There was nothing Richard or Simon could do, or the Duke either, when he came to a few minutes later. To have brought occult power to bear on von Thumm would have required concentration and, at the moment, his head seemed to be splitting.
The ambush had consisted of eight men. One was a powerful Arab and another a yellow-faced mulatto with a crop of tight curls. The others were all big Negroes. One of the latter had been shot by Richard in the fleshy part of the arm; but the seven uninjured men were more than sufficient to keep the captives under control. None of them had uttered a word. The Baron was now holding one of the torches, and as its beam swept over the faces of two of the Negroes, de Richleau caught sight of their gaping mouths and lacklustre, fixed stare. It confirmed the impression he had already formed from the jerky movement of their limbs as two of them had pulled him to his feet. Turning his head, he said to von Thumm:
‘Do not be too certain that you have triumphed. Had you sent men with all their faculties to ambush us, they would have reacted promptly to any unexpected situation. But Zombies are incapable of doing so. When the pain in my head has lessened, I may spring an unexpected surprise on you. Then these poor wretches will only gape and look on while I again force you into submission.’
As the Duke spoke, he was well aware that several hours must elapse before he again became capable of using his occult powers; so his only object had been to undermine von Thumm’s confidence in himself. The Baron replied harshly:
‘Should you anything attempt, with you on the “down here” level I will deal as you threatened to do to me. A bullet in the guts you will get. But the Undead haf their uses. No tales can they tell. As you will haf guessed, we of the hierarchy take much precaution against those morons in the settlement our secret activities getting to know. Times are when one of them too inquisitive becomes. For such situation, these six Undead at headquarters we keep. Ach, I haf good new thought. To cheat me try and I will shoot only to wound. Then into the marsh I will haf you thrown, to choke out your lives in mud.’
After a moment he added, ‘Also with aid I now haf, on the Astral I am also your master.’ Then he jerked his head in the direction of the Arab and the mulatto. ‘El Aziz is son to Baal, and Benito to Baron Samedi. United we haf power to your Astral bind. March now, all of you.’
As they moved off, both Simon and Richard glanced at the two men with quick interest, as it was Benito who had brought Nella to the Sabbat and El Aziz who had raped her.
For what seemed an endless time, mud became a nightmare to the prisoners. As they were forced on by their captors, they staggered from one piece of solid ground to another, through intervening stretches of spongy, oozing soil that threatened to suck their shoes from their feet. The march back to the settlement proved incredibly laborious, and the fear grew on all of them that they would never make it. With incredible fortitude, the elderly Duke trudged on, and Richard, the fittest of the three, managed to keep going, in spite of the laboured breathing that racked his lungs. But, on the final mile, poor Simon’s legs gave way with increasing frequency and he slid to his knees in the mire. Silently the two Zombies who were holding his arms dragged him to his feet and, eventually, had practically to carry him.
At long last they reached the building outside the settlement. Von Thumm led the way in. The prisoners were taken down a flight of concrete steps to the basement and pushed into an unfurnished room. A steel door clanged behind them. The key was turned in the lock, and the light was switched off. Utterly exhausted and caring no more what happened to them, they lowered themselves to the bare floor and, very soon, fell asleep.
When they woke, still in darkness, they had no idea for how long they had been unconscious. De Richleau was convinced that they had slept the clock round nearly twice, as they had flown up to the Sala on February 1st and the 2nd was Candlemas, one of the four great Satanic feasts of the year; the others being Walpurgis Night, St. John’s Eve and Hallowe’en. It was certain that von Thumm, El Aziz and Harry Benito, together with the other Satanists who lived in the house, would all have flown off to a Sabbat; and that would account for their being left to have their sleep out, instead of being roughly awakened a few hours after being pushed into the cell.
Miserably they exchanged a few words on the events leading up to their capture. The Duke exhorted his companions to have faith that the Lords of Light would come to their assistance. His friends endeavoured to believe that, but were so unutterably depressed that they responded only half-heartedly. Then, for a period of several hours, they remained almost silent.
Suddenly the light was switched on. They were still blinking when the steel door of the room was unlocked and swung open. Framed in it was the big negro Richard had seen at dinner with the Baron. Without bothering to close the door behind him, he advanced into the room, glared down at Richard and said:
‘I am Lincoln B. Glasshill. I’ve a score to settle with you and your little friend. By instigating police inquiries, you have rendered it no longer safe for us to hold Sabbats at my house in Santiago, and forced me to abandon my practice there. Stand up.’
Richard got to his feet but the big man’s fist shot out, caught him on the jaw and hurled him back against the wall. Before he could recover and get his fists into a position to defend himself, Glasshill struck again, this time at Richard’s stomach. The savage blow drove the breath from his body. He lurched forward, endeavouring to cover his face. But in vain. With cold malice, his attacker smashed down his guard and slammed his clenched fists again and again into Richard’s eyes, nose, mouth and chin. Dazed and bleeding, Richard sank to the floor.
Turning to Simon, who had got up with the futile thought of coming to Richard’s assistance, Glasshill seized him by the collar, shook him as a terrier shakes a rat and, towering over him, cried:
‘You miserable little whitey. You are not worthy of being chastised by a proper man. I’ll not stoop to skin my knuckles on your face. Instead, I’ll send the fire-imps to you.’
With a great heave, he sent Simon sprawling in a comer, turned on his heel and marched from the room, slamming the door behind him.
De Richleau’s immediate concern had been to get as much sleep as possible, in order to recharge with energy his physical body; so, some while before Glasshill had entered the cell, he had induced sleep to come to him again. At the sound of the shouts and scuffle as the Negro beat Richard up the Duke’s ego returned down the silver cord that attached it to his body during unconsciousness; but his physical senses were too freshly aroused for him to be capable of any attempt to protect his friend.
Now he stood up, laid his hands gently on Richard’s battered face, drew out the pain and soothed him. But soon afterwards he had to turn his attention to Simon. He was still lying in the corner where Glasshill had thrown him, and tiny lights had begun to flicker up and down his body. A smell of burning cloth drifted across the room, then Simon started to cry out in distress as the fire-imps settled on his face and hands, inflicting burns on him that were more painful than mosquito bites. Frantically he endeavoured to destroy the imps by smacking at them; but, with incredible swiftness, they evaded his attempts and settled on him in other places.
‘Be patient for a few minutes, Simon,’ de Richleau urged him swiftly. ‘I have now regained enough power to deal with this at least.’ Sitting down cross-legged on the floor, he bowed his head and extended his arms as high as they would go above his shoulders. Simon could not stop himself from continuing to swot about and exclaim in pain and anger; but gradually the little flames that were tormenting him went out with a faint, hissing noise, as though they were being doused with invisible water.
There followed another long period, during which they sat or lay in the darkness, changing their positions every few minutes, to ease the soreness of their flesh from pressure on the hard floor. They reckoned that they had been put in the cell at about five o’clock in the morning, and from their wrist-watches they knew that Glasshill’s visit had taken place at about three o’clock, so they reckoned that they had been in the cell for at least thirty-four hours; and, as no food or drink had been brought to them, they were all now both hungry and very thirsty.
Shortly before five o’clock, the light came on again, the door opened and von Thumm limped into the room. Behind him stood a little group of his Zombies. For a moment he regarded his prisoners with his crooked smile, then his face took on a discontented look, as he snarled:
‘English swine! Ach, to haf had you in my hands in the old days, how goot it would haf been. I was then Gruppenführer S.S. For English spy-swine, dirty Jews and such, we haf the ice-water bath, the steel rod to beat and the electric apparatus for attaching to genitals. These we haf not here. I haf ideas, though. Ja plenty to make you for mercy scream. But for the present, no. Orders haf come that I to another place take you. So! Perhaps I am fortunate and you returned to me for disposal are. If not make no merriment. Others will with you deal and you curse the day when into our business your big noses you stick.’
De Richleau made no attempt to subdue the Baron mentally, because he thought it certain that he would be able to call on help to resist, and felt that, in any case, wherever they were being sent, they would not fare worse than they would in the hands of this Nazi sadist.
The Zombies hustled them up the stairs to a wash-room, where they were allowed to relieve themselves; then out on to the airstrip. Von Thumm led the way over to one of the smaller aircraft. It was already ticking over. They climbed into it and saw that the long-haired man, whose back view Richard had seen through the dining room window two evenings before, was sitting in the back seat. He had the hook nose of an Andean Indian and the thick lips of a Negro. In his right hand he held a two-foot-long blade, with a very sharp point; a more practical weapon for keeping prisoners under control in an aircraft than a pistol, a bullet from which might have damaged the structure. The Baron awkwardly levered himself up into the pilot’s seat, and tested the controls; then they took off.
From the direction of the sinking sun the prisoners knew that they were flying slightly east of north. For about fifty miles the dreary Sala, with its endless marshes and stretches of reddish earth passed smoothly beneath them, then they entered mountainous country and the going became very rough. The ’plane bucked, swerved and dropped alarmingly as it struck air pockets; but von Thumm was a good pilot and evidently knew well the route lie was taking. Their discomfort lasted only twenty minutes, then they came round a high peak to see, melting into the misty distance ahead, the fifty-mile long Lago de Poopo. The blueness of its waters was in startling contrast with the yellow of the heights surrounding it. But they had little time to take in the full grandeur of the scene, for the Baron had put the aircraft into a steep dive to bring it down.
Another few minutes, and it became clear that he was heading for an island about ten miles from the southern edge of the great lake. As they approached, it could be seen that to have landed on it from the water would have been next to impossible, as sheer cliffs dropped to the beaches. The southern two-thirds of it was flat, and largely covered with forest, but towards its northern end there were hills, mounting to a lofty eminence of rock, crowning which there stood an irregular building of grey stone, that looked like a ruined fortress.
The foothills at the far end of the island were broken by a half-mile-long, oval plateau. It had been developed into a landing strip, and had two small aircraft parked in bays clear of the runway. Von Thumm brought the ’plane down with practised ease. It was met by two men, both short, but of formidable appearance. They had the hook noses and lank, black hair of Andeans, and were wearing gaudy clothes, with bandoliers across their chests, pistol holsters on their hips and knives thrust through their waistbands.
The Baron signed to the prisoners to get out of the ’plane, but did not follow. With no more than a gesture, he handed them over to the two Andeans and, having thrown a malevolent glance at them, slammed shut the door of his aircraft. Two minutes later it was again in the air, and heading back towards the Sala de Uyuni. Meanwhile, one of the Indians had signed to the prisoners to follow him and the other took up the rear.
For twenty minutes they made their way laboriously up a series of steep stairways cut in the rock, until they reached the partially-ruined stronghold. Its towering walls were composed of great blocks of stone which had been cunningly dovetailed together. How man could possibly have constructed such a building without cranes and modern engineering machinery posed a fascinating problem, as do the similar pre-Hellenic palaces at Mycene and Tirens in Greece. From many photographs the prisoners had seen, they knew this one to have been built by the Incas, probably in the fifteenth century A.D., which would have made it nearly three thousand years later than those the pre-Hellenes had built with similar huge blocks of stone.
Their escort led them through a flat-topped arch, the transom of which was a monolith twelve feet in length and four in depth, into a courtyard, then through a much lower arch and down a long, narrow passage. At the far end there was a modern door of heavy wood. One of the men pressed a bell-push. They waited for a while and the door was opened by another Andean Indian, dressed in a green, scalloped jerkin and trunks that were reminiscent of the clothes worn by Robin Hood’s men. Behind him stood a Negro with a wall eye, who beckoned them in.
Incongruously, after the courtyard of great stones, there was a carpeted stairway, with walls of pale, natural wood, and lit by electric light. Mounting the stairs, they reached a wide landing which might have been that of a large private house. It was furnished with a Louis XV settee and chairs of the same period. On the walls there were prints after Bouchard and Fragonard. Two passages led oil it. They were taken along the one leading to the right. To one side, some way down it, there was an open arch. Through it the prisoners could see a bar, in front of which several men were sitting drinking. Among them there was an immensely fat Babu, together with a Negro with a face like a skull, an almost white Caribbean octoroon and dark-skinned Spaniard.
The wall-eyed Negro who had met the captives signed to the green-liveried servitor and gestured for him to take them on down the corridor; then walked through the archway to join his companions in the bar. The servitor led them along the passage for another eighty feet, then halted and knocked on a door. A voice bade him enter. He opened the door and signed to the prisoners to go into the room.
It was a boudoir, again furnished in the style of Louis XV, with a beautiful Aubusson carpet. Seated near the window was Silvia Sinegiest. She had been reading a book. As she laid it down, her little shaggy-haired dog jumped from her lap, barking furiously and bounded towards her visitors, racing round their legs giving them an excited welcome. Standing up, Silvia cried, ‘Down, Booboo, down! You bad boy! Stop it!’ But she was smiling and, turning her smile on Richard, she said in her low, musical voice:
‘Hello! How nice to see you again, and Mr Aron. Your friend, of course, must be the Duke de Richleau.’
The Duke made an inclination of his head. ‘You are right, Madame. By hearsay you are equally well known to me, and I recall with pleasure seeing two films that you made some years ago. I only regret that we should meet under such far from happy circumstances.’
Her bright glance ran swiftly over them. Their clothing was creased and mud-stained, their hair awry, and they all had bristly stubble on their chins.
She sighed and shook her head, with its aureole of strawberry blonde hair. ‘We owe you an apology. Unfortunately, so many Germans are still barbarians at heart, and von Thumm is one of them. But I suppose one must allow for the malice he feels at the destruction of his Nazi ideals and the humiliation of his country.’
‘One could forgive him a lot,’ Richard burst out, his speech now thick from the thirst that had been tormenting them for several hours past. ‘But not for denying us water ever since we were caught.’
‘Oh, you poor things!’ she exclaimed; then, in a few swift steps she crossed to a drinks table and asked, ‘What will you have—whisky, gin, brandy?’
‘For me, water please,’ replied de Richleau. ‘Later we may accept your invitation to partake of something more potent.’ The others nodded agreement. Quickly she poured three glasses from a carafe, popped a lump of ice into each and carried them over.
Looking at Richard, she said, ‘Your face is in a shocking state. Is that the result of your having gotten into a fight, or did von Thumm beat you up?’
‘No, it was not the Baron,’ he replied tartly, ‘but another of your friends: that great brute of a Negro, Lincoln Glasshill.’
‘They are not my friends, only my associates,’ she told him with a quick lift of her chin. ‘I will do my best to make amends by patching you up.’
Turning away, she tinkled a glass bell that stood on an ornate, buhl writing table. In under a minute her summons was answered by Pedro, the Spanish manservant who had been with her down in Punta Arenas. She said to him, ‘Take these gentlemen to their rooms. See to it that they have everything they want.’ Glancing at Richard, she added, ‘When you have shaved and had a bath, say in half an hour, I’ll come to you and do what I can to your face.’
Pedro led them away down the long corridor to the landing, then down the other corridor to three rooms near its end. Their original stone ceilings and floors had been left untouched, but the walls had been plastered and painted with evidently modern murals of Inca scenes, and there were colourful handwoven mats on the floors. The beds looked comfortable, and there were fitted cupboards. Adjacent to each room was a small, well-equipped bathroom, with all they would need to make themselves presentable.
Wearily they struggled out of their filthy clothes, shaved and luxuriated for a while in hot baths. When, considerably revived, they returned to the bedrooms, they found that Pedro had removed the gaudy garments they had been wearing and, instead, laid out for them the type of suit that up-country white men wore in that part of the world. Richard had just put his on, and found that it fitted not too badly, when there came a knock at his door. He called ‘Come in’, and Silvia entered, carrying a tray on which were numerous items for first aid.
His lips were swollen, his chin and cheek cut, but his worst injury was to his left eye. It was already half closed, and promised to become a glorious ‘shiner’. Having remarked it, Silvia had brought with her a piece of raw meat which she proceeded to lay on it and securely bandage in place. She smeared a healing salve on his mouth and the cuts, then lightly powdered over the latter.
Standing back, she said with a laugh, ‘Poor Mr Eaton, you do look a guy. How very distressing for such a handsome fellow. But, never mind. In a day or two you will again be an Adonis.’
Regarding her coldly with his remaining eye, he said sullenly, ‘Not if your so-called “associates” get at me again. And why you should think me good-looking, I’ve no idea. Apart from my wife, No one else tells me so.’
‘But you are,’ she insisted. ‘You’re the perfect type of the well-born English gentleman, whom I have always admired. How old is your wife?’
‘I should say she is the best part of ten years younger than you.’
Silvia laughed again. ‘But a man is as old as he feels, and a woman as old as she looks; so if she is forty or so I’ll bet she couldn’t compete with me. It is part of my reward for doing what I do that I keep my face and figure so that I look not more than thirty.’
‘I see. So you really are a witch?’
‘Indeed I am. I can raise a wind, cast spells and make love potions.’
‘I’ll bet you couldn’t make one that would affect me,’ remarked Richard aggressively.
‘I could, given the right ingredients. I’d need a lapwing, bull’s gall, the fat of a white hen, ants’ eggs, the eyes of a black cat, musk, myrrh, frankincense, red storax, mestic, olibenum, saffron, benzoin and valerian.’
‘God, what a brew! It would stink to high heaven. No man in his senses could be persuaded to swallow it.’
‘A horrid mess, I agree,’ she laughed, ‘and I’ve never resorted to it. You’d be surprised, though, what I could do with a few of your nail-parings, let alone a neat little clipping of your pubic hair. But, in my case, such aids are not really necessary. I’ve never failed to get a man I wanted with my own resources.’
Richard gave her a half-admiring, half-surly look. ‘I’ve rarely seen a woman better equipped with what it takes. But, if you have designs on me, you’d better indent for the cat’s eyes and bull’s gall.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she laughed again. ‘I just couldn’t bear to wake up in the morning and see your face on my pillow, as it looks at present. But in a few days you will be your handsome self once more. Then we’ll see,’
‘I don’t think we will. But, while we are on the subject, I’d like you to tell me something. As you know, Aron and I were onlookers at that so-called “barbecue” which took place out at Glasshill’s house. After the feast, everyone let themselves go with a vengeance. But you remained sitting up on the table. As you are so keen on that sort of thing, why didn’t you join in?’
‘Because I am the “Maiden”.’
‘Oh come! With two or three marriages and what all behind you, you can hardly claim to be a virgin.’
‘The Maiden does not have to be. It is a rank in the hierarchy of the true priesthood. Joan of Arc held that rank and openly acknowledged it.’
Richard frowned. ‘I know that we English burnt Joan of Arc as a witch, but all the world knows that she was a saint.’
‘She was a prisoner of the English, but it was not they who condemned her to be burned at the stake. It was a tribunal of the Christian Inquisition, presided over by the Bishop of Beauvais. From the account of her trial, it emerges quite clearly that she was not a Christian. Her religious instruction was given to her by her godmother, who was known to consort with the “little people” who were steeped in the lore of magic.
A few minutes later Pedro came to collect the three prisoners, and led them down a flight of stairs to a long room divided by partly-drawn, heavy curtains. The part the door led into was a lounge, furnished with armchairs, tables beside them and, on one side, a cocktail bar. Through the gap between the curtains, they could see a dining table. Silvia was standing near the bar; as they came she asked them, ‘What can I make you? I seem to remember, though, that you like champagne. It’s here if you prefer it.’
Simon nodded. Richard said he would like a Planter’s Punch if that was not too much trouble. To the surprise of his friends, de Richleau declared himself to be a tee-totaller, and said he would have only a glass of water.
Deftly Silvia produced the drinks, then she said: ‘I’ve been given a rough idea of your recent doings, and you must all be rather tired; so perhaps it would be better if we put off talking of why you have been brought here and all that sort of thing, until you’ve had a chance to relax and fortify yourselves with a meal.’
De Richleau inclined his head. ‘As we are in your hands, Madame, that is considerate of you. We arrived here in very poor shape, but our baths have freshened us up and, as we slept for twenty-four hours between the time of our capture and this morning, none of us is in urgent need of sleep. Naturally we are anxious to know the intentions of your … your associates towards us. But that can quite well wait until after we have dined.’
Silvia smiled. ‘How wise of you not to press for an immediate explanation. But, of course, we have found out a great deal about you and, as an Adept, you will have trained yourself to patience.’
The only people comparable to them were the Romans,’ said the Duke, ‘both as road builders and administrators. Moreover, the Romans had the enormous advantage of being able to read and write, whereas the Incas could do neither. They had to send their messages and keep their records by means of bunches of coloured strings, in which they tied knots at varying intervals.’
When they had done full justice to a meal ending with a savoury of flamingo tongues, Silvia asked them to make themselves comfortable in the lounge end of the room, and left them for ten minutes. On her return, she settled herself in a low armchair, crossed her peerless legs so that they were displayed to the best advantage, and said:
‘You must be aware that your investigation into Rex’s disappearance has aroused against you a most powerful enemy, and brought you into great danger. About the reason for Rex’s leaving Buenos Aires I, of course, lied to you. I was ordered to, as it was hoped that, believing my story that he had committed murder, you would call off your hunt for fear that you might lead the police to him. However, I now give you my word that he is well, cheerful and has no regrets about what he has done. More than that, for the time being I am forbidden to tell you. Most unfortunately, I failed to stall you off, with the result that you have found out many things that we regard as most important to keep secret. In consequence, you now have only one way in which you can escape paying for that with your lives.’
They had all been mellowed by an excellent dinner. Only the Duke had refused all alcohol, but he had special resources upon which he could draw to restore his vitality and, with the dessert, Silvia had served to Richard and Simon as a liqueur an elixir that had counteracted the fatigue they would normally have felt after such a very tiring day. So Richard asked quite amiably:
‘Tell us what it is.’
‘You must reassess your spiritual values.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘By accepting and worshipping the True God.’
‘Meaning the Devil,’ Simon put in, and gave a slight shudder. ‘No, thank you. Few years ago I got in pretty deep with a Master of the Left-Hand Path. But de Richleau saved me, thank God. Never again.’
She smiled at him. Then your friend did you a great disservice. And you are wrong to refer to the True God as “the Devil”. That is only the name bestowed upon him in hatred and fear by his enemies, the Christians who denied him. It was invented by them as late as the Middle Ages.’ Glancing at the Duke, she added, ‘Am I not right?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, there are many mentions of-demons and evil spirits from the earliest times, but none of the Devil until the Christian Church began to get the upper hand in its war against paganism in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.’
Richard gave him a doubting look. ‘Oh come! Nearly all the monarchs in Europe were Christians the best part of a thousand years before that.’
‘It is true that many kings, queens and nobles were converted by missionaries sent from Rome during what we term the Dark Ages. But it is reasonable to believe that they accepted the new faith only on the old principle that it was bad policy to refuse to acknowledge any god, in case he took offence and did you a mischief. That belief was prevalent in the Roman world, and they had inherited it. Christianity did not secure a serious hold in Britain until well after the Norman conquest. There were, of course, many priests and priestesses of the old religion, and everybody knew who they were, but very few were brought to trial as witches until early Stuart times. In fact, the first witch trial ever to be held in England did not occur until the reign of King John, and then it was brought against a Jew who, in spite of the wave of anti-Jewish feeling at that time, was found not guilty.’
‘Thank you, Duke,’ Silvia said. ‘And one can add that, even during Norman and Plantagenet times, Christians were in the minority. Only the upper classes endowed monasteries and were in favour of the Crusades. The great majority of the people still followed the true religion. That was recognised by those who tried to put an end to it. And, even when its votaries were driven to hold their ceremonies in secret, they were still a great power in the land. One has only to recall the origin of the Order of the Garter.’
‘What has that to do with it?’ Richard asked.
‘The account of how it happened is well known. At a ball, the Countess of Salisbury’s jewelled garter fell off. She was the mistress of King Edward III, and was dancing with him. He snatched it up and founded a new Order of twenty-six knights, including himself and the Prince of Wales. Covens always consist of thirteen members, so he had created two new covens, with himself and the Prince as their Grand Masters.’
‘I don’t see why you believe them to be covens, or what seizing the lady’s garter has to do with paganism.’
‘From the earliest times the insignia of the Chief of a coven has always been a string worn round the left kg, below the knee. There is a prehistoric painting in the caves at Cogul, showing a dance in which a figure is wearing one. The Countess was the “Maiden” or, as you would put it, the Queen Witch of England, and the King knew it. By securing her garter, he supplanted her. It gave him power over the many thousands of people in his kingdom who still followed the Old Faith. And he did not look on them as evil people, because he held the garter aloft and cried “Honi soit qui mal y pense”—“Evil be to him who evil thinks”—and took that for the motto of the new Order.
Richard remarked with a slight sneer, ‘You’ll be telling us next that, just because Jesus Christ and His disciples numbered thirteen, they, too, were a coven.’
‘They were,’ she retorted swiftly. ‘Jesus spent many years in the wilderness, training Himself to become a Magister Templar, the highest of all grades of occultists. That is why He was able to draw down the power to perform many miracles, and they were all what you would term white magic—for the benefit, not of Himself, but others. It was only later that the message He brought was distorted. When He spoke of God the Father, He was referring to the True God—the God of Love.’
‘Ner,’ Simon shook his head stubbornly. ‘He was speaking of Jehovah. Plenty of evidence of that.’
‘Only from people who were writing many years after Christ’s death, the men who, for their own evil ends, perverted His teachings. Jehovah was the God of Hate; the terrible primitive entity whose jealousy had to be appeased by burnt offerings—and this horror still, today, remains the supreme deity of the Christian religion.’
‘Nobody really believes that any more.’
Silvia gave a little laugh. ‘Of course they don’t. But that does not alter the fact that, through St Paul and other masochistic fanatics, Jehovah succeeded in inflicting incalculable frustration and suffering on many millions of people. His priests—the priests of the Christian Church—made a virtue of suffering. They preached self-denial; that all enjoyment was wicked. They urged the people to fast and scourge themselves, and live in dirt and squalor. They coerced them into confessing their so-called sins and, as a penalty for having succumbed to pleasure, ordered them to wear hair shirts. They stigmatised the divinely-given urge of men and women to give physical expression to their lives, as lust. Contrary to nature, they decreed that a man and woman could choose only one partner for life and, even then, cohabit only for the purpose of begetting children.’
Silvia paused to light a cigarette, then went on, ‘In ancient times, the True God was accepted and revered in all the great civilisations. Often, a special devotion was shown by sects to various aspects of His power and personified in the many minor gods that made up the Pantheons of Chaldea, Egypt, India, Greece and Rome; but all acknowledged the supreme entity. It is only in recent centuries that the evil heresies of the Dark Power have gained a formidable foothold in many nations.
‘That is why I am urging you to readjust your spiritual values. Because, in a great part of the world those who realised the truth have been forced to conduct their ceremonies in secret, you have been brought up to believe that they worship the powers of Darkness. But that is not so. It is they who continue to carry the torch that they know in their hearts to have been ignited from the source of Eternal Light.’
De Richleau smiled. ‘Madame, I congratulate you on having presented an excellent case. I grant you that the early Christians perverted the teachings of Christ, and that the priests of His Church have inflicted untold misery on millions of people. But you have neglected to mention that the Old religion has also been perverted by its priests. Time was when they served the True God well. They were the doctors who healed the sick, the confidants who advised people wisely when in trouble, and they presided over those ceremonies at which the masses could for get the drudgery of every-day life, in feasting, revelry and in giving full licence to their sexual urges. Such Saturnalia were an admirable outlet for the frustrations of mankind. Were they permitted today, addiction to drugs would be almost unknown and one in every seven of the population of the United States would not have to go into homes for the cure of alcoholism or mental instability. But times have changed.
‘The power of a faith increases or wanes in accordance with the number of people who believe in it. As the Old religion was gradually suppressed, the number of its true priests dwindled. At length they lost their authority, and by the Middle Ages, had been supplanted by evil persons who promised their followers gratifications they had not earned. That is contrary to the Logos. The cult became one of Darkness, instead of Light.
‘It was used by the unscrupulous to inflict pain and loss on their enemies. To gain their ends, people trafficked with demons: the emissaries of Satan the Destroyer who, from the beginning, has waged war against the Powers of Light.
‘They served him in a thousand ways to sow dissension and substitute chaos for law and order. In many cases their activities brought about wide-spread misery. So, you see, misguided as the clergy of the Christian Churches may have been in many matters, they were right in stigmatising this evil power by naming it the Devil.’
‘It is clear to me that you need further instruction,’ said a firm, male voice.
Amazed that anyone could have entered the room in complete silence, the three friends automatically turned their heads to look over their shoulders. Yet there was No one there, and the voice seemed to have come from behind Silvia’s chair. Swivelling their heads back, they stared at her.
As they did so, a bright light appeared above and beyond her crown of hair. A mauve mist began to swirl round the light as though it was the vortex of a miniature cyclone. The misi thickened and took form, coalescing so that it had the outline of a man. Another moment and it had solidified, so that they found themselves gaping at a tall, slim, handsome human, as much flesh and blood as themselves.
Richard instantly recognised this apparition which had so startlingly materialised. It was the man who, in Buenos Aires had introduced him to von Thumm. It was Don Salvador Marino.