And for you, a question: Is it better to reign in hell, or serve in heaven?
Yes, the silence reigned, and if silence can be magnified, then the silence was indeed magnified. A preternatural hush swamped the night, closing in... bearing in... drawing in... Thick swirling mist reached out with ethereal fingers, ghostly tendrils caressed the still, dark waters and the cobbled quay. A strange world devoid of sound and devoid of vision. A nightmare in slow motion.
Seemingly from nowhere the albino burst from the fog's thickest womb-like depths. Erupting from the silence, naked, he stumbled desperately onwards. Eyes blind with swollen tears, liquid stains of betrayal and abuse, to match the blood which seeped down his damaged legs. Time after time, his exhausted feet slipped on the stones' clammy dampness and sent him spilling helplessly into the mist. Somewhere not far away he heard the water beckoning to him "Come to me. Take my watery embrace. Drown in my depths. Death is easy in my arms..."
And wouldn't the void of that eternal sleep be most welcome" Nothing. Oblivion. No tears. No abuse. No more pain...
His leg muscles throbbed with exhaustion, pumping uselessly slow through the treacle thick mists. Desperately he tried to propel his wasted body to the limits of endurance and beyond. Sharp stone shredded skin on knees and palms, as once again, gravity pulled him closer. What would it be like to drown? Would it be slow? Would it be quick? Would his lungs burst? (For they surely felt they would already.) Would death come easy with watery kisses, or would annihilation be long and hard in the arms of death himself? Where the albino ran, death walked purposefully behind. With an almost cruel ease, his long strides gained ominously on his quarry.
The last time the albino fell crashing to the ground, would be his last, for this time his head connected with a wall of sorts. A dull squelching sound preceded a spray of blood, which peppered his beautiful pale face and long white hair with red spots of liquid life.
"I do not need to see you" boomed death through the fog. "I do not need to hear you... for I smell you now. Your essence is spilt and I smell your blood."
With one more powerful and deliberate step, death towered over his helpless victim. From the folds of a long gold trimmed red velvet cloak, gloved hands reached forward and plucked the naked waif to his trembling feet. Death's strong hands clutched the others shoulders as he leaned his grey moustached face in close. Stale warm breath caressed the albino's neck with an obscene intimacy. "Oh God" he thought "Why could death not come easy, why this..." And as the thought and the knowledge of what was to come filtered into his failing brain, the albino begun to scream...
Underneath the grey moustache thin red lips parted and twin points of death sunk deep into his delicately pale and beautiful neck... the albino screamed. And screamed. And screamed. He screamed until his throat bled.
The smoke wafted all around, seemingly thicker and thicker with each gust... and the screaming, God, the screaming wouldn't stop.
Pale peripheral illuminations flickered and died, leaving a solitary figure silhouetted against a single bright light at the mists throbbing centre. Arms raised in mock supplication, the man moves forward. Nearer. So very much closer... and his coven scream.
They call him The Crowman. They, the initiated, the disciples, the adepts and the multitudes. The Crowman, a raggedy, arcane preacher man. A dark storm of a man. His boots heavy, his legs bound in leather and rags, his shirt and coat in dirty tatters, his hair, waist length and unkept. Eyes glowing, his truth scowling from underneath the crumpled brim. Ah, yes The Crowman's hat, with feathers saluting the skies. Crowman take your pulpit and preach, thou art glorious preacher man.
They scream , they call and he takes to his lectern, with arms out stretched...
"Angel come to me, submit to pain..."
Is he divinely insane or truly mad? They chant The Crowman's odious words, invoked by his guttural tones. The heat rises and the smoke swirls, they move as one, throbbing to his message, pulsating with his aura. Ah, this is not religion. God is not religion. God is not his religion. In a spinning frenzy, he swirls around in delirious circles. He affects them, they rise to him and in turn affect him. The Crowman enraptured in zealous passion. Clawed metal fingers reach out through the mists, beckoning them in. Drawing them down.
Somewhere in the depths of obscurity, a light flickers into oblivion and only the silence remains where The Crowman once stood. And I ask you once again: Is it better to reign hell or serve in heaven?
"Got a light?" he growled at no one in particular. More a threat than a request, but what else could you expect from Alexander Crowe.
David's thumb snapped the Zippo into life and a small flame leapt into the air in front of Crowe's unshaven face. Crowe inhaled deeply from the cigarette.
"Ah" he sighed, quietly to himself "Nicotine, what a loyal friend you are!"
"Another nail in your coffin" said Laura, as she rejoined the group.
"So?"
"Lung cancer" Laura answered with genuine concern in her voice. She placed fresh drinks in front of herself and Daniel Prophet. She licked the trickle of Guinness from her fingers.
"You really think I care about lung cancer?"
"Leave it... " muttered Prophet
David Beck pushed his glasses back onto his nose... Now, isn't that a strange phenomenon: Rock stars and optical enhancement. On stage not a pair of spectacles in sight, a couple of hard nights into a tour and hey presto! Lo and behold, the ol' eyeballs can't handle contact lenses. Strange but true. Catch 'em before tea time and you'll be surprised to discover just who does employ the services of his local optician!
"Well then Laura," said Beck senior "What exciting fan mail have you brought to titillate us with?"
"Oh, it's the usual assortment. The nutter from Plymouth says you can all stay at his place 'cos his mum's on holiday... Loads of 'good luck' and 'see you on tour' stuff... oh yeah, Alex. That strange woman who writes essays on your lyrics, and says her tarot cards say you're gonna marry her, wants you to heal her sick kid!"
The girl with the shocking pink hair handed out the tattered envelopes, full of misplaced hopes and admiration, as she spoke. Crowe nonchalantly blew smoke in her face, when offered his abundant share of the post.
"I don't want the bloody crap. You keep it. I'm the singer, not the fan club girl!"
Danny shot Crowe a grim look, daring him to be rude to his girlfriend just one more time and see what happened. Crowe could have another black eye to go with the one Steve gave him, if he wanted, thought Prophet.
"Is the kid really ill?" asked David, trying to defuse the growing atmosphere.
"Dunno, but I"ve already wrote back and told her to take it to a doctor."
The fifth person seated at the glass strewn table, coughed politely and restarted the tape recorder. The Melody Maker, for some unknown reason had always championed the goth bands, and during the course of recent years, had published many features on Pale Rider. The Crowman had graced it's hallowed cover more than once. The plan was he would again, the week after next, but first there had to be a story. An awkward silence hung in the air. Crowe drew deeply on his cigarette, savouring the tobacco, content in the knowledge that lung cancer was no threat to someone already preparing to push up daises, courtesy of leukemia. A gust of wind blew a sheet of rain hard against the window pane. Laura saw the glass actually shake behind Crowe"s back. She wished she'd not joined up with the tour so early. Danny looked blankly at David, silently praying he would take control of Alex and save them all from yet another humiliating story on Crowe's hostile attitude appearing in the music press. David repositioned his roaming spectacles again.
"Come on then, mate. Ask us another..."
"A question for Alex."
Crowe glowered at the reporter, his eyes burning with an odd intensity from beneath The Crowman's malevolent brim. Arms and elbows on the table, hands palm down, fingers resting immobile, for a moment all was still. Slowly Crowe's left hand reached up to his face and with practised ease removed the glowing Marlboro from his mouth. The remnant embers smouldered between the metal claw.
"Go on."
"If you don"t mind me asking - "
" - Yes."
"Um, how did you lose your hand?"
David, Danny and Laura winced in unison. Audibly sucking in air, at hearing the unmentionable mentioned.
"I haven't lost it" replied Crowe remarkably cool.
"Oh... um, sorry. Were you born like that?"
"You got a quid for the jukebox?" asked Prophet of his girlfriend, by way of excusing himself from the table. To Alex's right, David looked down shaking his head forlornly.
"You are mistaken" stated The Crowman, for the first time that afternoon, sounding almost conversational. "I really haven't lost my hand. I know exactly where it is"
In the background, the jukebox kicked into action and Fagin's was filled with the haunting sound of Siouxsie's "Swimming Horses". A cold voice. A bleak song. A perfect back drop to the tableau about to play out. A moment the journalist would live to regret.
"Excuse me" smiled Crowe suspiciously.
"Alex! No!" called David, half rising from his chair.
The bar door swung shut and Crowe vanished. In the twenty minutes Crowe was absent, the pub begun to fill up with Cloggies and various other prospective Rock City clientele. A few had ventured near enough to Beck and Prophet, so that they could eavesdrop their heros words of wisdom.
Alex burst through the door, sending the wood slamming loudly against the wall. It was one of those quiet moments between jukebox tracks and the sudden noise, gripped everyone's attention. "It's Crowe'. "It's The Crowman". "Look! it's Crowe!", They all whispered, except David and he just mumbled "Please,no..."
Clad in customary leather 'n' rags, Crowe stalked over to the unsuspecting journalist.
"You!" he bellowed, unleashing thunder from his throat, and prodding the man hard in the shoulder with his cane. "I have something to show you"
Conversation petered away to nothing. Like a scene from a film, when the innocent hero walks into the village pub, Fagin's fell eerily silent. Crowe was about to preach. The congregation listened in rapt anticipation. Crowe placed the package on the table. He smiled.
Prophet was the first to move, grabbing Laura by the elbow, he pulled her to her feet and attempted to steer her away. The journalist leaned forward, slowy tugging the plastic bag from the glass jar it obscured.
"Oh God. This is a joke... Right"" he managed to lamely stutter.
The harder he looked at the contents of the glass receptacle, the paler he grew. Several Cloggies moved closer, not quite believing their eyes. Oh God, surely not... Laura twisted in Danny's grip and instantly regretted looking back. She couldn't help it, but a gasp of alarm escaped her mouth, and confirmed to those who couldn't quite see, just what the bizarre trophy actually consisted of.
"You shouldn't have looked" reprimanded Prophet.
"You see," grinned Crowe "I haven't lost my hand at all! That bit there" he continued, as he tapped the jar "at the bottom, is my right knee cap. Now if you'd asked me, how I'd lost my left knee cap, I would've had to concede and confide in you that I had indeed lost it! Well, at least I've got the right, and of course, my hand! Isn't formaldehyde wonderful?"
The journalist stared in utter disbelief at the object in front of him. He stared at the long curved nails. The delicate fingers of adolescent bone structure. The ragged stump of torn wrist. Strangely, what really turned his stomach was the ring still sitting on the hand's little finger. As the silver ring caught the light and glistened through the liquid, it seemed to wink obscenely at him. The reporter experienced a deep churning sensation in the pit of his stomach and shortly after, vomited it's contents messily into his own lap.
"Fucking journalists" stated Crowe "No sense of humour."
And with that he scooped the jar back into the innocuous looking Sainsbury's carrier bag, and was gone.
"Is that significant?" inquired Ute, in perfect English.
"Well" he sighed mischievously "There are seventy eight cards in a tarot deck, one hundred and fifty six meanings depending on which way they lay. These cards - " he purred in a sensuous Irish accent, as he pointed at the circle " - represent the coming individual months. The one in the middle, is the sum of your year... um, mostly swords and major arcana..."
"So?"
"Mors tua, vita mea"
Ute"s face was a blank canvas of noncomprehension. "Pardon?" her wide eyes and slightly parted mouth seemed to say, "What is the meaning of these words, you croon to me with such velvet tones".
Death smiled, all crooked and lopsided, but somehow perfect and compelling. Death was beautiful in his tarnished glory. Ute's heart pounded at the sight of him, the initial disappointment of him not being who she had first thought, totally forgotten.
"I don't care what the future holds" she laughed, as she lazily scattered the tarot cards from the duvet. The painted rectangles fluttered to the carpet and pitched themselves gently amongst her discarded underwear. She reached out and coquettishly wound her fingers in his long black curls.
"Schöne Doppelganger" she giggled, as she slipped her right hand behind his head and pulled his face into hers, all the time her left hand fumbling between his thighs.
The memory of their brief hours together flashed through her mind and left an exquisite tingling deep with in her.
Ute had approached him some time after the gig had ended, outside in the car park at the top of Talbot street. He had been wandering around, weaving his way through the parked assemblage of luxury mini buses and even more deluxe coaches, when she saw him. Her hero. Her hearts desire. Her main reason for following the Riders/Milewski tour ( though not confided in Karl). She called out to him, hailing him with a name that was not his, but never the less, stopped him in his tracks. He paused, calculating the situation, weighing the possibilities, and then having assessed the potential outcomes, glided towards the henna haired girl with the grace of a born predator. Stupidly, Ute had begun to gush praise on him for the night's performance. The high spirited exhilaration of coming face to face with one's own personal God, wiping sense from her vocabulary.
"Ssh" he mouthed, happy to let her labour under her illusion of mistaken identity just a little while longer, and placed the forefinger of his skeletal white hand to her lips. "Ssh".
Ute fell mute. Death shook soft black curls from his face and smiling, he leaned forward and kissed her.
"Come with me" he seemed to silently say. And she did. Ute went joyously with her unspeaking hero.
At the hotel, he had kissed her again before standing back and announcing "I'm not who you think I am". His voice was velvet bliss, an audiable interpretation of rapture.
"Oh" she'd mumbled, seconds prior to the biggest mistake of her life. Ute looked into the eyes of Death. No, he wasn't who she'd first thought, the eyes were different. But... God! Oh God!
"Suum cuique pulchrum" whispered Death, as she drowned in the fathomless inky depths of twin black pools. From that moment on she was lost. Her will, her body, her soul, was his. Lost to everything, forever and ever. Amen.
He was sexually aggressive, his touch hard and his caress rough. Death manipulated her, with cruel ease. She yielded to his every whim, hungry for anything he dealt her. He pawed her breasts, squeezing them painfully, but Ute just gasped for more. He took her from behind and the girl simply swallowed all dignity, and bizarrely experienced her first true orgasm.
For a brief period that followed, he had talked to her, never quite answering her questions straight. When Ute"s chatter begun to grate on his thin facade of pleasant humanity, he distracted her with the tarot deck. Seventy eight in all, he had told her, though technically that was a lie, as the Emperor card at least, was now missing and lodged in the throat of her boyfriends severed head.
"Murs tua, vita mea" crooned Death. You must die, so that I shall live.
Ute frantically kissed him, her tongue wrestling with his. Reason having slipped carelessly from her heedless mind. If some sensation seeking voyeur had been surreptitiously watching the kneeling couple, naked and embracing the alarm bells would not have been immediately perceptible. Death appeared to be smothering the girl with the most passionate of kisses. His mouth worked furiously over hers.
Ute's eyes jerked open, suddenly wide with fear. Panic etched all too late across her face. Her hands released Death's narrow back and tried to push him away. Surprisingly, his hands relinquished their hold on her, but their faces remained locked together with obscene intimacy.
The henna haired girl tried to shout out, but the attempt was futile and ended in nothing more than a vile liquid gagging sound. Her hands flailed uselessly against his chest. Palms slapped against unsubmissive flesh. She could not push him away, any more than she could free herself from the vice like grip his inconceivably sharp teeth had on her tongue.
Ute's eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets, thrust out by fear. Her bladder let go and a thin trickle of urine seeped down her legs. And yes! All at once she was free from him. She would've screamed for help, but already she was choking to death, on her own thick glutinous blood.
Had our hypothetical voyeur been present, he or she would've witnessed Death spit the estranged tongue to the floor. The abhorrently long strip of flaccid muscle, finding it's bloody resting place against the out-turned gusset of a pair of expensive silk knickers.
Death dispatched the henna haired girl with clinical efficiency. Her exit on this world was drenched with pain, but unintentionally, as Death was bored with her, mercifully quick.
In contradiction, he showered leisurely, sluicing the blood away, with cascades of steaming hot water. He rubbed the sickly smelling hotel soap into his flawless white skin, and for a moment, he imagined it was the hands of his double caressing his perfect flesh. After his erection had faded, but before he spirited anonymously away, he took the time to pause beside Ute's body and ram the Judgment (Aeon) card into what was left of her ruined vagina.
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