat skin parchment, which he carefully unrolled onto the surface of the cloth he had just laid out. He was relieved to see that the parchment was still slightly moist from the treatment he had applied to stop it drying out earlier that day. This would have been disastrous and he knew that now he only had about another four hours to examine it before it had to be returned to the tube. As a precaution against his enthusiasm, he set the alarm on his watch and before continuing, he finished what remained of the vodka and tossed the empty bottle into the bin full of crumpled paper beside his chair.

Then settling down with his magnifying glass, Andrew focused on the left hand side of the parchment, trawling up and down and across its surface, sometimes putting the lens close to it and sometimes drawing it further away, always trying to focus, relentlessly up and down, up and down. After about three hours of finding nothing new amongst the blurred and faded images, he paused and lent forward, concentrating on an area, which up until then had not stood out. For the first time, he saw a series of dim smudged images, which seemed to be in some kind of pattern, in an area that had looked to him like splodges of ingrained sand. Where have you suddenly come from? he asked. Rising from his desk he crossed the room to his drinks cabinet and returned with a large silver and glass sugar shaker, containing Opaline powder, which he sprinkled in a thin layer over the part of the parchment which had just caught his attention; he then dabbed it carefully into the surface with a dry, thick, bristle headed, artists paintbrush. Then sitting back again, he waited two minutes before gently brushing the powder away, hoping that it had loosened and absorbed some of the debris. This being done, he pushed himself back in his chair and wiped his forehead so that the perspiration would not drip onto the parchment and spoil his work by smudging the ancient dye; he also adjusted the reading lamps so that the heat of the bulbs would not dry it out. Please god, who ever and wherever you are guide me, he prayed, with hands upraised before he lent forward, notebook and pencil at the ready.

The first objects which caught his attention were four brightly illuminated golden triangles arranged to form an equilateral cross, each being slightly different from the other; he already knew they represented the four ancient alchemical elements of Fire, Water, Air and Earth, whose combinations sustained life itself. Then to his utmost surprise, he saw that beneath these triangles, there was a bleeding, cloaked figure, who was drinking from a golden chalice which he held in one hand, while leaning on what appeared to be a sword, which he had pushed into the ground in front of him with the other. Andrew moved his magnifying glass over it, but all he could see was a blurred image whose head was hidden inside the hood of the cloak. Then he slowly moved the magnifying glass down this figure’s body and stopped at the white forearm of the hand resting on the sword, where he saw a deep gash and red streaks of blood, which to his utter disbelief actually began to flow. Impossible, he shouted out loud, while wondering how much vodka he had drunk and how much was left! His eyes were then drawn down and away from the bleeding arm to a sea of faces with expressions of desolation and despair, which rose out of the parchment and made him recoil in shock at what he was witnessing. Looking more closely, he saw that most of these pitiful figures were close to death, with blood dripping from open wounds, while the dead beneath them stared blankly towards the light. But without exception he could see pleading looks on the faces of the survivors, whose despairing hands were raised towards the dark figure holding the chalice. To make matters worse, he saw that in their desperation to reach this figure and regardless of the carnage around them, they now clambered, climbed and clawed themselves over one another, mercilessly ignoring the weakest, who appeared to give up and sink beneath them, with just their imploring eyes and fingertips remaining above the surface of the parchment. Jesus, what on earth is all this? Andrew asked out loud and stopped his drawing. Just to make sure he had missed nothing, he reached for his camera and took several shots to record what he had seen. When he finished, he reached into a bookshelf beside him and pulled out a brick of a book entitled An Unabridged History of Alchemy and Magic, which he thumbed through, backwards and forwards between chapters on Abramelin and Iamblichus the ancient magicians, past the stories of John Dee, Agrippa, Merlin, Eliphas Levi, Aleister Crowley and his friend and poet W B Yeats, pausing briefly at the section on ‘The Necessity of Separating Magic and Masonic Ritual’. After stopping his browsing, he inserted a book mark at the beginning of the first page of a chapter on, ‘The Final Rite’, a ceremony that for some reason intrigued him along with ‘The Ancient Summoning of Poseidon’ that he thought he had read before and needed to return to. Then he continued on to the evolution of Papal magic, until at last he stopped at a section on ‘The Transmutation of base metal into Gold’. What does it really mean, he said to himself pondering on what he had read and knew, because none of the high magicians he recalled, had admitted success in turning base metal into gold. They had allegedly succeeded with some spells, which was when scientists stepped in and claimed the real magicians’ ground, who themselves stepped aside and carried on the real work out of the glare of publicity. Andrew put the book down and raised the magnifying glass. But what of this, what does it mean, there is nothing in this book that can help me now? he said, speaking to himself again and stared back at the section of the parchment which he had just cleaned, where again he lingered at the scene of hopelessness and decay, but more intriguingly the figure drinking from the chalice. Brushing away some more dust, he saw some strange symbols that this time, he did not recognize. Ah, what do you mean? he asked with a sigh. But whilst he did not know what language they were in, the mere sight of them took him back to images of Pyramids and The Sphinx, to King Solomon and his temple in Jerusalem and the magical masons, who built it, before mysteriously disappearing after the death of their chief architect, who legend had it, were followed by The Knights Templar and their Priests who arrived in the same place, but who were not from the same place, and who amongst them, had a select few who possessed skills unheard of and unseen until then, which, to his knowledge, had remained hidden from the eyes of the profane ever since. These images brought with them memories of stories of the great temples of all the religions, where stories once told in stone, were now mostly forgotten or eroded by storm and flood, or plundered for the houses of the pious and good. Andrew pinched himself and returned to his attention to the parchment and gasped, because for some unknown reason he recognised the eyes that were staring at him. He half rose from his chair and screamed, What is this all about? Slumping back again, he saw the hourglass, shit, nearly five hours, he said, cursing himself; without delay he unwrapped the bath towel from around his neck and spread it carefully over the parchment which he damped down with the plant spray to stop it drying out and which would have to be left alone for a while before he could return to it.

Sitting back, Andrew removed some headphones from the black, marble head of the Egyptian goddess Isis, which peered at him accusingly from a pedestal on the floor beside his bookcase. After putting them on he re-booted his computer and chose the ‘Digital Dictation’ shortcut, from the desk top items on the screen. Taking a deep breath, he selected the ‘record’ icon and began speaking into the microphone to complete what he had begun earlier that day, while he waited for the parchment to become soft again: Would such men at that time, powerful men of the church and Temple, who were the only ones who could read and understand what was rightly or wrongly entrusted to their care, use what they learnt for their own power and wealth, when they could use this new knowledge that had been passed down the ages for the benefit of mankind, particularly when they knew that the stolen magical spells and formula contained in these works, were laden with traps for those not entitled to receive them, which they were not. From some of the evidence I have the answer appears to be yes, even though many have died in their attempts to abuse these ancient texts, not all but most. So, who were the original magicians, how many of them were there? The other question is, how did they pass this knowledge on in the first place, who did they trust and who then betrayed them; or were they, and since it is clear that they anticipated that their ancient magic would be stolen, have the thieves been deceived into thinking that they have all of their magic, all that they need to repel any attack on them? Whatever the case, at this point in time, it is fair to assume that at least part of what these magicians possessed has been stolen. But what about the rest, the whole of what they had or still have. The mystery remains: who were these first magicians that this world has ever seen? Whatever the case, one or more, they and their successors, appear to have disappeared from the eye of history, because I am sure that those that I have seen who claim possess their secrets, who say they have all that there has ever been, cannot be the true keepers of such knowledge; otherwise if they did and truly understood what they possess, we would be in more trouble than we are. All we can do is hope that someone somewhere, who loves us for who we really are, still has this devastating knowledge that could save us from ourselves. If not and someone else does, then our very existence on this planet will come to an end, when there will be a war among those we have never known or seen, if you believe in magic, that is?

Andrew pressed the pause button and reached for a clipboard hanging on a hook beside his desk and leafed through newspaper cuttings, stopping at articles on abortion, human cloning and deaths caused by unexploded cluster bombs, drone attacks, road side bombs, exploding cars and a government massacre of its own people on the road to Damascus. He released the pause button and continued with his dictation:

"But, how can we deny magic, which some now call Chemistry or Physics, whose exponents, unaware or heedless of consequences, constantly absolve themselves from the responsibility of their discoveries and inventions, by using the phrase: ‘for the good and freedom of mankind.’ Their spells, their formulas, are, I am sure, the result of earlier discoveries contained in those ancient texts I have mentioned, which should never have been released. I ask: how have they been obtained or extracted and if so, in whole or in part, or do they both evolve?

But in all of this, theory or not, such secret writings exist and we have seen but a small part of them hidden in the Dead Sea Scrolls of the Nag Hamadi desert, which is not far from Jerusalem. Unfortunately they were snuffled up by the Roman Catholic Church and mainly translated by their most trusted priests, like Roland Deveaux before they were released, so that we saw what they wanted us to see. In 2009, the Church told us that it had only just discovered a manuscript absolving their Pope from any conspiracy to torture and murder Jaques Molay, The Grand Master of The Knights Templar. Why I ask, after seven hundred years of denial, have they waited to absolve themselves in such a cynical way. Is it because those Knights or their mysterious inner orders had something the church was after, which was not just money and they have at last discovered it? What is this inner order and who are its members that the Pope will not talk about? History tells us that they were chosen not from just one religion and were called Adepts, practitioners of high magic, who came from the whole region surrounding King Solomon’s Temple at Jerusalem. Whether Jews, Moslems, Parsees, it didn’t matter; from the very beginning they have remained out of sight, not daring to reveal themselves unless they discover those that can be trusted, which only occurs after a rigorous process, where even the recipient of their secrets is unaware of the scrutiny they are receiving.

It is not surprising that these Adepts have not shown themselves, because there has always been bait set for them by the Inquisition who to this day, exist at every twist and turn, blocking the way to truth and would if they discovered their whereabouts, ensure that they were incarcerated, or worse. They along with MI5 the CIA, as well as other government enforcers and religious bodies, or more insidiously their watchers, have always possessed some of these secrets, but not the key to using them, which no doubt these Adepts would have. It is likely therefore that whatever magical secrets have been stolen, they will be used, in the hope that whatever they attempt will attract these Adepts, so that by gradual filtration, they will be ensnared and either reveal their own secrets and power or be destroyed. That is what always happens when those in power will not be denied, who destroy everything and everyone, who they cannot and do not want to understand. This, in my opinion has lead to the original magicians and their successors who have not been seen since Christ’s birth, who always had our interests at heart, to be even more secretive and discreet with their knowledge, who I urge, if they can hear me, to retreat and watch the watchers.

In all of this, good or bad, well intentioned or not, traps will be set, each for each other, where the collateral damage for the unwary and innocent will be catastrophic; even those we hate and seek to destroy will have their own kind who will be willing to destroy them, their masters, and take their mantle and glory in their victory, before they turn their sights on the rest of us. In the final analysis, it is for us, the inhabitants of this frail planet, full of frail people who are dominated by greed and evil, by the hidden enemy, who we worship and cannot see, who pull the strings and use this world to trap those who have been sent to destroy them, to stand up and be counted and join our mysterious saviours in the their final hour. Andrew stopped his dictation, God, what utter tripe, who would ever publish this rubbish," he said and turned his Dictaphone off.

Andrew now looked at his watch and felt disappointed because it showed him that he had less than half an hour left to complete what he had intended. He removed the now dry towel from the parchment and taking hold of his magnifying glass, focused his attention back onto its surface, which apart from the tree of elements and the bleeding figure with the sword and chalice, was divided in two by a vertical line of letters, which despite lengthy research he had not been able to decipher. At the same time, he was relieved to see that the sea of pitiful faces had disappeared. This time he referred to the book he had just been reading, because he had remembered what he thought was a similar section. When he finished comparing them he was pleased to see they were indeed both the same and not only that, there was a translation. It was nothing special and just a warning which read:

Whosoever castes their eyes hereon beware, know yea the prayer before you dare to proceed. Beside it, he saw that there was what appeared to be the seal of Hermes, which was only a thumb nail large and depicted an eagle in flight with outstretched talons, over the head of a roaring lion!

He flicked through the rest of the chapter but could not find anything to help him any further; there was not even a hint of the prayer referred to and so he put the book down and concentrated on the right hand side of the parchment where there was a map of the heavens. Then taking his ruler, he took several measurements and came to the conclusion that what he was looking at, was the position of the constellations at a particular time, in relation to what was clearly a land map of the eastern Mediterranean on the right hand side, from where the constellations could be seen; the fact that there was a jagged edge at the bottom of the parchment troubled him, because in his mind it meant only one thing, something was missing and he didn’t have it.

Dismissing this potential problem and looking at the left hand side of the parchment, the bright light of his lamps enabled him to see clearly what were now the cities of Jerusalem, Tehran, Bagdad, Istanbul, Damascus and Rome; there were smaller towns, but they were obscured so he used the brush again over these areas in the hope that its stiff bristles would loosen the remaining debris without having to use the Opaline powder, because time was running out and the powder cost so much. The brush did loosen some debris, but not enough for him to get excited, probably he reasoned, because he was rushing, so he concentrated on the middle margin, to the right of Damascus where there was what looked like a list of names, one beneath the other, which he copied and photographed. There were flagpoles beside the names, supporting yellow, red, blue, and black banners, which because of the way they had been drawn, gave the impression that they were fluttering in a light breeze. In the middle of these banners, he identified the corresponding sign of the Zodiac for the four then known elements he had seen earlier, the noble golden Lion of Leo for the red banner, the white cloaked figure of a man for the yellow, the silver scaled fish of Pisces for the blue and the black and white identical twins Gemini; each banner also bore letters which he struggled to copy because they were not immediately obvious, or clear despite his doctorate in Middle East History, Philosophy and Languages, so he took yet more photographs. This time he found it difficult to focus properly and very quickly the images on the parchment became blurred; at the same time he began to feel sick.

Putting the camera down, Andrew got up from his chair, arched his back and pushed his arms out either side of himself to stretch. Looking at his watch again he saw that his time had run out but the lure of the parchment was too much and he thought that the risk of continuing would be worth it, particularly because he was discovering that the more he concentrated on the map, the more animated it became. This time and unlike earlier in the day, there were no distractions and as his absorption became total, the banners of the tribes drifted away from their poles and floated before him; at the same time, ghostly white, ethereal, distorted heads with leering, twisted faces full of pain emerged again, but this time they broke free and started to float and hover all around him. They were young and old and everything in between, but without exception, all were extremely distressed. Occasionally they passed straight through him and multiplied in number, until in the end, they began to crowd in on him, all the time examining and scrutinising him, before moving away. These faces were quickly replaced by the unknown Pyramids beyond The Great Pyramid at Giza and those that surrounded it, which rose from the middle of the parchment. For a moment Andrew found himself in the saddle of a camel watching the cursing and heaving bodies of half naked, olive skinned men, who were sweating and struggling to move and fix huge slabs of gleaming, brilliant white marble on to the side of one of the pyramids they were constructing, which disappeared high into the clouds.

This vision faded and Andrew ended up back at his desk; he fought to concentrate and not fall asleep again. Re-focusing the