Immediately after his emanation, I seek out Stavros. I see in him a mystical bent which might be ideal for work with that arcane and dangerous text, The Hedgemegeton. Since a few of the quest achievements intimated that the use of magick might be required, I will take him under my wing, as my apprentice, in hopes that soon his spark will be raised into the mandala of our being. Our goal: Achievement #71, “Obtain a familiar.”
He completes the task of tracing in chalk the mystic symbols onto the stone floor of my laboratory. His lines are perfectly straight and unbroken. There is no need to warn him that any lapse could possibly allow for the entry of a malign spirit. He seems to have a natural instinct for occult security.
« Are you certain that this is an appropriate subject? » he asks as he draws the triangle of evocation around a small plant potted in a clay container.
« The text does not specify the use of an animal, » I assure him.
« But if it were, say, a bat, or even a bloobird, it would be most effective in espionage, and even attack. »
« Every time we’ve tried to have pets, it’s gone pear-shaped – the pocket puppies, the flying sucksow, the dobergator… »
« What about the penguins? »
« Penguins aren’t pets. They are natural allies. Trust me on this – the calabash gourd has an ancient and mystical history. »
A gourd? A gourd? Lorcan chatburls. Man, don’t you know anything about being properly goth? And Stavros gives off the wrong vibe too, like a cross between an Ennead don and a government parapsychologist.
« I refuse to be critiqued by a dabbler more concerned with appearances than mystical truths. Go back to reading Baudelaire. »
I’m not reading Baudelaire right now. I’m in bed with X’khaim. And you should be up here too, at Sloane’s, not fiddling around in your laboratory. How long is this going to take?
« As long as it requires. The Great Work cannot be rushed. »
« I think we’re ready, » says Stavros.
I light the incense, a pungent blend of myrrh and nau’gsh resin. « As soon as I’ve consecrated the circle, begin the invocation. »
« I don’t recognize half of these words. How do I know if I’m pronouncing them correctly? »
« They’re barbarous names of evocation. Just wing it. »
Stavros looks at me skeptically, but when I’m done fumigating the room with a thick cloud of smoke, he raises his wand dramatically, almost as if he’s ready to conduct an orchestra. Then he lets loose an impressive string of vowels, half-grunted, half-chanted in a rich baritone. He bangs his wand on the altar; a bouquet of silk flowers bursts from the ivory tip. In response, the plant in the triangle seems to grow, snaking its leaves in his direction.
“His Reverend Excellency Stavros of Seachange, Cardinal Maestro of the Archonist Church. 96th to emanate, 20 in the color scale, resonates to 71. 1.835 meters tall, cock size 16.57 cm when erect, apparent age 36. Exorcist, stage magician and orchestral conductor. Totem is Acer capillipes, the snakebark maple, fixed star is Thuban, the snake. Esoteric symbol is the geomantic glyph Cauda Draconis, the dragon’s tail. Dessert is nau’gsholi, chocumber and javajuice opera cake. Function is analytic release, proto-conscious tendency is filtration, designated Gatekeeper. Blazon is greengrain, on a saltire argent, in saltire, conductor’s baton, dexter, and a magician’s wand, sinister, proper.”
« It worked! » I exclaim.
Stavros throws his head back, laughing maniacally. « I can feel them; my servants stretch their vines throughout the pleroma! They will guard the Lodehole Mine in my absence. With leaves unfurled, they will gather information from the farthest reaches of our territories! »
Perhaps Lorcan has a point about Stavros; he seems a bit controlling.
Unfortunately, it appears that a trip to Sloane’s in not in our immediate future. Let’s put those familiars to work, suggests Mickey. Stavros, see if you can get any intel about the State of War to help out Cillian.
Stavros narrows his eyes in rapt concentration. « The leaves whisper that the State of War is in turmoil because the unicorn king is under enchantment. They speak of a prophecy: “One thing prevails against darkest foe; the horn of the beautiful one to show.” »
What kind of fucking compost is that? says Cillian.
But there’s something familiar about all this. I reach for the third volume of The Hedgemegeton, flipping through the pages. « Ah ha! Here it is. “To Free the Enchanted Unicorn King.” » But as my eyes scan down the page, my blood freezes. It is clear that the fated day both inevitable and dreaded has finally arrived. « To work the spell, a parchment enchanted with demonic black magic is required. »
« I don’t like the sound of that, » murmurs Stavros.
« You wouldn’t, my friend. Your nature is righteous, your skills those of the exorcist, of which the necromancer is the natural counterpoint. Nay, this is quite literally my own demon that I must face. »
And yet – loyal man! – he insists on accompanying me, to assist as he might. But first, I must beseech a favor. It is with trepidation that I must knock of the Very Door of God himself.
Davy appears at the lintel. « Seth? I’m kinda busy right now. » He gestures me in, where Tarlach and Chand are already in attendance, and turns back to them. « Now you want me to do what? »
« Become a clade leader, » says Chand. « We did an analysis of social clusters, and it looks like you’re at the center of one. The only other choice would be Suibhne, and I’m sure you can see why that isn’t viable. »
« But this is a stroke of luck! » enthuses Tarlach, « As we were going to see Seth later about the same matter. »
« Excuse me? What, exactly, is a clade leader? »
« A scene-boss, » says Davy. « You know, a major pimp like Sloane or Ace. »
« Ahahaha. I do believe that you have the wrong person. I’m a charter member of Sloane’s social organization. »
« We really need you, » says Chand. « We were rather hoping that X’khaim would have a solution for people of your propensity, but he thought that the guilds needed to be more, ah, professional. »
Davy snickers. « He said that there’s no such thing as a guild for occult weirdos. »
« How ignorant! Esoteric societies have existed since the dawn of humanity, cloaked in secrecy lest their light blind the uninitiate. »
« That’s exactly it, » Tarlach soothed. « We need you to form an esoteric society. Surely, there’s no conflict with the scene at Sloane’s? He isn’t a jealous branch, and there is no limit on the number of clades you can join. »
It is an interesting proposition.
« So that would be his theme, huh? » says Davy. « And I’d have to come up with a theme of my own? Who else is doing it? »
« Ailann, Ace and Sloane, of course, who have themed their clades “The Pastoral Scene,” “The Stud Buffet,” and “Club Rendezvous.” Patrick quickly stepped up to the plate to constitute a formal dining society. Tommy also agreed, but said he’d have to think up a theme. Quennel said that he would like to, but he has to talk Evan into it. Mickey and Marius are still considering. »
« So I’d have to recruit my friends? And some hot new sprouts? Okay, I think I’m in. And let’s make my theme… “The Lunatic Fringe.” That ought to keep away the undesirables. »
« How a propos that on such a day of infamy, there should also be a beacon of light, the founding of that profound mystical order Genius Arborium Sidereum, the Genius of the Starry Trees. »
« Infamy? » asks Tarlach. « Did something happen I haven’t heard about? »
« You do know that those initials spell GAS, » says Davy. « although that’s pretty a propos in its own right. »
« G.:A.:S.: » I correct. « Initials of occult orders are always followed by three dots, forming a triangle. And I was referring to my own private tragedy, the day upon which I must finally deliver my soul to the demon Merrick with whom I have a prior contract. Indeed, that was my original purpose in coming here, my dear Davy. I require the egg which will allow Merrick to take his final form. »
« Nuh-uh, » says Davy. « Tara would kill me. She’s going to be mad enough about the last four that snuck through while Briscoe was eating waffles. You can’t take your eyes off those damn penguins for a minute. »
« But my friend, » I say, gesturing in a suitably impassioned fashion, « my associate Stavros here is the result of that fortunate lapse. Do you not place faith in the hand which moves us? Do you not believe that the pleroma provides? »
Tarlach strokes his beard. « Seth is one of those people who sounds a bit…odd…but he generally has a point to make. »
« Takes one to know one, » Davy ripostes.
« There’s also a specific cause for his request. It’s not like he’s throwing eggs randomly into the cenote, like some people we both know. »
« Suibhne had his reasons. Just because nobody else understands them doesn’t mean they’re not valid. I and I has some weird ways of doing stuff, especially when it comes to some people. »
« Takes one to know one, » says Tarlach.
Davy closes his eyes and sighs. « Yeah, I think it’s probably all right. But if there’s trouble with Tara, it’s your branch in the sawmill, not mine. »
Stavros and I need to don the proper ceremonial robes, so we agree to meet Davy at the cenote. Of course, there is a certain amount of preparation which must occur – the circle, triangle, all appropriate names and sigils. It’s made more challenging because we must work around Briscoe, who absolutely refuses to take his eyes off the remaining sparks.
« I don’t appreciate this, » he says. « You should either free them all or find the last three to put into the pool with them. They’re getting so lonely. »
Davy places the ovum into a sacralized egg cup. I cast my eyes to the heavens, to the swirling mandala composed of our very souls. I find myself in agreement with Briscoe. We should finish the pattern as soon as possible. The more sparks which ascend, the more I become painfully aware of our incompleteness.
Davy nods. « Yeah, it’s like driving alone at midnight, when you pass a diner and one of the neon letters is out, and you say to yourself, geez, don’t they care enough to have it fixed? »
« That wasn’t quite the image in my mind, » says Tarlach.
« What are you doing here anyways? » asks Davy.
« Research, important research. I want to witness the process so that I can gain an understanding of its psychological ramifications. »
« I think the process might be a little different this time, » I reply. « Stavros, uncover the chalice. »
« Say, isn’t that the piece of crap Theo picked up in the mental jungle? » asks Davy.
« I thought I would make use of it for its obvious Eucharistic symbolism. The pleroma provides, as they say. But first, a consecration, » I proclaim, grabbing a censer. Within seconds, the chamber is fumigated with a piney resin, which strangely seems to provoke a coughing fit in most everyone.
« Water! » Davy cries, dipping the chalice into the cenote.
I grab the chalice back from him. « That’s for purification, » I say, dipping my fingers to sprinkle droplets on the plump and pleasantly pink egg.
« You ready yet? » Davy holds the egg aloft. « When do I drop it? »
« When I perform the sign of the enterer, of course. Now prepare for the worst. » Stavros and I begin the chant, as I mentally bid farewell to the freedom and sanctity of my soul.
We finish the conjuration, tracing pentagrams in the air, spinning counterclockwise around the cenote. Finally, the moment arrives, and I shout « από μένα δαίμονας[1] » while lunging, thrusting both hands forward towards the crèche.
Davy tosses the egg into the water rather irreverently, as if attempting a free throw in the ancient sport of basketball. For a moment, all is silent. Then the water parts, and a form emerges, levitating slightly above the cenote. He’s a broodingly handsome, dark-haired man with shadowy brows and tiny horns protruding above them. He is holding the skull of a felinoid with enormous fanged teeth. These are mere trappings. The truly shocking thing is his eyes.
One of them – the left one – is brown.
I hear an extraordinarily loud gasp, which I swear isn’t just from the crèche, but from Daniel’s room and just about everywhere else. « Demonic, » mutters Stavros. « Totally against nature. »
« Don’t worry, » Merrick says, his tone conveying his bored disdain. « I remember. If I want to claim Seth, I have to serve Tara. It’s the pact I made with Ashtara. He sold me a piece of his own soul in exchange for the use of my magickal acumen. »
« I don’t know that I like the sound of that… » mutters Briscoe.
« Don’t worry about it, » says Davy. « Merrick’s a boob. In order to claim Seth, he had to join the pleroma. That means his spark will eventually get incorporated into the mandala, and his soul will belong to I and I. He was tricked. »
« Oh look, if it isn’t God. I’m not impressed. Where’s Seth? »
I step forward. Merrick throws himself around my leg. « Mine! » he declares triumphantly.
This is embarrassing, perhaps the most embarrassing moment in my life, more so than my attempt to make a floral bouquet out of bathroom linen.
And then Merrick sits back and points at the chalice sitting upon my makeshift altar. « What the actual fuck? » he exclaims. « That’s the fucking Holy Grail! »
“Merrick of Seachange, Demon Lord of the Domha’vei. 97th to emanate, 42 in the color scale, resonates to 181. 1.948 meters tall, cock size 18.9 cm when erect, apparent age 30. Demon. Totem is Hippomane mancinella, the manchineel tree or little apple of death, fixed star is Sinistra, the left side. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is molten demon’s-food cake with nau’gsh-mooniberri confit. Function is adjusting inertia, proto-conscious tendency is wickedness, designated Darkness. Blazon is sable, an Archonist cross inverted, Cu’ensali blossom.”
Quite inadvertently, Merrick has completed the supreme achievement: he has found the Sangraal!
[1] “From me, a daimon” – trans