Part 2 of 23
By Timothy L. Mayer
A Complete Serialized Novel from the Safe House Archive
Originally published as The Apocalypse Four.
It all started the previous Sunday.
Crowley awoke in the garret room he used. It wasn’t much of a space to call home, but, due to his current financial situation, it would have to do. The artist who let him use it was a decent chap and a good friend. They’d spent the previous night talking about things, but Crowley needed to get up early the next day. Last week, another female admirer had sent him a letter desiring a meeting. Crowley smelled an opportunity. He agreed to meet with her at a small place down the street. Perhaps it would lead to something more.
Crowley put on his hat as he shuffled out the door. There should be a pushcart vendor somewhere down there, even on a Sunday. Strange how possessive these Americans were about their Sabbath. They even made the Jews take it off. He shook his head and began to walk down the stairs.
He was on the first landing when it occurred to him that he’d neglected his morning routine. Crowley stopped. He faced the rising sun that sent its warm light through the window.
“Hail unto thee!” Crowley began his morning salutation to the solar disc. He kept his voice low enough not to wake the neighbors. This wasn’t a beach in Mexico where he could perform his salutations in all their glory.
Finished, he continued down the stairs. The room where he stayed wasn’t the best place in town, but it didn’t cost him a thing. For the time being, he would have to forgo hot water and a private bath. Surely, his situation would improve when the war was over.
As Crowley walked out onto the streets of Manhattan, he tried to remember when his last letter was sent to the British Embassy. They had to know he was ready to serve the British Empire by now. All those years he’d tried to pose as a renegade were over. Surely, no one would believe him to be a traitor.
It stung; it did. All those allegations he’d worked for the Germans in America after the war took off. No one ever listened to him. Only a few people and they were his closest supporters. At least he was back in New York City, where a man could find intellectual stimulation and a good game of chess. He’d spent the previous few months in Florida with his insane relatives. It was more than a man should have bear. He tried one night to dispute the origin of the New Testament with one of his distant cousins. The man screamed at him for three straight hours about the power of Christ.
He bought a roll from one of the pushcart vendors and looked up at the sky. The weather seemed good for this time of year, but it could always change. He regarded it as a major failure that the weather wouldn’t respond to his own personal invocations.
Crowley stopped when he heard a conversation in Russia behind him. He turned around, roll in hand, to face a medium-built man. He was in a deep dialogue with another man. Both wore glasses and had bushy beards. Crowley spent enough time in Tsarist Russia to follow conversations, but not a whole lot. Now the Tsar was gone, and no one knew who would replace him.
“Pardon me,” Crowley said to the man who stood next to him, “but did you just say you are headed back to Russia?”
The taller of the bearded men turned at looked at him with curiosity. “You speak Russian?” he asked.
“A bit,” Crowley responded. “I was there for a few months before the war. Why on earth do you want to go back to that place? The government may be new but it’s still at war with Germany. Here is a much safer place to be.” He munched on his roll.
“You seem familiar,” the man asked him. “Have you attended my lectures?” He stared at Crowley through his glasses with intent.
“I don’t think I have. I returned a few weeks ago to the city. I’ve been away for a long time. When did you start your lectures?”
“About five months ago. What is your name if I might ask?”
“Sir Aleister Crowley,” he responded with a stiff back. “And who might you be?”
“Leon Trotsky,” the other responded. “Ah, I now remember, that English mystic who so often causes trouble for the bourgeoisie.”
“I’ve heard of you too. You’re the dangerous revolutionary that makes people uncomfortable. Going to take a job with the new government over there? I wouldn’t, it probably won’t last very long.”
“It won’t last long at all if I have anything to do about it,” Trotsky sneered. “Those foolish upper-class types think they have the Will of the people. They’ll soon learn how wrong they are.”
“I see. And you, who’ve been away for so long, can manipulate the Will of the people.”
“I don’t have to manipulate anything, sorcerer. I have the fundamental knowledge of the forces that drive history. I don’t need to summon up ghosts to tell me what to do.”
“Haven’t seen too many ghosts,” Crowley responded. “I rather guess Europe is full of them after all these years of war. I wish you good fortune on your great work. But remember, love is the law.”
“It powers no law to which I am aware,” Trotsky snapped back. “Now if you will excuse me, I have packing to do. Our ship leaves today.” He continued his way down the street. The other man followed.
Crowley sighed and continued to eat his roll. At least he didn’t have to worry about that war from this side of the Atlantic. Plenty of people he’d known already were dead because of it. It was a foolish affair, and he was glad to be free of it.
Still, there was work to be done if he would ever make humanity see him as the true prophet it needed. It all seemed so clear to him years ago when he was with Macgregor and the others. But then the group of freemasons split apart and went their separate ways. He’d tried to intervene and put things back together, but to no avail. Even after he found that document that Rose received from the secret chiefs, no one would listen to him. Mountain climbing gave him relief for years, but now he had little time to do even that.
He waited around the front of his building for a good hour before Crowley decided the new prospect wasn’t about to show. The Englishman cursed in silence. he’d done a reading last night that showed a high probability for success today. Or did the spirits tell him that today would bring about monumental changes? He couldn’t remember. When he had time, he needed to check the position of the stars. The stars were in the sky for thousands of years. Astrologers had documented occurrences that followed their positions. At least there was a determined record.
He looked at the clock in a nearby store window and decided she wasn’t going to show. Crowley fished through his pockets for a cigar but couldn’t find one. He still had money left. There were a number of tobacconists on the street. He could afford a decent cigar. Crowley headed over to the nearest tobacco shop.
The tobacconist was an older man who gave him a discount on a cigar from a smaller company. Crowley looked it over, inhaled the fragrance, and paid the man. He left the shop with its exotic smell. Crowley was back out on the street in minutes. He’d managed to bring along matches, so at least he had a way to light the cigar. Now, all he needed was a quiet place to smoke.
A small park next to the street intersection provided him with what he needed. Crowley worked his way around the women who pushed baby carriages on the sidewalk until he found an unoccupied bench. He’d waited for this opportunity the moment he purchased the cigar. Nothing like a moment of peace and quiet as you inhaled the fresh scent of a good one.
Perhaps I should return, he thought to himself. This war can’t last much longer. Both sides have been ready for a truce. The secret chiefs have to be busy with it and that’s why they haven’t contacted me.
He thought about the nights in the desert with Viktor. What had it achieved, all those workings? He’d crossed the abyss only to find himself in a worse place. The demon Chronzon was fully in control on the Western Front as it killed young men left and right. Or where his visions just the product of those Arabian herbs?
Next Time in 93 Million Miles to Gotham
A chance meeting in the park introduces Crowley to a brilliant inventor with an impossible theory. Before the afternoon is over, a mysterious woman will appear—and nothing will ever be the same again.