The Gathering Dark and Other Tales: A Sage of Wales Collection

The Gathering Dark

and other tales

♦

A Sage of Wales Collection

Andrew Ian Dodge

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Gathering Dark and other tales

A Sage of Wales Collection

Copyright © 2008 by Andrew Ian Dodge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations,

and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-49547-4 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-61146-1 (ebook)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all those who helped me with this book including my dear wife Kim and my mother Elizabeth.

For their faith in my critical writing: I would like to thank Eric Olsen, Martin Popoff, Iain Murray, Gawain Towler, Dan Lewis and Nigel Meek For their belief in my creative writing: Aleister and Trollboy. I would also like to thank all those who have stuck with me through some very trying times including: Tom Burroughes, Rob Mallows, John Haithwaite, Anna Hobbes, Tabitha, David Shaw, Frank Sensenbrenner, Bob Sensenbrenner, Paul Jane, Murray Hill, Dean Esmay and George Stevens. A special nod goes to Grog, Drew and Al from Die So Fluid. I would especially like to acknowledge and thank all the members of the Growing Old Disgracefully family: including John, Rob, Jon Pearce, Mike Hen-drix and Mitch Benn.

Mater and Pater for putting up with me and my chaotic life all these years. My special thanks go to Vera, my canine inspiration.

The Gathering Dark

Prologue

The black-robed man prostrated himself before the ledge at the end of the room. He rose to his feet, dusted himself off in a nonchalant way, and then left the room. An avid younger member was standing next to the heavy wood door.

’Well, what does the Great One say?

I think it best that I not tell you, acolyte.

But surely ...

He wishes to speak to you himself.

The acolyte went pale. He fell against the wall near the door, his tan robe folding around him. Me?

Fear not, young acolyte; there is nothing for you to fear. He has a job for you. Should you fail in this task, fear will do you no good.

Now?

Yes, go in ... Kneel before him, and you will know what you have to do. Keep your head covered with your cowl and you’ll be fine. You must stare at the floor before you. Do not look up. You are not prepared to share in the delights of the Great One. Once you complete your task, you may in fact be raised so that you may gaze at Him and revel in His Ancient Glory. The older bald man shoved the acolyte into the room.

The man, shaking, carefully made his way to the altar-like ledge. It was clear where he must kneel. The wooden floor was particularly worn in that spot. He would have knelt in any case, either from fear or the reek of mildew and ancient foul-smelling decay. The room was dank and humid. It was hotter than the rest of the building despite the cool weather. He remained motionless on his knees for a few minutes, recalling how he came to be here.

Upon first joining the Service after graduating from Manchester Guildhall University, he was a completely anonymous low-grade employee, barely noticed by his colleagues or superiors. He was forced to do hours upon hours of tedious file searches. He was not able to understand why any of them were cases in the first place. He was tasked with organising Asylum Seekers’ files and checking them for accuracy. Had he the power, they would all have been approved immediately. Britain owed all of them help and understanding after the sins committed in the days of the Empire.

He was a particularly rabid brand of socialist at Uni, a member of SWS, and an avid Hunt Saboteur, excelling at distinguishing himself among the hard-left. He was, in fact, a leader of sorts. Something that gave the young man great pride was his lazy eye. An inability to make total eye contact was a positive boon. It was with great astonishment that he found himself asked to take the entrance exam. And that he passed it, even more. A letter had come his final year from an unknown source assuring him that if he were to take the exam he would be accepted. In fact, it would be more accurate to say the letter had ordered him to take the exam, a fact that confirmed his beliefthat he’d been singled out by someone for further attention.

He was only in the Asylum Seeker section for a few months before he was asked to join the Order. Two senior grade managers happened by his desk and asked him if he would join them for a drink. One of the men, a fellow Mancunian, introduced himself and apologized for not being in touch earlier. He then went on to explain that he liked helping fellow northerners in the Service because the entire government was so anti-anyone from north of the M25. The young man was not impressed with the "poof’ remark that followed, as he was at least bisexual and probably gay. He chose to ignore that remark in favour of his career prospects, since he was certain that the benefits of associating with these men would bring him benefits of far higher levels. He was also sure the invitation that followed in the pub would supersede any anti-gay comments he would be forced to hear. He suspected that at least one or both of the two was, in reality, either repressed or actively gay. It was around eleven, closing time, when that real invitation came. The Mancunian, the older of the two, requested that the young man

join them at an after-hours place. He assured the young man that if he were not up to work the next day, he could call in sick. It would be sorted.

What followed was one of the most painful and terrifying experiences of the former SWS member’s short life. He was gagged, blindfolded, and put into a van. The trip was short. The place was near the pub. Once the van stopped, he was led to a large, warm room. He sensed that it was underground. Suddenly, it started to get nasty, and yet exciting. He was repeatedly gang-raped for over two hours, after a rest for maybe an hour, two more hours of rape followed. He was sore and bleeding. After the rape, or rapes, he was led to another room where he was made to kiss the sphincters of all ten men who had raped him. Bizarrely, his blindfold was removed and then he was seen to. His wounds were carefully covered with a green, putrid smelling substance. Relief from pain was as sudden as the smell was strong. After his recovery, the large man, that he now knew in more ways than one, approached him.

Fellow members of the order! I present to you our newest acolyte, to serve Him in all his capacity. Look now upon him, for soon, I have no doubt, he will be one of your illustrious number.

Already naked, the young man was presented with the brown robe he now wore. Then, all his former buggerers came to him and embraced him. The group drank heavily until they all passed out.

The next morning, the young man awoke to find himself in his own bed. Feeling tired but suffering none of the effects he would have expected from the orgy of rape, he did not regret going out for drinks with the Mancunian and the other man. This former SWS member had been transformed. He now had a true cause, one that was much older and more important than radical socialism; one that could determine the destiny of all mankind.

The acolyte returned to the present, remaining in that same kneeling position for what seemed to him an eternity. Not a sound could be heard in the room. There was no sound of any kind. He could not even hear his own heartbeat. It was as if the room absorbed all sound.

Suddenly, his head filled with an otherworldly voice that croaked rather than spoke. It was coming from inside his head, not from without.

"You are to prevent the birth of Lucius Wigginbottom. It must not happen in England. He must not be allowed to be born within the confines of this island. He has already been conceived due to the incompetence of other acolytes. You must not fail me. If you succeed, you will be elevated to the next level of the Order. If you should fail, your soul will be forever damned.

How ...?

Quiet! the voice bellowed. You listen! You are to use your office to do everything possible to prevent this birth. Do whatever it takes. Kill them if you have to ... but if you do you will not have any help from the Order. You will be a sacrifice so that we will all succeed!

But, surely .

There are other means, but all of these would draw attention to us from our enemies. Through you, we will use the most potent weapon of all, bureaucracy.

Uh, yes, Master.

Now, go. You have but one task. Do it well! The others will help where they may, but it is up to you, acolyte! The voice ended. The young man rose to leave, but remained, still paralysed by fear and the memory of pain. He knew why he had been given this job. He was an enforcer with Immigration whose job it was to break those deemed unworthy of entry. He mainly dealt with rich foreigners who felt they should be let in to do as they pleased. The socialist still in him loved being the tool to prevent the rich from entering the country. He enjoyed costing them thousands of pounds in legal fees, air fares, and lost earnings. He was happiest grilling Americans, imperialist pigs that they were. Not one got by him. He used every tactic possible to prevent their entry: lying, cheating, and falsifying documents and interview transcripts. His methods were thought to have caused the deaths of at least two people. He revelled in this proof of his power. Every deported rich man made him stronger, wiser, and more able. The fact that his superior enjoyed the job as much as he did pleased him intensely.

As the young man walked out of the room, he was thinking of the methods he would use to prevent the entry of the Wigginbottoms. He would have to acquire a weapon of some sort. Manchester was the place for that. He could have a revolver within minutes once he returned to his native city. He would need some money from the Order to buy a gun. Past experience suggested that he would be able to acquire the necessary funds.

Upon arriving at his small desk in the building in Croydon, he noticed an envelope neatly addressed to him lying on his chair. It contained over one thousand pounds, in cash. Faith in his masters again confirmed, he pocketed the money and headed for the door. It was Thursday. He would call in sick the next day and head to Manchester. The Wigginbottoms would arrive soon, so he could waste no time in making preparations.

On his way out of the office, he spotted the large Mancunian.

Walk you to the tube, lad.

Yes.

As they walked, the large Mancunian blithered on about various mundane work problems until there were few people around them. Good luck, my boy. I hope you make Him happy and do as he bade you. It will be better for all of us if it goes well. On the day of their arrival, you are to prevent them from entering, and deport the girl, especially. After you have succeeded, you must meet us in the under-room, for it will be a big night for you.

Yes.

Lad, I must go. I have to meet someone in Soho for a drink. Cheers. Cheers.

Paying his fare and descending the stairs, and entering the last carriage, the young man silently remained in his seat as the tube continued on its journey to Kings Cross.

1

Reginald sat in the pub waiting for his friend, the Sage of Wales, who, like Reginald, was in Scotland on business. He sat at a small table in the back of a pub, lit by a quaint but effective oil lamp. He was reading his new literary purchase from Waterstones’ on Edinburgh’s High Street, The Reluctant Must by Mark Evans. Reginald held his three-quarter-full pint glass in one hand, the book in the other hand. In a few short minutes, his motions were routine. Take a drink. Put the glass down. Turn the page. Pick up the glass. Repeat.

No one was watching, of course, especially since his friend and confidant Leo had cast a small cantrip on him to ward off prying eyes. Dr Leo Ruickbie was one of Reginald’s ever expanding circle of occultist friends. Since his return from the U.S. with his new wife a few years before, things had taken a further turn for the odd. However, making the acquaintance of the Sage was one of the best perks. Whenever things just got way too odd, Reginald knew he could call his friend, Andrew. Actually, it was the other way ‘round recently. He needed to talk to the Sage, and suddenly he got a ring from him. Already tapped to be godfather to his son, the Sage was always there when Reginald’s family needed him.

This was one such time. Convenient that he had to be in Scotland to talk to a micro-brewer in St. Andrews about his choices of hops. The Scots had reacted rather badly to the large conglomerates buying up every brewer they could find. The final straw had been when a North Korean company bought an entire brewery and took all the parts to Ponyang. For the last six months, new or re-born breweries had popped up all over Scotland. Reginald was enjoying this renewed demand for his specialized knowledge.

As in many of his haunts, Reginald rarely needed to get up to get his pint renewed. The landlords made sure that his pint glass was full of the best house brew, and this pub was no exception. Ancient and close, it was near the B&B that Reginald generally stayed in here.

Ah. There you are!

Reginald looked past the barkeep to see his friend sauntering in with a flap of his cloak. Despite looking a bit out of place at times, the Sage never bothered to dress down. In his calf length cloak and calfskin soft soled boots, he certainly looked the part.

Before Andrew sat himself down at the little table, his pint was in his place. Andrew shared Reginald’s taste in strong ales, and frequently pressed Reginald’s knowledge of brew pubs to smooth his travels around Great Britain and the world.

Sitting down with another flap of his cloak, Andrew carefully wrapped his outer garment around him as he sat down. Before his bottom hit the chair, the pint was at his lips and missing its top third of precious liquid.

Reginald took a sip of his new pint and waited for the Sage to speak. Ever since their first meeting, Reginald never seemed to be able to start up a conversation with him.

So, how goes married life, old boy? Cora should be having her little one fairly soon, by my calculations. Shouldn’t you be at home as the modern doddering husband, instead of meeting dodgy wizards like me in glum pubs in Scotia?

Er, well. There is still at least a month to go last time I checked. Unless you know something I don’t! Reginald cringed as he said this. The Sage knew lots of things he didn’t. Reginald knew this. The Sage knew this. Umm, just one of those useful things to say ... he said, by way of explanation.

Oh, don’t let my jest worry you. She isn’t due for a while yet. I can tell you exactly when if you wish once I get home to Wales. I’m sure you prefer to have it at least a bit of a surprise. I do seem to remember the look of horror on your face when I told you that Cora was pregnant, the first time we met.

Well. It was a bit of a shock, especially after I found she didn’t even know! Honestly, we thought we were past having children. But Cora is healthy, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

I must remind myself to stop doing things like that. An older and wiser adept than I gave me a ration of grief for an inopportune comment about someone’s impending death a few years back.

Oh, the person who was going to die was not in ear-shot was he?

No, of course not, but it was still a bit of a daft thing to say. But, I did have it on my mind at the time. One more lesson learned.

So why did you call me here ... if not to tell me something about my son’s impending arrival? Reginald reached down and picked up his pint for another draw, realising it might not have been a good idea to have had a few before his friend’s arrival.

Oh. Yes. I did tell you it was another boy, didn’t I. The Sage touched his beard in a moment of thought. Actually, it was just very much a social meeting, as I was in town and so were you.

Dare I ask why? Reginald knew he might not have wanted to ask but thought it was polite. So many of the things that the Sage was involved in were pretty disturbing.

Well, I needed a break. I’m here to help out the St. Andrews constabulary and the University.

Police business? Are you here because of that moron that got himself killed in a bar brawl this last weekend?

Yes. The same. It seems there was more than meets the eye in that confrontation.

Oh?

Yeah. There seems to be a magical twist to this whole sorry affair. He paused and