Peter - Chapter 10

Peter - Chapter 10
The two vans pulled onto the grey, sun fired mud and rubble farm yard that sat between a vast corregated shed and a small cottage. Doors sprung open and dogs burst out, enthusiastically surveying the fresh deck, studying patterns of scent and pissing their opinions, marking their passing. Peter scanned the cottage. The door he built and hung. The herringbone path he layed from bricks salvaged from the wash house and bread ovens he'd knocked down. The extension he'd built one summer now blended to the house. Time and weather had softened the seam. Two decades had passed since then. It symbolised a pivotal point in his life. Where love and aspiration had overcome instinct.
The death of Peters mother had ended his childhood. A brutal lesson. Twelve years old he started smoking and stopped trying at school. Brought up on myths of cause and effect. Honesty, hard work, being good, praying to God was the disciplined route to reward. He'd done his part, the world took away his mother. Her life cut short by cancer. The fairy tale over. Peter would not give up his trust or love again.
Yet free of faith life still delivered strange gifts. Magic mushrooms and counter culture brought mystical revelations. Playing truant he hitched to Stonehenge festival. Here he found people living another way. Magical years of transcendence and hope sprung Peter from school. Away from his home town to spiritual journeys. A shamanic awakening. Visions of the other.
But his band of brothers somewhere lost belief. The rainbow kids of psychedelia met darker characters. Drugs changed. Speed and alcohol. Motorbike deaths. Psychotic episodes saw many sectioned. Soon drug deaths. Suicides. The plan had failed. The anarchy mystic dream was crumbling.
For a second time Peter felt disillusionment. Builders, straight workers. Toughened with beer and cash had a surety his idealist circle lacked. Taking up joinery, engaging with matter. Solid qualities. His mystical illuminations were rejected. Illusions. Hallucinations. Cutting his hair, renouncing psychedelics for materialist solidity. His teen epiphanies reduced to intoxicated brain chemistry.
Through education Peter joined in with society. Studying furniture making. Joining the mainstream. He met a girl, fell in love. She did art, then glass. Inherited money. As years went by his accent softened. Her middle class circle accepted him as did the broader world of creative graduates.
On leaving college Peter asked her to come back to his city. His links had been stretched but if he returned now he could bring home what he'd learned. Start up in the north. Reintegrate. But she had money to buy a cottage. Every young mans dream. Trusting their bond was for life Peter accepted he would have to join her world. He gave up his origins for her. So she bought this small cottage. Peter pictured his restoration work, her gardening. Children perhaps. His furniture may take off. Or he could lecture.
The first year was idyllic. She studied away but came home weekends. When her course was complete shed join him. Peter worked all year. Alone but happy in the countryside. A year saw the cottage finished. So he got lecturing work. He hated it. Alone in the house with no support nearby. All instinct warned him he was making mistakes. The stress drove him over. Her family told him how proud they were he was in respected work. To join this class he had to bring in money. Doctors never told him this work wasn't for him. At was him at fault. Take these tablets. They drugged him through the terror of the day. At home alone he drank. Not wanting to let his girlfriend down he pushed himself through hell. Spirits and tablets enabled him. But she never came there to live.
Stood now, reshamanised, alongside Lipton, it all seemed so obvious. He should have left her and the house he built her. No freinds, just her circle and family. Doctors adjusting his brain chemistry to endure what was so clearly killing him. Mental health experts spent years telling him he was defective. The connection to his spirit, now so suppressed, he believed them. This was the beginning of a period with no framework of reference. Giving his all to operate in an alien world. Peopled by strangers, affronted by his intrusion, smiling to his face, waiting to push him out. Each animal shudder, each visionary sight, evidence of his madness.
A wave of anger at his mistake in pursuit of love across class boundaries. At her weakness and return to her pack. Insular tribalists gathering her back in to the fold. And together, joining as a mob, to kick the animal out. Each person who'd shown freind ship hed trusted. Opening himself. When they split, all to the last one, turned their backs. How stupid he had been. To be taken in. To think their circle were his freinds too. Not one stood by him. He'd been a clown for their entertainment. A novelty to spice up their dinner parties. When they split up, their entire network coalesced, told stories, spread lies. Ostracised in a foreign land.
"I built that house Lipton. Well, the extension. Renovated the rest. A year of work. Girl who's it was made a tidy profit. She said the work covered the rent."
Lipton: "Nice place."
Peter: "Aye. It was the first step on a misguided journey. I moved here after university. You know what, Lip? I don't think I suffer from depression. I don't think I've any mental health issues. I don't think I'm an addict or any of that shite. I sensed it was all wrong from the start. Any animal can sense danger. But I'd lost trust in myself. Doctors said it was my mind. That bird I was with, all her mates, family. I'm ashamed I never saw it. They said it was me that was malfunctioning. Lost fucking years in depression, addiction. It's so simple. If you're not happy you're doing something wrong."
Lipton: "Pete, mate. It's done. Fuck em. Stop staring at the fucking shack and look at that hill. That's what matters. Stop your fucking regrets and walk forth. We are shamans. If you're wanting revenge I'll help you but don't radiate that gloom, for fucks sake!"
Peter: "Sorry. Just got a bit emotional. Shaking off the grip of heroin last night has left me open. This place. Moving here was what began the dark journey into that shit. It's a loop. I'm happy to shake off that demon. One reason I had to return."
Lipton: "That's past. Thing is, going down that route, rejection of a spiritual dimension to life, leaves only matter. Taking pills to fix your brain chemistry is the only tools in the box. You've had a deep, long term spiritual problem. We must give thanks for our shamanic rebirth. Only battles of that depth. Demons that took us to the brink of death. It is from these fights that we have become the Warriors we are. No others can do what we do. It's a burden. We are scarred. But we are steaming with fury. Come on."

Getting the dogs fed seperately took timing. Peters husky cross shepherd invariably tried eat both Liptons dogs food unless all three had their bowls set down simultaneously and a good few feet apart. Packing sleeping bags and mats, food and other sustenance for the night, the shamans prepared. Of the three hill forts, this one was the highest. Having climbed the hill a dozen or more times before, peter knew what lay ahead. The previous nights rain had blown over and an invigorating breeze was drying out the ground.
Vans locked and dogs on leads, rucksacks tightly strapped on, the two shamans crossed the main road, leaped the gate and strode up the rye grass field. Unleashing the dogs who raced after rabbit and pheasant. Peter knew no better hill fort in England. No sign post indicating permissive passage. Chained gates and hawthorn hedges deterred all but those most determined. Hidden behind a vast plantation of coniferous trees, the path was rarely walked. Tractor tyres churned the earth into a mud track in winter but during milder months it wasn't so bad. Curving round the side of the hill before dividing, left deep into tree cover, right also cut in to woodland though took a vertical route. Patches of open sky let light in before the land levelled a little as the track steered around the hills outermost curve. From here you could look over to Aston, the hill fort they had been on the previous night and further, on toward the styper stones.
From here it was a choice of walking straight over the three defence burrows or further round to the original fort entrance. Few trees punctuated the top pasture area. Clusters of wind breakers and numerous mounds and hollows created private pockets. This top level was a large ragged eliptical zone maybe 1000 feet by 300 of short welcoming grass. The diversity of contour and ridge, hollow and copse of trees, bunker and brush, gave numerous hidden enclaves, the privacy a large village would need. At the far end a rocky slope below the hills highest trees led on to a curved walled pond. To imagine how a hill this height could find the land naturally engineering a water supply is beyond understanding. Though high above all surrounding land it is always possible to find a dry place, a wind break. The feeling is of warmth and safety. From the top area the land has been worked in to three defensive troughs, steep sided channels surrounding the living space. A further defensive ditch runs three quarters round.
Of the many hill forts Peter had explored this was the best. On all his climbs to the hidden place he had met just one man. Few knew it was there. Few would endure the two hour battle when easier examples, with information plaques and extensive parking areas were nearby. Yet the footfall throughout the years chips away at a hill forts power. Be it the physical changes to create a visitor friendly experience, the slow softening of hiking boots, or the ghosts driven off. The memories soaked in the earth. Something remained here others had lost.

Peters mood slowly lifted as they left the fields. Once into the trees both men opened up, spotting woodland birds, sharing observations. Lipton knew of Peters dark days though little detail. Never having ventured in to mainstream society in any participatory sense Lipton struggled to see why someone with such shamanic connections to the earth could have drifted away from the wild. Peter was an odd cunt. Still, his journey in to the belly of the beast had left him with an aggressive determination to take on this war. The shared hatred of the western project was their unshakeable bond. Their pagan mindset, the shamanic understanding of interconnection of all life. A singular molecular field, drifting in to patterns, then sliding apart before re coalescing. The dimensional complexity. One bio system of inseparable forces. The animal nature of seasonal, cyclic laws had been rejected. Two millennia back, man had stepped above all other animals. God had chosen his favourite creation to travel toward him. The beasts below were mans to use. The earth his to consume, fuelling the glorious struggle toward salvation. His divine right, through mans unique transcendent souls. As his knowledge increased, he saw only that which was materially evident could truly be said to exist. Man needed no creator. No spiritual nonsense. Mans growth continued to increase as forests and species therein, were needed to farm. A sixth great extinction helped their lives grow longer. As Lipton and Peter matured, pagan minds, ashamed of their species. Obligated to act. Their overview saw themselves as children of native pagan Britain. Two millenniums gestation. Born to return the human animal to respectful coexistence with the rest. Earths technicians, blossoming agents of gaias self regulating systems. Their mission was of clear aim, this current venture still somewhat hidden under Peters cloud of certainty. Lipton opted to share, in hope of reciprocal clarity.
Lipton: "I got there last night, you seemed busy with your own visitors so I didn't want to distract you."
Peter: "You what, mate? Still digesting it all."
Lipton: "Archangel. Notpil. I had it in my head we'd become two. That or wings of pure white. Biblical. Christian imagery."
Peter: "No, it's mad as fuck, isn't it? First time I didn't notice or feel anything, till I saw Peter, me, a hundred feet below."
Lipton: "Weird, eh? I was leaning back from the fire, resting on my rucksack. You were talking to somebody I couldn't see so I looked upwards, to the stars. I wanted to be nearer, and without a thought of its impossibility, I slipped out of my body. My form had solidity of sorts, but a fraction of my normal molecular density. Above the fire, my body, you, the dogs, looking down on you all. And that feeling of benevolence. Love, even. I could shape my molecules to any number of patterns. My consciousness was in my astral form, my archangel self, yet I saw some branches burn through and fall from the fire. And, without any consideration my earth body leaned forward, picked up the branches and put the fire back in shape. Both, or either. I imagine I could have shaped wings but, what a trivial thing to do. Brilliant! Fucking amazing gift."
Peter: "Same thing. That distance. Gives you a duty of care. Like, down below, inside life, it's always subjective. Individual perspective. But up there, you feel the strife. You want to help. Look out for them. Make sure alls safe. Isn't it?"
Lipton: "So, all said and done, it's no different to the astral projection we could already do as shamans, given the right herbal fine tuning of the sacrament."
Peter: "Astral journeys are fine for observation, but it takes archangelics to intervene."
Lipton frowned. He didn't want to spoil the mood but he'd been right about Gabriel. He could have disabled the train that so nearly killed them both. And he bottled resolving the issue in a square go.
Peter: "Weird thing I got told a year ago, last October. Gabriel's the only one I'd met and he was a right arrogant cunt. Thought he was a cut above us common or garden shamans. Anyway, I was too late getting tickets for the Superleague Grand Final so, I thought, fuck this! I drove up to Manchester. Parked by old Trafford. Hid in some bushes by the canal, no one would be likely to find me there, then ascended over the stadium. Grandstand view. Turns out it's an old trick. Not long after kick off, Sinfield goes for a 40 20 kick, finding touch by no more than a foot. Out of the ether I feel a tap on my shoulder. I shat myself. Plummeted twenty odd feet toward the turf before getting a grip on my self, swooping upward in a smooth parabolic curve. An ex arch angel was on the same blag. Eighth consecutive final, he reckoned. We watched the rest of the game then got talking. Apparently, consciousness is dependent on a singular self. Once divided, awareness can remain, though a passive, ego free state of being, bereft of volition. Trees enjoy this peace. Consciousness, by this specific, can only focus on one thing. Attention a singular but movable spotlight. The rest rumbles around in the unconscious. Just as human nature is to lie or create narratives of self justification, avoidable only through strict meditative discipline. The archangel is, by their nature, drawn to intervene. Objectivity engenders a protective impulse peculiar to archangels. A hard wired duty of care. Most succumb to this urge, leaving the host body unattended. Every bastard from demon, policeman to psychiatrist will kill the empty body. A catatonic human shell a magnet to the professional psychopath. leaving the angel arch no longer. A mere angel. Unable to intervene. Locked in space, only able to watch. This fate befell the angel I met. And I count myself fortunate to find my body untouched, still hidden in the bushes. He was quite pissy, to be honest. He was a Wigan fan and Leeds had just beaten them so I put it down to that at first. But, here's the tale. Archangels and angels are beings of Christian reality. There's only about six archangel licenses authorised at any one time. He said Christianity were well pissed off as they see you and me qualifying on a technicality. Any God, anything, for that matter, only exists as far as it is believed in. Reality is the product of consciousness, the inverse of the scientific superstition. David Cameron characterises modern Christianity. He says he drifts in and out of faith. In direct response, the Christian God melts in and out of being. His monopoly on archangel licences has been lost. Our fluke came about due to a left wing liberal government that briefly came to power over the vast array of deities and super beings. This political anomaly occurred just as the enlightenment project had reached its conclusion. Science finally grasped it could only ever offer temporary hypotheses, subjective and serial falsifiable conjecture. No one believed anything anymore. The New Atheism of Dawkins, Harris and Hitchens found mainstream popularity. They argued that good and bad were relative human concepts. The devil being just an alternative point of view. Hades, the Greek god of the underworld, by a peculiar anachronism of unionist block voting system, allocated two licences to hades. Hades barely exists at all these days, barely a notion or ancestral memory. As Jesse Presley had a vast subterranean empire, all in complete belief of his existence, he became the rightful God of the underworld. A chance window, unique in humanities history, and we flew through, Lipton.Ascension, flight, the sky etc means little to our underground hero. His debt to our success in killing Abel, his evil son and would be heir pleased him so much, he made us archangels. But, this angel reckoned not only God but Allah, Woten, Vishnu, Odin, Zeus and a fuck load of other cunts are absolutely livid. We have lived these last ten years always on guard as government agents, police and mental health professionals, have all been after our lives. After the Abel execution, we've let down our guard. We must become vigilant once more. When archangelic we must be especially careful. Should we succumb to our interventionist urges and forget our empty forms, there are a multitude of jealous entities, ready to kill our earthly form. Cut us adrift. Cursed to an eternity of observation, harp playing and hymn, sung in exultation. Death could never be ours. Our purpose and cycle, uncompletable. There is no worse a fate possible for sentient beings."
Lipton: "Wow! I reckon we should stick to the shamanic powers we know well. Keep the archangelics as back up. Tell no fucker. There's enough arsepipes after me head. Demons, police, psychiatrists and bailiffs without the Parliament of deities too."
Peter: "Agreed. Each time we spread the wings, a light shines out. Any God, divine being worth his salt will spot us, no probs. All seeing, some of these cunts. No one can hide. The Catholic God can detect a wanker from beyond the Milky Way. Even if they're just thinking of it. Our best hope is keep it under wraps unless our lives depend on it. They're not what they were, mind. Wavering faith, see. Like watching a film on ITV. Interspersed with ad breaks. Only the craftiest master of the hand shandy can slip one past his infinite good."
Lipton: "Did your Wigan angel say who held the remains three authorised permits.?"
Peter: "Four. Your mate Gabriel failed to renew his license when the new photo card format was introduced. He was caught on the hop. Plummeted from the heavens like a lead balloon. Luckily for the ex genesis frontman, he was over Box. Landed in a skip of shavings behind Oscar Windebanks timber yard. The left of centre governing body grasped the opportunity to engineer gender equality. The policy in their election manifesto stated two archangels for the democratically realised earth God, two for the sea and the two for Jesses under ground Kingdom. Allah won a landslide victory but his 'unusual' perspective detects no transcendent female soul. Diplomatic as ever, Poseidon promoted two of the highest mermaids to amphibious archangelfish. As time goes on its grown to feel more a curse than a blessing."
The two fell in to serious silence, the weight of destiny hung heavy as they marched toward the hill fort. The scent of pine clarified thought as the dogs span circuitous pathways, into woodland and undergrowth, clearing all wildlife in a protective bubble as the group headed up. Seldom had they talked of failure in their life's work. Death or Glory, they'd clasp hands before trans dimensional battle. The number they had lost along the way were many and martyred. This Darwinian fine tuning of their Albion Shamanic creed had naturally selected the two. In all of these islands they knew of only twenty of comparable dimensional scope. Two millennia had reduced the number but distilled a purity in oppositional balance. Peter knew where they headed. The legendary Clun coven. Two in Cornwall carried the torch. Four Welsh drulords protected the valleys. Four Irish remained over the sea. Four Orcadians of the Craft preserved a purity to the North. And Clun. The most secretive coven. The most revered. Considered the heart of the power. The central trunk of Druidic force. The unbroken genetic link. The sole lineage that had escaped dilution, all others less pure. But the Clun Coven was recognised by all the remote isolated pockets of druidry as the most brutalised. Savagely treated by generations of persecution. Two millennia of systematic abuse. Decades would pass left in hidden isolation, recovering some normality for a while. Till some new Lord or Barron, intrigued by the stubborn certainty, refusal to religiously conform, would root them out once more. Try to break want their ancestors could not. The other covens, in more remote corners, could not understand their resilience. Revered by all, but disturbed equally. As though the Brocks and Blacks took some perverse pleasure in the buggery and rape, the humiliations piled upon them. The Christian aristocracy whose fore fathers had failed to break the spirits of these brutes, saw a challenge to their bloodlines, to be the ones who broke Clun. But as centuries of brutality failed to elicit so much as a scream, an inversion took place. The Lords would look down on their bloodied clubs, their rape reddened cocks. And the men and women they had tried to make beasts, had a pride, an honour, that the Lords had lost. Till two century's ago, the aristocrats left the Clun coven alone. Unbroken.
The suffering always endured in silence. Generations of pain. Stored in a genetic time bomb. Creatures beyond even Druidic comprehension. For the familial degradation only mirrored the lands. A shared interconnection to the environment. It's resource depletion and reduced biodiversity reflective of the Covens emotional atrophy. The other isolated Druidic few began to wonder at their purity. The new Druids, pretentious narcisstic clowns that sprung up in the early twentieth century, invented new rituals. False evocations. But the Cornish, Orcadians, Welsh and Irish, in quiet moments wondered if they had succumbed to the romantic view of nature. If they met, could their craft stand with dignity alongside the Clun.
Around 1200ad the victimisation had dwindled a little. The tale of that time known to all, pagan and aristocrat alike. The only known attempt at a Hex of extinction. When Druidic herbalism, shamanic ritual use of sacred plants was channeled alongside the darker craft. Meat Witchery, spliced to the Druidic planetary communion through sacramental entheogen.
Something of a tradition amongst the border lords was the family day out. Boys turning thirteen, from the landed gentry, were brought together, five or six. The Lord and Lady, daughters over twelve, would bring the excited young men to Clun. Selecting a girl from one of the four Clun families, the horse hands dragging any resistant, shy girls, from the fathers and mothers. Tied down, the fortunate vixen would be held open so the boys could reach manhood. This honour the ruling class bestowed upon the girl would be taken in silence. The aristocratic spunk deemed a kindness of the boys. The mothers would clap and smile, giggling with their daughters in pride to see their sons ready the Virgin for her kind.
Stig Brock and his twin sister shared a strong bond. Knowing the day would come this summer, Stig and Arbor, his close freind, had been rearing a new creature. Four years gone they had been taken sea fishing where the seas were generous. Twelve large Conger eels were brought back to Clun and half fed all the families. But the boys had asked around all of craft knowledge, amassing all known on eel demon hybrids. The studies impressed all. These two were never trouble at all. Working away, breeding the fish, a cave up towards Bishops Castle their aquarium. Out before dawn and not home till dark, such was their commitment.
Last autumn was a wonderful season for Lord and Lady Stansford. Two healthy twin girls. Their joy was shared with the Lyntons, the owners of Lynton Hall, who in a similar blessing, confirmed this families right to expand with twin boys born, not a month apart. Fanciful speculation imagined a double marriage, twenty years down the line, unifying and securing the wealth. Who knows? The birth of a dinasty.
Andrew Stansford was nearly fourteen now and still not in manhood. The births had distracted from his rights. The Lynton brothers, Jeremy fifteen had had his Clun girl but, in respect of his younger brother, Tarquin, a second helping to show the lad to respect the sluts animal need. One could never be too gentle, his father had enthused. Quietly asking the boys to not tell his mother. The Brock girl was ready and, in fatherly support, offered to break her in for the boys.
His fortune was in. Lady Lynton was under the weather. Much as shed wanted to cheer the boys on, a day's rest while the maid tended the twins.
So young Tarquin, jeremy cajoling his sibling, their noble father proudly steering the coach to collect the Stansfords . Andrew was chomping at the bit, his mother so delighted to see her son coming of age brought two ladies, visitors from Ludlow. Curious to see this local tradition.
At the Brock cottage the group had a mixture of feelings. Certainly dragging shy wenches to some noble delicacy could be tiresome if it took too long, yet a little scuffle, the men grouping together, a bonding exersize, as together a wenches father was disciplined by his betters.
The mother and father weren't expected. Lord Lynton had paid a local farmer for whom they laboured to call them in on some pretext. But her twin brother? They were known to be of one mind. Prying the girl free was to have been an appetiser. Off at his fish farm no doubt, with the other lad.
As the lads stretched the lass out, Lynton felt little of the tantalising resistance the tradition was built upon. He was a little embarrassed to have finished so soon. Andrew, though, had pent up fire and went at it with a vigour and relish they all would enjoy replaying on the journey home. The Ludlow Ladies enjoyed the show, casting small coin to the girl before the brothers began. But there was something amiss. Hard to pinpoint but Lynton felt sure he caught the girl smile. Hard to tell with such creatures.
As the party neared home, the men, all adult now, sloped off to the tavern. The ladies headed on home. They'd arranged to collect the Stansford twins from Lady Lynton. With luck she'd be up and back to her usual good health, but the maid would be there if not. The high born babies, for angels, gifts of the good Lord.
The driver pulled to a stop then pardoned himself, walking swiftly to relive himself ready to take them home. A giggling cluster of lace and powder, entered the kitchen. Servant areas required no knock. What they saw took a moment to accept. The maids body sat upright but her head was.....on the table, before her. A neat line of a small bowl, a red smudge to its centre. A human brain, split down it's centre, a hemisphere laid out each side, like an open book. Next a bowl with a blood red interior wash, the exterior had hair spread in an equal flower, outwards. The top of a boiled egg, was the sole comparative Lady Stansford could summon. And final point in this line was the maids lower head, chin to eyelids, considerately closed by whatever lunatic had created this table lay out.
Screaming replaced giggles as Ludlow Ladies sought the assistance of a man. Lady Stansford however was suppressing her shock for this may be not all. Her twins. Where were her twins.
A muffled noise drew the mothers protective instincts to the connecting door, leading to the breakfast room. Pushing open the division Lady Stansford fell silent. The Brock boy, the virgins twin stood looking at peace. The Arbor lad, the one he was never far from. They worked as fish monger a she'd heard somewhere.
Her status assumed control, "If you boys have anything to do with that maids....parts, you will hang. Where is the Lady of the house. I demand you bring her. She has my twins."
Brock was relaxed. It was done. He'd spread his seed. His life was only one step of many. His purpose over, this last act only brough forth the inevitable.
"My Lady, you are right. Soon I shall hang. Arbor too, " he looked to his freind. Both smiled. Content. The hard parts over. Just the escape, back to the earth, away from these animals.
"You can watch. Please, if our death helps you, it makes no difference to us"
Brock pointed in to the hall area where a staircase swept up to a balcony. The supporting beam had two nooses.
"First, my lady, we must put the parts together, once in place, I promise. We will leave this place."
"Where are my children!" Demanding from the insolent youths.
"I love my sister. Arbors was loved too. Your boys broke her. So my sister promised her a gift. Today she lay down so Arbor and Brock, together we made a gift."
"What gift, who for?"
"For us all. The Lady, her twins, you, and yours."
"This gift will return contentment to this land we share. We are all grown in her arms. We fed from her and, to give back, we will return to the earth"
Lady Stansford hadn't yet thought of the Lady of the house. She left her children in her care.
"Where is Lady Lynford.?"
Arbor went to attend to the Ludlow ladies. Bid they please contain themselves. Silence was pleasing to all in this together. Close together, they complied. Watching on. A trickle of urine ran down the taller ones leg. All watched the pool form.
"My sister is brining her through now."
Arbor closed the connecting door through which the ladies had entered. The maid remained quietly in line, in the kitchen.
Stansford had begun to lose composure. These boys were low born but animals can be unpredictable. Her sole thought was to locate her twins then leave. The rest could do as they wished, so long as her children were returned.
"Welcome my Lady," Brock bowed as his sister led the women of the house in to the room. Her eyes looked glazed. Stansford tried to connect but Lady Lynfords head bowed as Brocks sister set her down with care. This gentle effort must have cost her as her careful movements revealed the damage inside.
"Not long, my Lady," lady Stansford was unsettled by the raped young girl. Showing empathy despite the horrors she lived amidst.
Slowly moving, in painful broken movements, the girl brought three more chairs. The Ladies now in line. Stansford began to speak but Brock implored she be quiet. He hoped not to gag her. Arbor took each ladies hands, pulled them together behind the back splats, and cuffed each.
"I hoped to explain a little as this is the culmination of many years work. Our project began as the Roman Invasion spread throughout Britain. Our religion grew with our people in tune with all native life forms. For a time religious differences were tolerated. Our Druid, men trained in the medicinal and entheogenic plants that heal illness and deliver mystical connections to the earth, moved away from communities. When needed one would be sent for, his knowledge curing the illness or spiritual problem. After, they would return to their isolated villages. In the sixth century after the execution of the Palestinian shaman, Jesus Christ, the Roman emperor converted to the faith that used this mans name. The church united with the invaders to convert all people to the new religion. Christ was believed to have transcended physical death. His God chose humans as his favoured species, the church centred on mans unique transcendent soul. This placed humans above other animals, close to being a god. This justified their use of animals. Christian belief placed primacy on the soul, not dependent on flesh and unconnected to the earth. Our understanding is oppositional. We believe all animals face the same laws. Our death returns our matter to the earth, feeding the cycles of the planet. Our Druids were hunted down. Our people had sustained harmonic coexistence for many thousands of years. We guessed this project of the Christian mind, away from other life and the land would take two thousand years to complete its failure. So our Druids found isolated places to allow this process to play out. Our individual lives are not important. We are steps toward your failure. We took no personal insult by your actions. At times we pitied your plight. As your debasement developed, our pain brought your folly a step closer. Once your project is completed, our lifelines will be ready to step back in. To pick up and continue our story of which your brief time was a curious divergence. Sadly, the genetics of your two families were of particular concern. It was in the common interest your lineage be terminated. Arbor and myself channelled shamanic magic into a hybrid creature. Developed from the Arbax demon summoned from an entropic dimension beyond your perception or access. Bred with the Conger eel we developed a serpent to ensure your lineage will be terminated, so the human species, and the planet, will allow your project to unfold but ensure better men and women are not destroyed by the danger your specific genetic composition would entail. This has not been easy for us and we hope you accept what must be done, as we have."
Brocks speech completed a second before a gentle knock on the door saw new life animate the ladies. "Our men have returned. I knew they would. You animals will be dead in a short time!" Lady Stansford relished her reprieve.
But Brock was calm and replied. "You are correct on the second point you make. Our work is nearly done. But this is young Jack, my nephew, I believe."
Opening the door a boy of eight or ten carried in four milking stools. "The gentlemen have more drinks. Should they leave now, they would be here in a candle burn, tip to tail."
"Let us complete the work." Arbor and Brock sat the four chairs facing toward a centre. The boy placed the milking stools in a smaller circle, lifting each ladies leg so it sat in comfort on the stools. Facing Lady Stansford, lady Lynton. The Ladies of Ludlow set facing each other across. The ladies feet were lifted on to the stools, opening their legs. The boy and Brocks sister tied the ladies ankles to form a star. Fear ended their silence. Tears from, some, moaning from others, whimperings of self pity began. Lady Lynton began to come to wakefulness as the sedative she had been nullified with wore off. Finding herself staring at Lady Stansfield whose legs were wide open, a grizzly vision caused her to scream.
"Ladies please. I humbly beg your patience and any composure you can command would help. Your dignity and silence will be recognised and passed down through our spoken history. If my sister, arbor, Jack could come close, we can then drink deeply of the sacramental brew. Ladies, you are no doubt unfamiliar with our medicine, but this potent concentrate of Liberty cap mushrooms will remove any fears you may have. It will connect us all in mystical transcendence. We are all aspects of the one. We will share all feelings. This moment will be talked of long after our deaths. Let us enjoy the moments we share."
Drinking deeply from the flask, Brock passed it first between the ladies. Alcohol being the only consciousness alteration of their experience, all drank deeply. Arbor, Jack and jig, all took hearty gulps. The effects took but a few minutes to begin. Brock looked to his sister. Her sacrifice today in accepting such treatment from the aristocratic men had indeed been noble. A flask of the sperm, a mixture of the Ladies sons and husband ejaculate, collected from her damaged vagina had been whisked. The Ludlow Ladies were excused as the ritual had only brought them in to create numerical convention. But Lady Stansford and her close freind Lady Lynton drank half the elixir each. Jig Brock holding both mouths firmly closed until the seed of their men was swallowed. Both were now experiencing deep hallucinogenic changes.
Arbor brought through the hybrid serpents the boys had created. A pride was evident. This was indeed advanced work. Meat Witchcraft, shamanic animation and advanced demonology. The barrel was moving as the creatures within smelled feeding time. Four smaller demonic eels, as thick as a mans index finger, little longer than a foot in length, swam near the top surface. Four much larger specimens, as thick as a mans wrist and four to five feet in length, circuited aggressively in the barrels lower depths. The serpents heads opened to hungry mouths, sharp pointed teeth an inch in length, snapped blindly in the younger. The larger creatures upper and lower jaws revealed vicious two to three inch curved needles, opening to snap. Tiny dots, light sensors, primitive motion detectors, less than eyes.
The spread of legs provided a platform on which Arbor gently set down a shallow dish, three feet in diameter. Brock had set out a variety of tools on a side table, towelling cloth draped over to create a soft surface. The four twins were now brought in, layed on their backs for Brocks delicate incisions. Arbor held the first as Brock carefully open an inch diameter access hole. The babies skulls, not yet hardened offers little resistance. Unperturbed the babies giggled and played. Arbors firm grip allowed Brock to cut a hollow slot, between the brain hemispheres. Inserting fine bone tweezers he worked free the tiny pineal glands. Once the four glands were extracted, the two boys spoke quiet incantations, words of magical depth, before each swallowed two glands Immediately the dimethyltyptamine combined to the psylocibin. Both were in deeply religious conditions. The forces channelling through their bodies crackled like electrical energy. Their minds moulded to a single consciousness, stretching tendrils through genetic lines, feeling out the abhorrent genes, seeking out and destroying this dark avenue of human deviance, arradicating its destructive poison.
The shallow dish, a circular pond sat steady as young Jack poured a puddle of the nutrient rich fluid, followed by the four smaller demonic eels who splashed and swam in violent hunger, snapping in hope. The four twins, seemingly unaffected by the pineal extraction were lifted aloft, one at a time, by Brock and Arbor. Their eyes now dark pools. Their minds in dimensional drift. Looking up at the child, chanting words, invocations of power. In careful reverence they lowered each baby in to the pond. A feeding frenzy ensued, serpents blindly searching till alighting on the skull opening. Once the gnashing heads were inside, the flesh ponytails whipped in need. Eating in to the brains of these hell spawn humans. Digesting each brain, consuming every particle. In mute transcendent horror, the ladies, faced with such a repulsive occurrence, vomited, tears flooding their faces.
The dead babies, meat dolls were placed in a bucket for young Jack to throw to the pigs. The serpents returned to a fresh pale, ready for transport. The final moves were savage and swift. Brock and his sister, arbor too, cut away the lower dressings of the ladies. Their open legs, the portal of entry for the evil offspring whose species destructive genealogy required such a hideous corrective ritual. Naked and open, tied and exposed. The shallow dish moved away to be replaced by the half barrel, the four bigger demonic eels, picking up on the younger ones feed frenzy soon caught scent. Leaping out, towards the viginas that spat out the evil twins. Their teeth tearing as they drove deep into the ladies, the sound of gnashing teeth, working through flesh.
Their jobs complete Arbor and Brock bid farewell to jig. Without hesitation they walked, purposefully up the stairs, pulled the nooses over their heads, and jumped. The bodies swung in peace. Lady Stansford could feel the violation as the eel ate up through her. Glancing over to see the boys, now gone. Only Jack remained to help Jig. It took these creatures three or four minutes to eat through the body, exiting from the mouth. The host body, the ladies all now dead.
Once all eight serpents were free, all were returned to the barrel, lids secured. Jig carried the serpents out to a coach. Her broken body, nearly able to rest. From Clun to the Welsh coast took a couple of hours. But she was grateful for the sleep that held her from the day's events. This was the only way. Druidic knowledge was complex. The discussions these last few years that took place among the highest minds, drew this single conclusion. These children carried a genealogy that would have a single, unavoidable end. Even the Druidic plan. The hidden few, carrying the knowledge, the genetic coding, lives lived purely as steps. The greater curve of man, once the Promethean project of western civilisation played out to its conclusion. The Druid strand would be there to continue humanity, beyond the depletion of mineral resources. But a click further and there would be nothing left from which to rebuild.
Once by the beach, Jig aligned the coach, carrying the barrelled serpents. It was low tide, a moonlit night. Resting her young broken form on the sand she could feel,the mother, the earth beneath her. Calling her home. So tired, from gang rape, magic, murder, her brothers suicide. Her time was done. Slipping under into a sleep of permanence. The lapping waves, gently moved over her. She dreamed of her twin, young Brock.,playing as children. She was going home.
Her body had gone to the sea an hour before the barrel was submerged. The eight demonic eels, slipped in to the sea, losing them,selves, amongst the seaweed. Free to explore.


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