The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (63 page)

“What kind of emergency?”

“When you’re in a nearly continuous state of war, as is the case with us Kellys, you can’t always be so picky about your host body, especially not with a double-headed ax buried in your ribcage. So you simply hitch a ride in the nearest available open-eyed human, usually not so hard, because hot-blooded murderers always love to gloat. You stick around long enough to torment them to the point of suicide—the reason for most exorcisms, by the way—then perform the ritual properly with the vessel. Of course, from time to time you’ll get a bullet in the head from a high-powered rifle and you’re back in the Maelstrom again, ready to be recycled. Which, I might point out, is the true genius of our clan’s approach to the whole messy business. Not only do we utilize all the advantages of
Turning
with a vessel that houses the genetic memories passed on to him—we also have an army of loyal soldiers and druids who will stop at nothing to discover the Master’s reincarnated body should the
Turning
fail.”

“So there’s no way you can really die,” I was so astounded by the implications of his virtually fail-safe method of ensuring everlasting life that I felt giddy. “How old
are
you?”

“This being has existed for…” He paused and took a deep breath. “What you don’t realize, what nearly no one realizes, is that we are all eternal. That’s the message Yeshua tried to bring, before Peter and Paul made him the one and only Son O’God. That’s the message of Hermes, Pythagoras, Apollonius, the druids…of all our kind. We are immortal. Physics 101. Energy cannot be destroyed. You could go so far as to say that all of us are billions of years old. But the gift of us luminous beings, the one thing that makes us feel mortal or immortal, is our sense of self, our identity, which immediately ceases to exist without our memories. Memory as I said, is everything.”

“Is that what the Book is for? Does it restore your memories after you’ve Turned, or reincarnated?”

He got real pissy. “The Book does far more than that, but you are in no way worthy of that lesson. Today we are speaking of the vessel. Martin is the vessel and the Guardian.”

“Guardian of what?”

“Of this vessel,” he said pointing to his chest. “Until the
Turning
is complete. Then if you do your job, you will assume the role of Guardian until the
Becoming
. This is the last
Turning
. The last time we have to ride on this ridiculous merry-go-round.”

“Isn’t there another way to do this…that’s not so…parasitic?”

“There is also a fourth option, but it is even more cruel. I would encourage you to avoid it like the plague. It is Loren’s path. He is very old indeed.”

“What does he do?” I asked, a shiver running down my spine.

He paused a long time as if debating whether to tell me. When he spoke again I could see why. It was a dire warning. “He feeds on souls…both here and inside the Maelstrom. But again, that is not a topic you should approach with any fascination. It is a curse for both the victim and the feeder. The consciousness of the consumed is never fully assimilated, and you acquire, in a very real sense, eternal roommates.”

I could easily picture The Striker gleefully devouring the very essence of his victims. Even “living” with them. My mind wandered down that dark corridor, then I suddenly remembered a question I’d been dying to ask. “What happened after Ceallach died? How did the wise, kind Master turn into mean old Paul Kelly?”

“Hah! I like that, Billy. And since it’s Saint Patty’s Day, I can’t think of a better time to tell you about the birth of our Clan and the story of the empty vessel.”

“The
‘empty
vessel’?”
What hellish new wrinkle was unfolding?

“The term had also been used in the Apostolic succession. The Chosen One would willfully surrender his ego by degrees through mediation and other techniques until his mind was reasonably uncluttered in preparation for the Master’s tenancy. But after Ceallach, it took on a whole new meaning. We drew a line in the sand. Traitorous bitch or not, it was clear Sophia’s clan was right about one thing—a biological heir was the only proper vessel for a completely effective transmigration. Only this time, it wasn’t going to be another handoff. A solid, experienced leader was needed if we were to survive the centuries of hardship sure to follow in the wake of the Holy Empire’s triumph. The Master alone must endure. And the Chosen One must sacrifice himself just as the disciples had done.

“Utter ruthlessness was required. The natural inclination to love and care for one’s progeny, to have any degree of attachment, was not a viable option. Fortunately, the entity that emerged after Ceallach’s death was up to the task. After Tormac drove in the last nail, he thrust his sweaty face only a nose-length away from The Master to crow his triumph. The Master leapt into Tormac’s body and Tormac’s gloating conquest quickly turned to screaming horror, followed by a two-day coma. The Master’s disciples knew what had occurred and took the Book to his chamber.

“When he awoke, the Master had changed irreversibly, his essence contaminated by Tormac and his own unquenchable fury at the killers of his martyred son. After reading the Book he was an entirely different breed, a true Warrior Sage—the right man for the job that had to be done. The new, improved Tormac was cruel and wise beyond measure. He married the Black Rose as ordained, and a boy was born nine months later. He was named O’Ceilleigh after his true father Ceallach. But the Master wasn’t about to make the same mistake again and let compassion interfere with the primary mission—the absolute necessity of his continued existence. He stole the baby from Rose while she was bathing, and took him to a horrible crone, who was paid to make him suffer. Then, at the right time, he rescued the lad, the boy so traumatized he was only a shell of a person, not enough there to care for himself or care about. The perfect empty vessel.

“He knocked up poor Rosie another eleven times, until she died in childbirth with her twelfth son. Morgana was never seen again in her lifetime, though she was certainly present. Tormac murdered Eoghan and Bradan, assuming High Kingship as Master of the unified clans. Soon afterward, O’Ceilleigh had his initiation ceremony and exceeded all expectations in his apprenticeship. The
Turning
occurred twenty-two years after Ceallach died. That glorious Good Friday when Tormac took O’Ceilleigh and assumed his identity is the day we mark as the birth of our true lineage—the founding of Clan O’Ceallaigh.

“Since that day we have prospered in every way. We have eschewed the outward trappings of royalty, since our ambition has nothing to do with the respect and admiration of the masses or our peers. When another Ceallach, son of Tuathal, founded his O’Ceallaigh lineage, we were more than happy at the camouflage it afforded our own thriving clan.

“Our new succession mode was followed in every subsequent generation for fifteen centuries. I did it to Martin as my father did to me as his father to him—taking the child from his true mother at birth, leaving him in the custody of some cruel, heartless bitch we call the surrogate. However, it was important for the vessel to believe she was his real mother, so the trauma would be as effective as possible in accelerating the process. Even the trauma had its own prescriptive guidelines, the preferred method being the death of the surrogate at the hands of the subject.”

The surrogate. The subject. The trauma. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Paul ignored my horrified expression and plowed ahead.

“The next task was to train the subject in the art of
unthinking
. Unthinking has two goals: to free you from the slavery of your thoughts, and to open you to the realm of true knowing, beyond the shackles of limited possibilities we call our mind. Simultaneously, the subject is taught to withstand astounding levels of physical pain, utilizing a combination of unthinking and other biofeedback techniques during daily torture sessions.

“After a reasonable degree of progress is made in these areas, the vessel is gradually initiated in our mythology, which elicits an aura of mystery along with an overwhelming desire for participation. It is then that he is formally initiated into the clan and continues to hone his skills through a set of increasingly difficult challenges. These challenges are interwoven with the system’s mythology and are highly ritualized, as well as substantially rewarding for the subject, according to a predetermined set of key motivators selected by the Master to induce the highest level of commitment and positive reinforcement. For me, the worm on the hook was knowledge. For Martin, it was treasure.

“For the remainder of his training, the apprentice learns all the essential tenets of our society, and his ambition is constantly stoked with ever more difficult challenges and fulfilling rewards. The challenges usually take the form of quests for ritual objects or duels…first with the outside clans, then between his own clansmen. The High King—that’s me, of course—rules the reigning clan. Clan Kelly and the other royal clans are divided into twelve houses. The Lords—one of whom you’ve already had the dubious privilege of meeting—preside over the houses.”

“The Striker…” I interrupted. Paul shot me a dirty look and kept talking.

“The houses follow bloodlines, though outside talent is permitted after swearing blood oaths. You’ve seen many of these disturbing gentlemen on our website. Each of these initiates and the other clan descendents go though their own training. They’re given a number of tasks, including quests and duels, plus sundry extortions and executions required to maintain our continued privacy. If successful, the apprentice is granted the title of Knight. From time to time, the most daring of these will make his own play for the throne.

“The vessel, because of his more rigorous training and direct connection to the king’s bloodline, has now attained a level of unshakable confidence, believing there is nothing in the world beyond his ability. And with that assurance comes an equal conviction in his own entitlement. Not only can he do anything, he deserves everything he craves. This is the exact point where ambition, mastery, courage and ruthlessness attain their proper balance. The vessel swears a blood oath to the Master and is anointed the Guardian, for his role is to both house and protect the essence of all his forebears, all their accumulated knowledge and power. He is shown the Book, the map to the Maelstrom. There he is taken to witness the full glory of its majestic power, and upon his return, the Guardian is prepared for the final act, when he will travel again with the Master to the Axis so he may be reborn.

“We’ve made some mistakes along the way. Yeshua. Ceallach. And now we have the tragedy of Martin. I always considered him to be my most well-wrought creation, the most perfect vessel of all. He was the youngest to achieve full-fledged Knighthood. Yet, he’s lost almost everything I filled him with: his lust, his ambition and worst, his hate. Now we’re both paying the price for my mistake. I should not have been so ruthless with him. Martin was always such a sensitive lad, with the most tender heart you could ever hope to find. So much the better, I thought. An open heart means an open mind, exactly what was needed. And after a trauma that couldn’t have been more thoughtfully orchestrated, Martin’s brain was like a heap of soft pink slush. How perfect, I thought. How empty. And better still, he could unthink before I even taught him how. Well, well, well. I was glowing with pride! The boy was a natural! A prodigy! When I taught him the technique, you should have seen how he excelled. He could hold back his thoughts for minutes. Then hours. Unheard of!”

Suddenly, a deep sadness crept into his voice. “Martin liked unthinking so much he did it all the time. He used it like a machine to erase all those painful memories and shield his tender heart. Now the machine is running by itself, wiping away everything of value, the baby with the bathwater. And with hardly any time left, he must recapture all he has learned in order to fulfill his destiny and ours. He must remember.”

“What about you? After all this time, do you remember…everything?”

“I have the capacity and the access. More often than not, I lack the inclination. In this way I share Martin’s predilection to…compartmentalize…especially with the she-cunts.”

“Why do you hate women so much?” I asked, cringing at his unfettered misogyny.

“Clan Kelly is a warring clan. Always has been…always will be. Women humanize us. That’s what we need to rise above. Mercy. Compassion. Love. As soon as a baby breathes air, his mother sucks the life she gave back out of him while he’s sucking on her tit. Training the poor lad to need her, to love her. That’s the source of all pain in life. And that’s what must be squashed like a bug on your boot heel—that fatal dependence. I squashed it. And by God almighty, you will too! It’s the one thing us Kelly boys will never have need of…that sick, sapping motherly love.”

“You still can’t have babies without women, even with insemination,” I pointed out. “No women, no lineage.”

“You can’t have babies without them…yet
.
But that’s changing. We are the last generation born into a world shackled to a cunt to spread our seed.

“
Three cheers to science!”
he roared.

“
Hip hip hooray!”
a hundred voices blared.

After the noise abated I said, “You know, your manly man club isn’t a whole lot different from the Church.”

“We bear no resemblance to that worm-ridden institution whatsoever! We breed, we pass along the
truth
to our followers. And we’ve never been kid-fuckers.”

“Yeah, but for you, breeding is spelled R-A-P-E. Sex for procreation purposes only. Very Catholic. Even back in the good old days, you were into celibacy and self-denial. I’ll bet Sophia’s clan has a lot more fun with their goodies. That seems more like true paganism to me. This setup you have now, it’s a little bit…
gay
…don’t you think?”

Paul said nothing. I thought steam was going to come out of his ears.

“And about that whole ‘passing along the
truth’
thing,” I pressed on, testing just how far I could push until I reached ignition point. “If your loyal subjects here knew about those little ‘mistakes’ you mentioned earlier…like what you did to Christ, like you might not actually be the true Chosen One anymore…I’m not sure they’d be hootin’ and hollerin’ every time you make a beer belch. I’ll bet there’d be a lot of angel head rings turning up in pawn shops.”