The Converging: Closures in Blood

Chapter One

1

The room was stifling and steeped in expectant tension. Beyond the open doorway, torrential rain pounded down on the teeming jungle, while howling wind bowed the massive trees as though they were little more than saplings. To the room’s two occupants, the monsoon was a distant event…something from a lesser reality of which they were not a part.

Teacher and eager pupil, the two were naked, kneeling face to face at the centre of the small enclosure; attention riveted squarely upon each other.

Are you ready to begin? she inquired softly, the words rolling over her fetching tongue like diamonds over black velvet. The pupil nodded that he was indeed ready to begin and though his chiseled face appeared impassive, his mind and thoughts resonated with excitement. After all, this was to be his sternest challenge…and his greatest triumph. Acutely perceptive, Sambata spoke to her pupil in tones of mild reproof. Be calm. Tension will only prove inhibitive. As a spiritual anchor, serenity is the basis from which every action must flow.

The pupil nodded and closed his eyes, attempting to exorcise the demon of keen anticipation from his mind.

Slow your breathing, she instructed softly, as her eyes traced the powerful lines of his body, finally settling upon the thick stalk of his penis as it lay dormant along his thigh like a sleeping snake. Visualize the pumping of your heart.

Gerchnau conjured the image of a beating heart. Of all the things that this esoteric beauty had imparted, perhaps this one skill had been the most difficult for Jurgen to master. Patiently, she had helped him to employ his mind as a canvas, constructing images that were increasingly elaborate and precise. Finally, he had attained a level of mastery where he could summon exact images simply by closing his eyes. Now, he pictured his beating heart.

Sambata smiled, privately pleased by the foreigner’s progress. Syncopate the image’s rhythm with the sensation in your chest. Once you have succeeded, begin to exercise your will upon its function.

Jurgen complied, hearing the beat of his physical and imaginary heart. At first, they labored in discord, but as he exerted his iron will, both began to slow, eventually coming together in an almost indolent rhythm that would have set most cardiologists to panic. Pleased, the German opened his eyes and gazed at the lovely Sambata, who nodded and favored him with a brief, satisfied grin. His control of his sympathetic nervous system was that of a novice in comparison to his teacher, who could will herself into states that were poised on the razor’s edge of death.

Once, early in his apprenticeship, she had amazed him by allowing herself to be buried in three feet of sand. She had remained buried for well over an hour, while Gerchnau had grown more concerned. Finally, fearing that she was dead, Jurgen had fallen to his knees and dug her up. Once uncovered, she had opened her eyes and offered him a beguiling smile. Without speaking, she had stood, brushed herself off and left him to consider the implications of the wonder that he had just witnessed. The two years since had been fraught with many such wonders, the most profound of which was that he, himself, was capable of some of the same feats.

Allow yourself to fall deeper into the state of serenity, she commanded. For long moments after, the two remained silent, while the mournful sounds of the wind and rain held court not far from where the pair knelt. When she was satisfied that he had reached the desired state of emotional control, she said, we will begin. This is the most difficult element of your enlightenment. I must warn you that the first moments of discorporation are often traumatic, but always remember that soul is tethered to the physical body. Return is as simple as visualizing a reunion of the spiritual and physical entities. In this regard, there is little to fear. As if to allay whatever further concerns he might have, she quickly added, Of course, I shall guide you carefully through your first steps.

Jurgen signaled his readiness with a tight nod. Sambata laid her wrists along the lengths of her satiny thighs with the palms facing upwards in the classic fakir’s pose. Jurgen quickly moved to mimic the position. Both were bathed in perspiration, though their flesh glistened in a magnitude that could not be attributed to high humidity alone. The Indian resumed her instruction. "Focus upon a single point. Reduce the infinite scope of the entire universe to that one point. Be cognizant of nothing else for this point must be the lone reality of your existence.

Gerchnau, whose powers of single-mindedness had allowed him to survive years in hell, quickly moved to comply. With a lecher’s grin, he fixed his glacial gaze upon a full breast and the tiny droplet of perspiration that hung from the end of Sambata’s erect nipple. The incisive weight of his gaze touched her and she smiled sardonically. Very well, each of us must find the focal point where they may. Hold this image firmly in your mind and close your eyes.

This he did and was delighted to find that his mind could reproduce the splendid globe in all of its weighty glory. Jurgen, this is the single point from which your divergent paths must spring. What you are attempting to do is very similar to the concept of levitation, though infinitely more complex.

While focusing upon the object, allow your spirit to flow about you; allow it to gather around the object like a mantle, a glowing corona.

She fell silent while Jurgen struggled to comply. Sambata allowed herself to drift unobtrusively into his mind, quickly discerning that his efforts were being met with resistance. The best that he could muster was a pale, incondign flicker as if he could not surrender to the duality of his nature. Until he accepted that his spirit and his body were two separate entities, his attempts at actual discorporation were doomed to fail. Still, she silently permitted him to struggle, until his body became as rigid as a piece of statuary. She watched his efforts grow more frantic until the pale light guttered completely. Jurgen uttered a vile curse and slammed his fist down upon his thigh.

Anger and frustration are the insidious agents of failure, she reminded him coldly, though privately she was pleased that his first attempts had been met with utter failure. Failure begat humility and it was only through humility that a man could attain spiritual harmony and serenity.

Why did I fail? he demanded sullenly, his voice fraught with genuine dismay. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then explained, All that you have achieved to this point has allowed you to cling to the physical world. From this point forth you shall no longer have that luxury. The physical world and the spirit world are two very distinct places. It is possible that one might pass into both, if they were to accept the truth of our duality.

But I do believe! Jurgen objected emphatically.

Sambata smiled coyly, the expression a thing of radiance upon her lovely face. She placed a long index finger in the hollow of his temple. Here, perhaps. The finger traced a path to his left breast and then to his flaccid cock, causing him to jump at the electricity of her touch. But not here in the more atavistic places.

He nodded slowly, comprehending some of what she was attempting to convey. Jurgen was still a creature of the tactile world, firmly rooted there and thus denied access to the astral dimension he so desperately craved. Until he could detach himself completely from his physical intransigence, he would never attain the power necessary to fulfill the secret vision which lay concealed in the dark cleft of his heart.

What must I do, Sambata? he inquired evenly, part of him loathing his dependence upon this woman. She contemplated this for a moment, the speculative expression augmenting her beauty.

The physical body is the hedonist’s realm. Pleasurable sensations only encourage surrender to the power of the tangible. The purpose of the Tantric ritual is to gain mastery over these tactile cravings.

Gerchnau’s face remained impassive, though he shuddered at the very mention of the tantra, which had subjugated him to so much grief over the past two years.

Pain has the opposite effect, she continued. It encourages one to withdraw, to seek shelter in the world of spiritual perception. Perhaps this is the direction that you must follow. Through suffering, it is likely that you might divorce yourself from the prison of your own flesh. Are you willing to submit to this new path, Jurgen?

Her limpid eyes bore into him and for a fraction of a moment, he was overwhelmed by apprehension. Despite her exquisite beauty, this was a woman whose mind he could not begin to fathom. Though he was no stranger to suffering, instinct admonished him that this woman’s brand of torment would pale anything to which he had been exposed thus far. The reluctance lingered for only a second. Astral travel was something that he must posses if he was to fulfill the dark calling of his vision.

He signaled his acquiescence with a tacit nod and she greeted his acceptance with a decidedly wicked grin. Jurgen did not move as she rose, finding his body locked in a tetanus of anticipation and apprehension…the two opposing forces causing his heart to thunder. He traced her movements with his eyes, enchanted by the poetic sway of her hips and long legs. The subtle bounce of her full breasts and the luster of her skin pulled him firmly back into the tangible world.

After a moment, she returned with an assortment of items that would help engineer the insidious lesson she had concocted for her pupil. Amongst these was a small brazier, which she sat upon the floor next to the fascinated Gerchnau. As he watched, Sambata closed her eyes and passed her two palms over the tiny lumps of coal within the brazier’s cauldron. Abruptly, they began to glow a brilliant orange, though she had employed no discernable means to ignite them.

Jurgen said nothing. This woman was a repository of surprises, though this was a new manifestation of her power. This done, she lay a cloth upon the bare wooden floor next to the brazier. Fingers deftly undoing the knot, she removed the wrapping and unrolled the cloth to reveal a number of long silver needles.

Gerchnau inhaled sharply, but Sambata raised a placating finger to her lips. Each of the thirteen needles was then arranged carefully on the rack of the small brazier and the pair looked on wordlessly as the tiny skewers began to heat. When Sambata was satisfied that each of the needles had reached the requisite temperature, she instructed Jurgen to rise, regarding the German with an inquisitive expression. Though Jurgen was six feet, four inches tall, the woman before him was perhaps only two inches shorter. You are a novice. Despite all that you have achieved – and these accomplishments are most admirable – you are still in the infancy of your spiritual evolution. What I propose to do would propel you to the highest stage of development. Only fakirs and yogis of the highest caliber would willingly subject themselves to the test of the thirteen needles.

Jurgen made no response, but continued to regard her with his unfaltering arctic gaze. She frowned, a moment of cold unease piercing her mantle of serenity. ‘You know nothing of this man, Sambata,’ she admonished herself. ‘His purpose is veiled in shadow and you presume too much.’ Still, something compelled her to proceed, perhaps drawn by his own exigency. Traversing this path too quickly is fraught with peril and I would normally refuse to permit such a gamble. Yet, I sense an undeniable urgency about you.

Jurgen nodded and offered Sambata the ghost of a smile, which she construed to be a symbol of defiance against anticipated agonies. The course of my entire life has prepared me for this moment, he intoned thickly. Now do your work, woman.

Sambata raised an eyebrow, the only acknowledgement of his condescension. Very well, subjugate your resistance to pain and allow it to consume you. In torment, you will find the means to disentangle your spirit from its worldly moorings.

Now the silver needles appeared to glow like the very coals beneath them. Sambata reached down and retrieved one between her thumb and forefinger. Jurgen’s eyes widened, but the woman uttered no exclamation of pain. Her eyes had assumed a flinty cast and the German knew that the tantric priestess was working the very trick of detachment that she intended him to learn. When she spoke, the timber of her voice gave no suggestion of discomfort. Stand utterly still. The heat will cauterize the wound and prevent infection.

Rivers of cold, oily perspiration began to stream down Gerchnau’s brow, burning his eyes with the maddening irritation of salt and trepidation. Sambata laid the flat of her palm along the tense musculature of his chest. The sensation of her touch was like gossamer and silk against his hot flesh.

Then she pressed the tip of the needle against the side swell of his chest, where the muscle connected to the ribcage. Sambata paused as the tip dimpled the pallid flesh and Jurgen reacted with a sharp hiss, much like the scream of a boiling kettle. As he gazed down upon her, Jurgen caught a fleeting glimpse of something wizen and cruel lurking behind the inscrutable eyes. In that brief instant of revelation, the German understood that despite her professed love of serenity and the quest for purity of spirit, the priestess derived an intense personal pleasure from inflicting pain upon others.

The needle tip continued upon its journey, finally piercing the skin and slowly disappearing into the rigid muscle beneath. He had anticipated a rush of blood and was distantly surprised when only an indolent trickle issued from the wound. It occurred to him that the purpose of heating the brazier was not only to disinfect the needles, but also to cauterize the entry wound.

‘But how in God’s name can she hold it?’ he wondered through the thickening fog of pain. His eyes fixed upon her fingers, long and elegant, as they exerted a steady pressure upon the needles.

Give yourself totally to the pain, she whispered. Visualize the needle as it rends muscle and ligature.

Compliance was an easy matter, for the pain was a hot and incisive thing. As the needles passed ever deeper, each offended nerve fiber began to thrum, building the pain in horrid increments, like a dark symphony moving towards a cacophonous climax. After an interminable time, the glistening tip emerged from the flesh in a tiny crimson geyser.

Sambata methodically repeated the process another dozen times, until the massive German resembled a living pincushion. Needles protruded from both biceps, calves, triceps, thighs and shoulders. Gerchnau’s entire body quivered with indescribable agony as though she had inserted each needle to maximize the torture of his beleaguered nerve-endings. Upon consideration, he understood that she had done precisely that.

Flesh alive with agony, sweat and blood, he looked to her questioningly, perplexed by the frown playing at the corners of her generous lips. You are a formidable man, Jurgen. Suffering is reflected clearly in your eyes and yet there is also the flame of proud defiance, where I should see only humility and deference to the mastery of your torment. Until that flame is extinguished, you will languish within the prison of your flesh.

What must I do? he managed, his head thrumming with the effort.

She gazed at Gerchnau, as though surprised by the question. Why, augment the level of your torment.

The glib response struck the German as funny and he uttered a thin laugh, evoking a tidal wave of pain that transformed the laughter into a howl. Sambata regarded this seizure of pain impassively and when it subsided, she remarked. I suspect that your capacity to endure this type of torment would surpass the limits of death itself. We must strive to find a torment with more profound effects.

She raised her two index fingers to her lips. How impossibly long they appeared through the distortion of Jurgen’s fevered mind. At last she remarked, The answer is obvious.

Again, she moved around the room, gathering up the required implements to speed her adept’s education. She returned carrying a clay pot of red ochre that had been mixed with yellow and brown sacred earth. Along with this, she held five velvet bands, which she stretched over her wrist. She stood before him, assessing the German with her gaze, while holding the clay pot in the crook of her left elbow.

He abruptly grasped her intentions and grew rigid, shaking his head in negation. Her only response was an implacable smile. She delved her hand into the ochre, apprising him of the constraint which he knew all too well. Ascension is gained through restraint and self-control. Should you spill your seed, you will be banished from this place forever.

With maddening slowness, she began to apply the ochre to his groin. In the extremity of his pain, Jurgen had believed response to be impossible, but as his penis grew rigid, the German gained a fresh insight into his nature and vulnerability.

What followed did indeed magnify his pain to levels that tore away the very facility of conscious thought. Instead, the German became a purely physical entity…a receptacle for suffering.

Sambata released his tortured organ, convinced that the bonds would serve their purpose. Then she grasped his hand and led the German out into the monsoon.

Each simple movement exacerbated Gerchnau’s agony, but he limped through the thick jungle as the silver needles winked obscenely in the dull light. At last, the pair emerged into a small clearing. Here, the wind and the rain held court without challenge…a merciless master over the helpless land and the dependent creatures who scurried over its face.

Tenderly, she assisted him to the grass and pressed his eyes closed with her palms. Shouting so as to be heard over the howl of the wind, Sambata imparted one final bit of advice. Pledge fealty to your torture. Allow it to possess you. Then turn away from it and into yourself. If you achieve this, then you need only will yourself to shrug off the tangible shell.

Jurgen managed a tight nod. I shall await your spirit, Jurgen Gerchnau.

As she turned away, the German’s lips twisted into a baleful frown. Then he closed his eyes and allowed the vortex of all-consuming pain to swallow him whole.

2

The road that Jurgen Gerchnau had followed to reach this moment of profound suffering was perhaps the most bizarre that a human being had ever endeavored to follow. Until his fateful meeting with the Romanian bureaucrat, Yuro Petru, Jurgen had lived the life of a mindless predator, driven by the abstract yet compelling need to kill. At first, he had sated these depraved urgings in a more or less legitimate manner, first as a member of the elite East German Commandos and then as a mercenary. When the last of the battles had been fought, Jurgen had been set adrift in a world where he could serve no purpose. Jurgen was pragmatic enough to realize that he had become an embarrassing fixture that the new world order would prefer to forget.

Thus, Gerchnau found himself alone with the atavistic need to kill and soon made the horrifying transition from state dog to serial killer, leaving a swathe of mutilated bodies in his wake as he allowed the winds of fortune to blow him through Eastern Europe.

In Romania, his frenzy had driven him to even greater excesses and he had been caught and consigned to a life of hell. In retrospect, Jurgen was convinced that his encounter with the demented Petru had been the work of predestination. The German had been positive that Petru’s story of a supernatural Goddess had been the contrivance of a seriously deranged mind, but he had been willing enough to indulge Petru’s dark fantasy if it meant a chance at freedom.

All of that had changed with stunning permanence the day that the Gypsy girl had killed Petru near the isolated mountain clearing. Jurgen need only close his eyes to summon the brutally graphic memory of the Romanian’s demise. She had not merely killed him; the Gypsy whore had eradicated her tormentor with a finality that had defied reason. He had replayed the incident in his mind a million times, attempting to logically refute what his senses had insisted to be the truth.

In the instant before Petru’s body had exploded, Jurgen had seen a black, spectral shape leap from the girl’s body and converge upon the stricken Romanian. The expression of unadulterated terror in Petru’s eyes was too vivid to be mistaken or rationalized away.

Somehow, the girl had killed the Major with the power of thought alone. Free of obligation, Gerchnau had fled with that final image forever emblazoned in his mind.

Had the Gypsy simply pulled out a gun and divested Petru’s body of its miserable head, the course of Jurgen’s life would have been radically different from what it had now become. Instead, her exotic means of assassination had propelled the German well down a road that he would have considered a lunatic’s path before the Romanian’s gruesome death.

Like a predatory beast bent on self-destruction, two thoughts had ran through Jurgen’s mind in an endless circle; power and death, death and power. It had been these two concepts that had occupied the German’s every thought in the grim months that followed his blind flight through the central Carpathians. Beleaguered by intense hunger and bitter, merciless cold, Jurgen had stumbled through the silver fields of ice and towering, purgatorial wastes of jutting granite. Only a fierce determination to defy death had prevented the German from capitulating to the elements and his own deteriorating body.

In the extremity of his torment had come a crucial revelation that had set Gerchnau upon a new path. Death and power; these two notions were inextricably linked and he came to realize that these had been the two concepts that had governed his life since he had been old enough to understand the ways of the killer.

Death, the termination of life and the extinguishing of life’s spark, had led the German to develop an intense fascination with the grim father. He had been a proficient dispenser and with this proficiency had come had come the dark and coveted twin; power. These two notions were connected like inseparable Siamese twins. The doling out of death was the ultimate expression of power. Oh, one could subscribe to the liberal, philosophical bullshit about advancement of enlightenment and the fulfillment of brilliant visions. Jurgen dismissed this nonsense with a disdainful grunt of disgust. Death was power and Jurgen had come to view himself as a skilled technician.

Yet, power eluded the massive German despite the certitude that his was the efficacy of terror. Why?

Hungry, wretchedly cold and hovering near the abyss of physical exhaustion, the nova of crystalline revelation had burst in the German’s frazzled mind. He had stumbled to his knees and gazed up into the slate gray skies of Northern Romania as though he expected a thunderous proclamation from God himself.

Instead there had come the pellucid recollection of the moment that the Gypsy had unleashed her astonishing puissance. By comparison, guns and explosives were little more than child’s playthings. With a power such as this Gypsy girl possessed, a man of ‘comprehension’ could become virtually invincible.

To kill by simple formation of thought, thus dispensing with the need for elaborate weaponry was the very apex of the death art. If this was not astonishing enough, it suddenly occurred to Jurgen that his initial condemnation of Yuro had been…hasty.

His mind was drawn back to the seemingly endless hours in which he had endured the Romanian’s harangue about the supernatural entity that Jurgen had been released to kill. Then, he had summarily dismissed the Major as a raving lunatic, plagued by a supernatural fixation. The German, ruled by tangible pragmatism, had been willing to indulge the madman’s dementia if it provided him with a means to freedom.

Was this mysterious demon a contrivance brought forth from the fevered recesses of a seriously deranged mind? Before the episode in the pass, Jurgen’s reply would have been an unequivocal yes. Now, he was not so certain.

If he allowed for the existence of a demon, it would then be necessary to reconsider his entire reality…its limits and possibilities. He recalled the one time when he had caught a brief glimpse of the alleged entity. One need only look at Cynara Saravic to realize that she possessed an extraordinary mantle of power and confidence. She exuded this power the way the sun might radiate heat. Something else had convinced Jurgen that there might indeed be an aspect of truth to Yuro’s wild allegations…the expression of unadulterated terror that had dawned on Petru’s face when Cynara had appeared before him.

The prospect of killing Cynara had become all the more intriguing given what he had come to suspect. Witnessing the Gypsy’s dramatic destruction of his sponsor had forced Jurgen to reevaluate his ability to liquidate Saravic. If this woman, whom Petru had insisted was but a mere mortal, was capable of such a vulgar act of power, what array of terrifying weapons might a demon unleash?

He had considered the subtle nuances and profound implications of these questions as he stumbled through the desolate wastes of Northern Romania. In this way he had survived the ravages of the most inhospitable of frozen deserts.

By the time that spring had turned upon the slow hinge of the seasons, the pale shadow of Jurgen Gerchnau stumbled into Hungary, utilizing the last of his waning resources to elude the roving border patrols that preserved the integrity of the obsolete Communist State.

On the outskirts of a tiny Hungarian village, the German’s massive will finally reached the point where it could no longer sustain his failing body. He collapsed into a snowy roadside ditch, his last thought reflecting the black irony of stumbling through miles of inhospitable mountains only to die on the edges of civilization.

The German’s return to the light had been greeted by a group of earnest, concerned faces. Suffering from influenza and a Bronchial inflammation, Jurgen discovered that he had been found by two members of the local Orthodox Monastery. Even in the thrall of his illness, Gerchnau was able to appreciate the dark humor that had consigned him to the care of these zealots. They had nursed him back to health with the devotion of the sacrificial saints that Jurgen so disdained. Never once had they demanded any type of explanation for his unusual appearance.

In the weeks that followed, Gerchnau had concentrated his energy on the process of recuperation. When he felt certain that he would live, the German set about rebuilding his physical edge with an exercise regimen that bordered on fanaticism. While the astounded Monks looked on, he would chop wood for the monastery fireplaces until his body shook with exhaustion. In the hours before dawn, he would run for miles over the rugged environs of the monastery. After a month of this Spartan existence, he had regained perhaps ninety percent of his former conditioning. Still, he was candid enough to realize that his flight from Romania had extracted a horrible and irreversible toll upon his body. In his mid forties, he saw that age was beginning to rear its ugly head and the flawless killing machine was now displaying the first signs of rust.

It was at this nadir of self-discovery that Jurgen Gerchnau first encountered the speaking Jesus.

3

Other than bearing witness to Contayza Prowzi’s awful power, Jurgen was not a man to lend credence to the metaphysical. He certainly did not believe in augury or cryptic portents. He fervently subscribed to the notion that the world rotated on the wheels of steel, blood and the ruthless pursuit of power.

If Yuro Petru’s death had shaken that conviction, the bizarre episode in the remote Catholic Monastery had shattered it completely. The pace at the isolated abbey might well have driven a snail into a spasm of boredom. For the German, his idle time (of which there was no shortage) was spent contemplating what might lie beyond his time here. He grinned at recollection of the Monastery’s elder monk inquiring if he would perhaps care to join the order. Gerchnau had politely declined, but found himself no closer to a way of filling the void of his existence.

His future was very much like a blank canvas; full of limitless potential, but likely to remain blank unless some inspiration set him to the pursuit of some wondrous task.

It was late in April when all of Gerchnau’s uncertainties resolved themselves into a path of steel, leading him into a world that would defy the limits of his pragmatist’s imagination. Cold spring rain had visited the mountains of Southern Hungary, steeping the peaks in gray clouds and the valleys in a brooding mist.

Jurgen lay on his small cot, staring up at the crucified wooden Jesus that was the only other piece of furniture in the cell. Better than a Romanian State Prison, he muttered, his eyes fixed on the wooden rendering of the man whom he considered to be the oldest of fools. Though the work was crude and poorly painted, there was something arresting about the eyes. Theirs was the tangible power to mesmerize and Jurgen found that he could not drag his gaze away.

The two images began to flood his thoughts then; cavorting with each other like Hecate’s hell dogs…Cynara, with her supreme mantle of implacable confidence and the Gypsy girl as she passed her invisible death sentence upon Yuro Petru. These thoughts flickered in his head in rapid, stroboscopic succession, while his eyes remained fixed upon the hypnotic Jesus. They seemed to tease him like an obscure, yet monumentally crucial riddle.

The flesh upon his naked torso abruptly rose into great hackles and he realized that something odd was about to happen moments before it actually did.

The wooden eyes, their familiar expression conveying the cumulative woes of humanity, abruptly blinked.

Gerchnau shook his head, his brow wrinkling in consternation. He knew that, should one stare at something long enough, their eyes would begin to perceive illusory movements. He had learned this on the endless mercenary nights in the Jungles of Central Africa. He was quickly disabused of this notion the instant his eyes returned to the crucifix.

The small statue was alive and animated with an emotion that was definitely not Christian in nature.

This is a bitch of a way to spend eternity, the crucified Jesus complained in a voice that was small and hoarse.

Utterly astounded, Jurgen said nothing. He merely gaped at the figurine as though he had suddenly become myopic. The tiny blue eyes regarded the German was sardonic amusement.

What’s the matter, Jurgen, see something green? the thing inquired affably.

I’m dreaming, he assured himself, dragging the heels of his hands over the sockets of his eyes.

Perhaps, the miniature Jesus remarked amiably, but it is not every day that a man has such a divine dream. Illusion or not, you would be well advised to take full advantage of it.

What do you want of me? Gerchnau demanded, sensing that this might not be a random excursion into lunacy after all.

Nothing more than some palaver. You have a problem…a long future and no real way to fill it. I have a proposition that would, should you have the good sense to accept, provide a solution to that particular problem.

Gerchnau slowly swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Speak.

You have been plagued by visions of power; intimations of hidden realms where the limits of this inhibited world hold no sway. I am here to assure you, with unequivocal surety, that these realms do exist. What’s more, the things that you have witnessed are only the most rudimentary of talents…child’s play if you will.

Now Jurgen’s expression of intrigue had deepened to avarice. The thing recognized the German’s greed and uttered a laughter that reminded the Gerchnau of glass being dragged over stone. My benefactor has noted that you are not without your own special skill. Your decided propensity has attracted the attention of those who have a refined appreciation of such ability.

What could you possibly know of me?

We know all that there is to know about you, Jurgen. We watch…and on occasion, we reward.

What do you have that I could possibly want? Gerchnau demanded, suddenly impatient with this illusion and its abstract chatter.

Power without limit and the opportunity to fulfill your ultimate fantasy…the challenge of attempting to kill what cannot be killed. Next to this, the trapping of wealth lose their luster, though should you succeed, yours will be wealth sufficient to live a thousand lifetimes, the speaking Jesus offered smoothly.

Jurgen’s eyes widened in comprehension and his excitement mounted at a geometric rate. You’re speaking about the witch? You’re speaking about killing Cynara Saravic?

What followed was disconcerting even to the normally unflappable Gerchnau. There was something both compelling and repulsive about the panorama of emotions that rippled over the wooden features. The hardwood appeared to transform itself to reflect intense anger, profound regret and a host of other sometimes conflicting, powerful emotions. Eventually, the tiny face settled into a portrait of rueful disdain. Among other things, your demented friend was woefully misguided. His perceptions of Cynara Saravic were the products of his own paranoia. The very fact that he would dispatch you to kill Cynara is indication of how insane he truly was…and how horribly ignorant.

Ignorant? Jurgen echoed, momentarily perplexed.

He hadn’t the slightest concept of what it was that he was attempting to destroy.

You’re telling me that everything he suggested about this woman was true?

The thing threw back its head and uttered a high, reedy laughter. Magnify his speculations to the nth power and you begin to approach what Cynara was. You could no more have killed her than you could draw the sun down form the heavens. Fortunately, bearing witness to Petru’s lamentable demise disavowed you of such a suicidal pursuit.

If it is not about killing Cynara, then why have you come to me? Jurgen demanded with a tone of impatience. Gradually, the thing’s expression shifted to one of appraisal.

Your hunger has attracted our attention and your talent will serve our purposes effectively. If you possess the courage, my benefactor is prepared to bring meaning to the aimless desolation of your existence.

The speaking Jesus paused, regarding the mercenary expectantly. Despite the sense that this was all a vivid hallucination, Gerchnau’s body was suffused with an electric tension as though his entire life had been carefully choreographed to lead him to this particular moment. After a slight hesitation, Jurgen nodded and replied I’m listening.

The thing smiled broadly. Jurgen wondered how the devout would respond to their precious Jesus offering them such a predacious grin. What I have to say is complicated and you must listen carefully. Before we begin, I believe that I will make myself more comfortable.

Abruptly, it pulled its spiked hands and feet free of the crosspieces. Jurgen’s teeth chattered at the wooden grating sound which filled the room. Geysers of blood spattered the tiled floor of the cell. Extricated from the horror of crucifixion, the thing climbed onto the crosspiece and settled there with an elbow perched on the stem of the cross. Before anything else can be made clear, you must realize that reality is a multi-dimensional concept. You exist in the most rudimentary realm where everything is defined by the five senses. You are subject to the same physical laws that limit the rest of humanity. As evidenced by the very fact that I am here speaking to you in this medium, there also exists several other tiers of reality. Cynara dwelt of the highest of these planes. What Yuro Petru failed to recognize was that she was exempt from the laws of your reality. It was a most fortuitous turn of events that the Gypsy eradicated Petru as she did. Had she not, it is possible that you might have located Cynara and suffered an end every bit as gruesome as his.

You are saying that I could not have killed her? the German asked dubiously.

Precisely, there is but one means by which a creature of your reality might dispatch one such as Cynara…the sacred dagger of their creation.

Jurgen absorbed this last bit of information thoughtfully and then inquired Then, who do you want me to kill?

The thing beamed its hideous grin. You are a commendably astute fellow, Jurgen. Now, try to follow me. Occasionally, an aberration occurs that upsets the delicate balances of the realities. Cynara inadvertently brought one of these abominations to life…what the people of your world would quaintly refer to as a loose cannon. This thing eventually destroyed Cynara and now runs amok in the world playing havoc with the delicate balance that exists between the opposing forces that govern all destinies.

You’re speaking of good and evil, Gerchnau interjected.

Precisely, and I imagine that you realize upon whose behalf I have sought you out? Jurgen merely nodded to the things query. He harbored no illusions as to which side of the division he might fall. This creature, does it possess powers to rival Cynara?

Yes, perhaps more, the thing responded candidly.

Then how am I to kill it? the German demanded, sensing a subtle trap in the offing.

Very carefully, the harbinger quipped, uttering a mirthful chuckle. Gradually, the laughter subsided, giving way to a more serious deportment that only served to heighten Gerchnau’s distrust. By killing Cynara, this abomination committed the most serious act of betrayal…one that must be met with an extreme and immediate sanction.

Why don’t you simply kill it? Jurgen suggested mockingly, provoking a sour glance from the wooden visitor. Surely there are other creatures of her kind who would be better suited to the task than I?

If only it were that simple. If we were to attempt to liquidate this miscreant, the consequences would be profound. You must understand that politics is the force that governs all realities. There are balances that must be maintained and conventions that must be strictly adhere to. If we were to move against this creature, it is likely to ignite a conflagration that would destroy everything. We are not anarchists…evil perhaps, but not fools. No, it is better that this abomination meet its end at the hands of a human being. This is why we have sought you out; the most prolific killer of your species.

Gerchnau fielded the compliment with a distant nod. Again, how am I to kill this miscreant?

As I have said, the ceremonial dagger of her creation is the only means by which she may be dispatched at the hands of a mortal.

What do I gain for the risk of confronting your aberration?

We are generous, Gerchnau. Should you destroy the abomination, her powers would be yours…in return for fealty of course.

The German blanched at the mention of fealty. Jurgen Gerchnau does not submit to fealty. I am not a serf. Power at the expense of servitude is of no interest to me.

The speaking Jesus threw back its head and bellowed a hearty laughter. You are a precious commodity. We all serve someone or something…if only the addiction of our own ambitions.

Jurgen glared at the harbinger, but discerned the truth of its words. Very well, how do you propose that I find the dagger, not to mention actually stick it into the heart of this abomination?

The details will be yours to arrange, the thing retorted. This creature dwells beneath the mantle of the shadow walker, thus she resists our best efforts to locate her.

"You keep referring to ‘her’. May I take it that your aberration is a woman?"

The figure nodded, casually examining the wounds in its hands Her name is Elizabeth Simpson. She began her life as a human being. It came to pass that Cynara coveted this Simpson and attempted to turn her to be a concubine loyal only to her. Thus, this miscreant came to be. Predictably, she proved to be Cynara’s bane. Now she must be stopped and we have turned to you.

Despite his instinctive mistrust, Gerchnau gleaned that the speaking Jesus spoke the truth. In Gerchnau’s mind, the first lines and shadings were committed to canvas. How will I locate her?

The figure gesticulated and an image burst forth in Jurgen’s mind, imprinting itself deep in his cerebral cortex. This was one of the most exquisite creations that Jurgen had ever set eyes upon and for a moment, his will and resolve faltered in the face of such indescribable beauty.

Sensing the mortal’s hesitation, the harbinger suddenly terminated the vision. Do not be deceived by the façade. It only makes the abomination all the more deadly.

Again, how do I find her, if you, yourself, cannot locate her?

The thing grinned. That’s more like it, down to the gritty details. True, she is veiled in shadows, but there may be a way to draw her out; to force her hand as it were. You are skeptical of portents, but your skepticism may be shattered when you realize that Contayza Prowzi, the Gypsy who dealt Petru his brutal demise, may be the key to unearthing your quarry.

Gerchnau raised an eyebrow, drawing forth another gale of laughter. There was a braying, hysterical edge to that sound that Jurgen did not at all care for. You see, in her prior life, Elizabeth Simpson had a son. In a perverse twist of fate, he married this Gypsy whore. After Simpson destroyed Cynara, the two returned to the United States.

Jurgen was nodding now, clearly taking up the thread of the harbinger’s logic. He had a purpose and a place to begin. Only one final matter remained to be discussed.

Why can you not invest me with the power to confront Simpson?

Again, that would be a breech of rigid protocol, but there are powers to be had if you are willing to seek them out.

Again, Gerchnau’s hunger made its presence obvious. The speaking Jesus stood on the crosspiece. Even at your level of reality, there is another world. Beneath the concrete and just beyond the safety of the light cast by the halogen street lamps, there is a way of life that has eschewed the limits imposed by the five senses. In the distant past, this culture was a familiar part of everyday life, but as the Christian Church grew in prominence, its sanctimonious paranoia drove the old ways into the realm of shadows. Still, they thrive. Contayza Prowzi would bear witness to as much.

You’re suggesting that I could access powers such as hers? the German demanded, barely concealing his doubt.

The speaking Jesus placed the tip of a bloody index finger in the hollow of its temple. Every Human being has the ability to duplicate Prowzi’s feats sequestered in the vaults of their mind. Most lack the courage to surmount their cynicism and fear. There is a hidden wealth of knowledge awaiting discovery. With its discovery will come the means to wrench the dagger from the abomination’s grasp. From that point forth, immeasurable power is only a blade’s length away.

Gerchnau said nothing, only continued to measure the harbinger. He suspected that a portion of what this thing had told him was the truth and that, perhaps, would suffice. As you say, I have no other plans.

The thing clapped its hands together in a hideous gesture of delight. Very good, Jurgen. I promise you an adventure to satiate your every hunger. I believe our business is done for the present time.

When do you want this killing done? he inquired, totally unprepared for the answer he received.

You must embark upon a pilgrimage that could well take years. It would be imprudent to challenge the aberration until you have obtained a level of mastery over the dark arts.

Gerchnau nodded, another question springing to mind. How is it that you are able to come to me in this place?

The thing glanced about the room, its small mouth twisting with derision. There are requiems where I would never be able to tread upon the sheep Gods’ sacred ground. This pathetic edifice, raised by geldings, is not one of them. As far as this laughable symbol of faith goes…

The crucifix erupted into flames that quickly and efficiently consumed the speaking Jesus. The blackened figurine and charred wall served as a stark counterpoint to the laughter of the departing harbinger.

Jurgen continued to stare at the ruined wall for some time before finally apprising the monks of his decision to depart their monastery.

4

A few days later, Gerchnau had left Hungary, traveling to Poland, where he settled into a rather sedentary style of life that revealed nothing of who he was or the dark obsession that he harbored. He found employment in a steel mill, while spending every waking hour of his free time reading about the worlds of the alchemist, magician and metaphysician.

In the not too distant past, the German might well have dismissed the accomplishments of Zohar, Blatovatsky and Geller as absurd fabrication. Now, he devoured these tales with utter fascination and mounting excitement. Each had claimed that their astounding feats were accessible to all. From here, he had delved into the works of Alistair Crowley, Gregor Mathis and a host of other purported magicians, wading through volumes of esoteric and confusing systems of magic. Then, he had dared to brave the written labyrinth documenting the history of witchcraft and demonology. Even after all that he had personally witnessed, Jurgen could scarcely give credence to many of the fantastical accounts written there.

Ironically, one of the most incredible had been a small journal written by a self-proclaimed mystic named Morgan. It had concerned the exploits of a supernatural entity named Baroness Cynara Saravic.

After a year of research, Jurgen was prepared to seek out the practitioners who could teach him to activate the recumbent powers of the mind. He had left Eastern Europe, first traveling to Africa, quickly realizing that he had not been forgotten by a host of old enemies, and then to the far east.

The spiritualism of the Far East, with its meticulous attention to detail, honor and tradition, quickly bored the German. He spent the better part of the next two years engaged in a mystical journey through Burma, China, Nepal and Tibet. In each place, he had been witness to a host of wonders, but other than tedious spiritual theologies, his teachers seemed unwilling to reveal the secrets behind their abilities.

Frustrated, Jurgen found his way to India, wondering if the past three years had been a futile expenditure of time and effort. He could not fight a demon by spouting platitudes, unless he intended to bore the bitch to death. Disconsolate, he had entered India like a man sinking into a dark and mysterious sea of wonders. Kali, Thuggie and the more common Hinduism…all of these things spoke of a nation consumed and obsessed with the pursuit of mysticism.

Oh, but the logic defying mysteries that he had encountered. In Calcutta, Jurgen had gazed on in fascinated horror as two ‘doctors’ had extracted a fist-sized tumor from an old woman’s abdomen simply by kneading their way into the abdominal cavity. They had used neither anesthesia nor surgical instruments and the old woman had shuffled away in less than a half an hour after the completion of the surgery.

He had watched fakirs walk on beds of glowing coals and sit on gleaming nails, while displaying no discernable signs of discomfort. Even up close, he could detect no sham.

If the larger cities were showcases for the world of magic, the countryside was its factory, where the skills were propagated from one generation to the next. Jurgen had elected to eschew the major cities and travel north into the remote wilds. As he wound his way through the teaming jungle, he began to hear snatches and intimations regarding a legendary female mystic who lived in isolation near the border of Pakistan. Jurgen listened carefully, though discreetly, to these tales. ‘The Dove of Kali’ was the name that the locals had appointed to a woman who it was said, could draw down the moon and set it to dancing in the sky.

Jurgen decided to seek her out and through a series of circumspect inquiries, finally discovered where this dove might be found.

With only a satchel and the clothes on his back, a forty-five year old Jurgen Gerchnau had plunged into the most forbidden jungle in northern India. Instinct informed the German that this was the final road in his journey. If he failed to find this woman, or if she flatly refused to share her knowledge, he would have to concede failure and admit that he had squandered three years of his life in vain pursuit of a devil’s agenda.

As he labored through the enervating jungle, a mental portrait began to take shape in his mind; a wizen crone with the spirit of a snake and the terrifying powers of evocation. After three weeks of blundering about the jungle, he happened upon the Dove of Kali and discovered that his portrait had been the foolish construction of prejudice. Furthermore, he quickly discovered that this woman could well be everything that the superstitious locals claimed.

He had come upon her at the edge of a small clearing. Instinct cautioned him not to approach her directly because something of consequence was afoot. Jurgen had retreated into the thick foliage, finding a covered vantage point from which he could observe the woman. He was surprised both by her remarkable beauty and her apparent youth. Could she have accrued this awesome power after so few years? Gerchnau was skeptical and experienced a sagging sense of disappointment, but his skepticism proved to be short lived.

A statuesque beauty with flawless sepia skin, the woman wore a shapeless dress garment that fully concealed the geometry of her body. A gentle breeze blew through the clearing, bending the tall saw grass. The woman gazed at the opposite end of the clearing with rapt attention as though expecting something to appear at any moment. Squinting, Gerchnau saw that her eyes were closed and her full lips moved in a silent incantation. Glancing down, he was surprised to see that the hair on his forearms was standing on end, so palpable was the air of electric tension that had wound its way into the small clearing.

Something stirred in the underbrush opposite the woman. Jurgen felt himself tense, though the woman merely raised a long right arm in a gesture of welcome. A throaty growl issued from the foliage an instant before a large Bengal Tiger padded cautiously into the clearing.

Gerchnau grimaced, thinking that the woman had blundered into mortal danger, though she displayed no outward sign of fear at the beast’s arrival. On the contrary, the Dove of Kali calmly and confidently moved toward the tiger with her arm still extended.

The Bengal gazed nervously about as though uncertain how to interpret the temerity of this human. She spoke for the first time; her voice resonating with an unmistakable tone of authority. The Tiger’s reaction was dramatic and instantaneous…it sat down on its haunches as though its back legs had been swept out from under it.

She came to stand before the beast, fell to her knees and laid her hands along its muzzle. The Tiger gazed into her limpid eyes with a fawning expression that Gerchnau could scarcely credit. She spoke to the beast in the way that a parent might reproach a small child. Finally, incredibly, the beast licked her face and trotted back into the undergrowth.

For a moment, Jurgen couldn’t breathe. He merely stood there, continuing to stare at the woman, who remained motionless.

There is no need to skulk in the underbrush like a naughty monkey, she called out abruptly, causing the German to jump. The danger is past. Come out and show yourself.

Jurgen hesitated and then pushed his way into the clearing. The woman finally rose and turned to face him, beckoning him to come nearer. The full weight of her beauty staggered Gerchnau, but he willed himself to approach. Barely managing to subjugate the urge to squirm under her incisive gaze, he asked, "Are you the woman they call the ‘Dove of Kali’?"

She threw back her head and laughed, clapping her hands together in a gesture of amusement. When her laughter subsided, she replied I am Sambata and I imagine that your presence here is intentional. It is an extreme rarity to find foreigners in this part of India. I presume that I am the object of your search.

Jurgen nodded, helpless to resist the questions buzzing in his mind. That tiger, was it a pet?

A grin formed at her lips, one that spoke of mystery and complexity. The Bengal is a man-eater that has been terrorizing several of the local villages. When they failed to kill the beast, the elders came to me and asked if I could help them. They will have no further trouble with that particular tiger.

The German accepted this in silence and without doubt. After a torturous and frustrating Odyssey, he had finally found the one who could divulge the secrets of the hidden path. Sambata repeated her question, this time without a trace of levity. Why have you sought me out?

Slowly, realizing that he was dealing with a formidable woman, Jurgen explained precisely what he would have her do. She regarded him with a cool glance of appraisal, before simply shaking her head. No.

Jurgen blinked, and for a brief moment he was possessed by the impulse to wrap his hands about her throat and strangle the life out of her. That his years of searching would end with such a perfunctory dismissal was utterly infuriating. Something, some rare sense of moderation, pleaded for reason. It informed him that he must not display anger, nor must he plead. ‘Let patience declare your worthiness,’ the alien voice advised. Slowly, Gerchnau’s anger began to abate.

A mirthful smile formed upon Sambata’s lips as she moved into the jungle. On impulse, Jurgen decided to follow her, not certain what he should do next. She walked through the thick foliage as though oblivious to being followed, while he tracked her movements at a distance of some twenty yards. Eventually, the pair broke into an opening that consisted of a vegetable garden and a collection of modest wooden buildings. Sambata entered the largest of these and closed the door behind her, sparing the foreigner one final inscrutable glance.

Jurgen allowed his chin to settle onto his chest. ‘What now?’ he wondered, immediately realizing that there was no other alternative but to wait. He sank to the ground and sat cross-legged in the center of the mystic’s yard.

Sambata did not emerge that night or all of the next day. Gerchnau did not move. He could feel his muscles stiffen and begin to ache dully. He wondered how long it would be before they began to cramp and scream like rusty piano wires. The arrival of the second nightfall brought with it torrential rains that continued for three days. Still Jurgen did not seek shelter. He sat in the middle of the now watery quagmire, soaked to the skin and weakening badly. On the morning of the fifth day, the clouds cleaved and the sun broke on a desperately hungry and fevered Gerchnau.

The front door abruptly swung open and Sambata stepped into the deep mud. Her expression was one of exasperation, though the German sensed a measure of amusement couched behind the truculent glare.

She came to stand over him and he again marveled at how tall she was. With a touch of impatience, she demanded, How long do you intend to sit on my doorstep?

He glanced up and his head began to swim as she wavered in and out like a poorly projected holograph. Distantly and without any prior notion of what he might say, Gerchnau replied, Until you accept me as your pupil…or until I die. Either way, I have no intention of leaving this place.

Sambata remained silent, searching his Arctic blue eyes. She shivered then as though her subconscious had gleaned some insight into the foreigner’s true essence. Without further comment, she spun about and returned to the house, closing the door with a slam which echoed of finality in Jurgen’s ears. After several moments, he hung his head and closed his eyes, now in closer proximity to dejection than he had been at any time in his life.

He was still confronting the bleak prospect of impending failure, when the door again swung open. She stood upon the top step, regarding the tall German, while holding a heaping food tray. Gracefully descending the steps, she crossed the yard, never once taking her eyes from Jurgen’s crude, chiseled features.

Rise, she commanded, her tone clearly indicating that she expected immediate and unquestioning compliance. Jurgen rose, but his muscles locked into a tetanus of cramps, sending him stumbling face-first into the mud. As he writhed about, waiting for the pain to abate, Sambata watched his plight impassively.

When the German finally managed to climb to his feet, Sambata turned back to the house and gestured for him to follow. Once inside, she carefully and firmly detailed the terms under which he would be allowed to serve as her adept. If you are to be my pupil, you must pledge absolute subservience.

Jurgen nodded humbly, seeing that Sambata’s eyes were set in a flinty cast that hinted at a firm mettle beneath the lovely façade. There are things that you must understand if you are to remain here, the foremost of which is that I am a practitioner of the Tantra.

Then she proceeded to explain precisely what this entailed. The body is very often the insidious corrupter of the will and spirit. Weaker men, base men, often become ensnared by the cravings of the flesh. You must divest yourself of this addiction of the flesh if your mind is to become free to awaken its recumbent powers.

If you are speaking of celibacy, then I have learned, Gerchnau assured Sambata, not bothering to add that he had learned that particular lesson in a federal prison. The Indian smiled knowingly. Tantra is more than simple celibacy, Jurgen. Simply subjugating an urge is not enough. Mastery is necessary and this is not achieved without a certain degree of suffering.

Jurgen regarded Sambata quizzically. What shall I do? There is no sacrifice that I am unwilling to make…or a trial that I am unwilling to endure.

The smile broadened, becoming dazzling in its radiance. Very well. Remove your clothes!

The German blinked and was about to question her command, but remembered her edict and closed her mouth with an audible pop. Slowly, he removed his clothes, while