GENERISIS
presents THE GOLDEN DAWN
Episode
19 - VAULT of the VEHM!
Now...
that appointment with the so-called father of psycho-therapy so negatively
impressed me that I distinctly recall wasting all Saturday touring the gardens
of Vienna and attending an operetta, emptying my mind of all pretense and
apprehension so as to greet the Fehmsabbat with a clear conscience, and only
healthy anticipations.
Of
Sigmund Freud's "Interpretation", I had opened the volume in my hotel
room, only to discover that, quite reasonably and as Hartmann's romance of the
gnomes, it was entirely in German save this preface from Virgil... Flectere si
nequeo superos, Achertona movebo!... which may be roughly translated,
"Shall I not move Heaven, I may nonetheless stir up the Underworld!"
Unwilling to wrestle with so alien a tome, I lay it on top of the book on
gnomes by Dirty Franz and tried to sleep.
I
dreamt again of men in dark cloaks whose heads were oblong boxes across which
fled ghastly images, rather like Naval screens for electronic radar developed
so successfully, waking at dawn on Sunday morning to hurry to the Westbahnhof.
The sun was high, shining brightly when, by rail and carriage, I arrived at the
ruined castle of Werfenstein, outside the village Grein, on the beautiful blue
Danube of song and legend.
A
brave attempt had been made at renovation but there remained much to be done;
nonetheless a jolly crowd of perhaps fifty had descended from Vienna, from Linz
and other places to enjoy a rare warm November day. The castle of von List lay
in a meadow enclosed by a wooden fence, at the entrance to which a sturdy
gatekeeper accepted my letter from the blind prophet and welcomed me to the
gathering with an earnest handshake and English greetings.
"We
are honored by the presence of the delegate from the British order," said
the gatekeeper, who gave his name as Karl. "This is a fateful day, young
man, that which shall, one day, be memorialized as the first dawn of the new
order. Im die gelt Ostara... heil!"
"Heil!"
I replied politely. "Now... do you know where I can find Lieb... von
Liebenfels? Or von List?"
The
gatekeeper pointed towards a mass of men by the river and I set off, only to
encounger a disagreeable surprise... my enemy of the fraternity of the Skull,
young Viereck.
"Cameron!"
the disgraced student cried, face reddening with rage. "You are
everywhere... dirty spy! Attenzione... das Auslander Spion!"
A
number of beefy blond men raced up a gentle slope from the river, seizing me
firmly and pelting me with questions, threats and oaths; Viereck screaming
phrases louder than all, among which the epithet "Juden!"
predominated. Finally the commotion attracted Lanz von Liebenfels.
"Was
is dist? Cameron... what are you up to?"
"Mr.
Viereck resents my presence. Look, I am not a spy... well, I have told you the
nature of my mission, believe it as you will. Viereck is an old enemy from
America," I declared, "what stands between us is no matter for
Germans or any of Europe..."
"What
is this person doing at our dedication?" Viereck continued to demand,
unconsciously sliding into English.
"He
has been recommended by men of influence and is an emissary, which is a higher
thing than a novice as you," pointed out the Cistercian. Viereck raised a
fist as if to strike Lanz, then lowered it, pretending a mask of humility that
was quite comical, in a sinister way.
"I
seek forgiveness," the brother of Skulls petitioned abjectly, "...I
would not question your motive for allowing even Cameron to enter."
Lanz
gestured that I follow him but Viereck was far from finished.
"You
are here for ulterior purposes," the youth declared. "Know this,
Cameron, I shall discover you!"
"When
you do," I replied, "let me know... I've been quite whistling in the
dark over what I've been doing ever since I last saw Dover... let alone
Manhattan. By the way, is Fraulein Sprengel about?"
Viereck's
puzzled, taurine expression was all proof I needed that no time was worth
expending in this direction. Lanz brought me to an odd company of three... two
men tall, blond, dignified, the third short and balding with ferocious waxed
moustaches and the frenzied mien of a terrier upon the scent of rats.
"This
is Cameron," the Cistercian introduced me, "that American I
mentioned... an Adept of the London temple and friend to Aleister Crowley. Here
is our Orientalist, Sebottendorff, this fellow is Dietrich Eckhart and, here,
Signore Marinetti of Milan. Perhaps one of these may be able to answer your
questions... I must, regrettably, prepare the Master for his dedication
address.
And,
as Liebenfels left me with these men, I could not help but take note of Viereck
lurking on the periphery, seeking his opportunity to create further mischief.
"Do
any of you gentlemen speak English?" was my first announcement, "...
I know a little German but mostly engineering terms."
"I
learned English discovering gold in Australia," said the German introduced
to me as Sebottendorff, "...and know French, Turkish, Russian, Persian,
Greek and Italian, of course... Marinetti speaks all languages equally
unintelligibly, Dieter..."
The
taller of the Germans held his thumb and middle finger together...
"Bitte..."
he remarked.
"Lanz
tells me you are seeking der Vildanden," Sebottendorff declared with a
rather unpleasant smile.
"A
what?"
"Ein
gans? What you Americans call wild duck... goose? and English the snipe or
snark, rather... a dark lady of spukhafte... a non-entity?"
"Yes!"
I remarked, too eager to be diverted by offense. "Fraulein Sprengel... we
have heard that she died in '91, I think it was. Do you know who her associates
might have been?"
Sebottendorff
and Eckhart smiled broadly at the mention of Sprengel but Marinetti seemed
offended.
"Bah,
American... why look for women, especially here!" replied the small
Italian. "We have scorn only for feminine virtues as of the moon... here
we glorify the only hygiene... war! and beautiful ideas worth dying
for..."
"Rudolf
Steiner, who could not... or would not," I added, "help me in the
matter of the Fraulein sees the Moon as that place to which the Mahatmas
go," I ventured as a means of testing these German Templars.
"Dr.
Steiner has, let us say, cosmopolitan notions about women," Sebottendorff
explained, "... after the Madame's passing he chose the path of Annie
Besant. But as he is also approved of by Lemmermayer, whom the master respects,
we tolerate the mention of his name without injury to yourself. Whatever this
old woman meant to your English Lodge she is gone now, almost a decade... and
great mysteries unfold, far greater than the English perceive except for
Crowley." Dieter Eckhart muttered a few phrases and Sebottendorff nodded,
"Yes, yes, he's the exception..."
"Well
I am only doing my job," I explained. "When one is given a task,
every facet should be thoroughly explored."
"That
is a sensible, thoroughly Aryan attitude," approved Sebottendorff,
"...but then it would be in your blood... Cameron? Angle and Celt, maybe a
little Saxon hmm?"
"Perhaps..."
I acknowledged, then presumed to address an issue that puzzled me, with all
such emphasis put on blood by these pagan Templars. "Don't you feel out of
your place?" I asked of Marinetti.
"I
am an automobilist," he replied, moustache bristling, "...a Roman
pagan with naught but respect for any son of Alaric who renounces weeping Jesus
for the Esau who returns with the sword and gasoline-engine. Milan, you must
understand, is Ausonian... the southern and western outpost of the invisible
Alpine empire which is to be reborn..."
"Mit
der Stein!" Eckhart exclaimed.
"Yes..."
concurred Sebottendorff. "Herr Eckhart possesses a notorious black stone
which is said to have been brought over the Bosporous from Phrygia to the
Palatinate and which resulted in the seating of worldly power in Rome until it
disappeared after that treachery against Julian... whom we esteem here as no
less a martyred Messiah than the Galilean, and done in by no less vile a cabal
of Judasry. When it is set and dedicated in the vault of this castle, Grein
shall be crowned holy seat of the New Temple and we, der Hammernbrudern, shall step
forth as its risen Vehmgericht!"
Eckhart
again conferred with Sebottendorff, a conversation I would have followed
keenly, save for the boastings of the logorrheic Automobilist.
"I,
sir, hurled my Daimler Dagger over the perilous pass of Reichenbach Falls in
order to attend this estimable gathering. While I abhor your mixing of the
noble races of America with the blighted, I bless you for your Mr. Ford whose
hand I wish someday to shake. Have you met Ford?" Marinetti inquired
plaintively.
"No...
but in the course of business my father has come to know Edison and," I
allowed, "we both have had dealings with his rival, Vartanian."
These
names brought further agitation to Eckhart and what appeared to be a sharp
rebuke from Sebottendorff.
"Well
they are geniuses also," pronounced Marinetti. "So I enlist you,
Cameron, in my order of the future... and here is my gift for your
initiation...
And,
opening the bulky leather pouch carried by means of a shoulder strap, he handed
me an apparently live grenade!
"Careful
with that! He gave one to a friend in Rome who put it in his stove and nearly
was exploded by a careless porter..." Sebottendorff winked, "who was
that fellow now..."
"Signore
Mussolini," Marinetti replied proudly, "who is a Roman among Italians...
he stood up, brushed the soot from his shirt and laughed as intrepidly as
Caesar at the Rubicon... although he has taken to wearing darker shirts, of
late."
I
placed the grenade carefully in my pocket. "So what do you do in
Milan?" I asked of the madman.
"I
am an Imagnifico," Marinetti boasted, "a declaimer of heroic
sentiments against moonish decay. Soon I shall be known as the caffeine of
Europe."
"One
look at the fellow and you know he is destined for something grand!"
allowed Sebottendorff. "But here comes Liebenfels."
"The
master shall dedicate our Burg," promised the monk, "and then we
shall be entertained by a choir of boys whom I've selected from the monastery
school at Lambach. Come..."
We
joined the throng of celebrants streaming towards the castle, nearly a hundred
by this time. Marinetti seemed to have some problem with vision or, else his
co-ordination, he stumbled so frequently that I could not help glancing
apprehensively at the shoulder-pouch of grenades. We entered a courtyard
beneath ruined walls only half repaired, with scaffolding remaining up and much
plaster evident; Guido von List was guided up a podium of rubble by the vigilant
Anna Wittek to begin his dedication. Lanz had insinuated himself by my side so
the Cistercian was able to translate his master's words as they boomed forth.
"Der
Meister identifies with famous blind poets... Virgil, Homer... all those poets
of the age of silver who saw life as if already from beyond, knowing but the
sadness that saints have suffered. He warns that the road of the initiate is
not an easy one... Promethian fire ever burns the fingers..."
"He
is naming names," I discerned. "Are they... are they people with us,
or in our way..."
"They
are the good people... Martin Luther, Bismarck, Drumont... the anti-Dryfusard
in Paris whose protector is the Comtesse Martel, or Gyp... Mayor Lueger,
Schonerer and the French martyr Boulanger. Blavatsky, of course..."
"Annie
Besant?" I asked.
Lanz
did not even wait to attribute his distaste to the blind master.
"Hardly!" he scoffed. "That one is a champion of socialism which
is, to us, more than political unsoundness... it is blasphemy. Valhalla is
reserved for Einherjar... soldiers who fall in battle; a higher order for those
executed by enemies and, highest above all, those who take their own lives
rather than endure the humiliation of surrender. Socialism is the burglar's
tool by which the Untermensch achieves earthly content without satisfaction of
blood debt." Dieter Eckhart mentioned something to the monk who nodded,
adding, "Marx was a Jew, as you probably know. But what may surprise you
is that those Zionists in Basel... wholly ignorantly, of course, also do the
work of our Vehmgericht!"
And
Liebenfels said no more, only gave an enigmatic smile. Quite coincidentally, it
was Eckhart who was to recommend the sad Otto Weininger to Adolf Hitler only a
while before he perished in the Bavarian putsch of 1922. "Eckhart told
me," said Winnetou, "that in all his life he had known just one good
Jew... Otto Weininger, who killed himself on the day when he realized that the
Jew lives upon the decay of the peoples."
This
odd fact comes to mind, now, in that I thought such date to lie at the midpoint
between tonight and this last year of our last century. But my wife corrects
me... it was 1923 when Eckhart died, a slight but pardonable slip of an old
fellow's memory. How many more such slips are there in this narrative... I
cannot be certain. Many, probably! Certainly one consequence of the Vehm and
the Golden Dawn, perhaps, has been that hiatus of reason inspiring so many of
Willie's last poems... Eckhart's black stone, for example, apparantly passed to
a German engineer, one of those developers of Armageddon rockets Winnetou
delayed using before the Normandy landing for fear of offending those of the
Ascended Masters who dwell on the astral plane. That fellow fled to Rome under
Victor Emmanuel... the Italians being our allies once more, they immediately
set him to work exploiting the powers of Eckhart's stone to design a sort of
rail car by which monkeys are made to travel between the Moon and Saint Peter's
Square so that, within a decade, the process shall be made safe enough for
humans. Then, all with the price of a ticket may have the means to knock upon
the doors of Steiner's moon-masters.
What
further thunderbolt can the aggrieved Ipsissimi hurl down that has not already
been utilized in this sad century?
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