The Street Had No Name

CHAPTER ONE

PHILADELPHIA, Now

Peter Vicarel was alone. He was no more alone than the rest of humanity, given the complete disintegration of the society that had existed just day's prior, but he felt completely alone. It was an aloneness that was born on the seeing of things that weren't supposed to be seen. All of it had been prophesized by his housekeeper. She had warned him to take great care when the change came, implored him to help the Rabbi. Above all she had shrilled about nameless streets; like the street he was now facing.

All services where gone and the city was lit by pockets of red and yellow flame as fires burnt unattended across the lurid landscape. Right here, on the corner of some forgotten part of the run-down industrial precinct, he could have been the last man alive.

Except for the monsters he was chasing, he had seen no one else. They had ripped the box from his arms as the Rabbi lay dead at his feet with his head almost severed and his chest ripped open. It was her plea that had him now chasing these things, chasing them into the nameless streets that she had begged him to fear.

He stood at the corner. He could turn and run. Who would blame him, who was left to blame him? As if to add to the point, a distant scream filled the night like a dark fog and caused his flesh to creep like the devil had touched his heart. It was time to make a decision.

Nameless streets had been a major part of Vicarel's life. Since the early days, at least the days he could remember, he had been shoved from pillar to post. From one caring yet remote family to another. Streets and places, all identifiable he supposed, but nameless just the same.

Even the years spent in Jesuit study had a namelessness about them, to such a point that he often wondered whether he was really Vicarel at all. He thought the warning could have fitted into the "chicken soup, can't hurt" category. Given Mrs. Fischl's Jewishness, such dire warnings tended to leave her lips with almost every event she felt she needed to comment on.

"Peter" she would say, "if you don't look after your shoes, you'll catch cold and die". So absolute were her warnings, so black and white, that the current one could have been taken with the same grains of salt that Vicarel had been using with his land-lady since his arrival at the school those months before.

Now, dressed in the subdued black cassock of the order, he stood on the corner with things calling and stalking in the near and far distance. He considered that perhaps, just perhaps, this was a little closer to the mark. Rabbi Tillermann had thrust the box into his arms. His eyes had burnt with a light that he now knew was a fear so deeply seated it was self-sustaining.

The riots were as bad as any experienced since before the Crash. Minorities the target of the senseless violence that could not be quelled. The synagogue was burning, as was half the town, and, considering the significance of most of the artifacts that the rabbi had shown Peter that Sabbath he had visited the old man's chambers, the worth of this particular box was apparent without it ever having been said. It was worth dying for.

The old man had pushed the thing into his arms. "Peter, with your life guard this! Take it to your God! Now! Hide it safe, protect its sanctity" and he died. Just like that, at Peter's feet. Mrs. Frichl was crying hysterically, her warnings solid in his ears.

The box had been ripped from him as he stared at the scene, disbelief his weakness for those few seconds and total refusal to acknowledge the creatures that had followed the old man through the door and into the hall, evil grinning demigods of some Flemish Master's worst nightmare. Pushing and pulling at everything and none the least Peter and the box; murdering the old man as if on a whim.

Mrs. Frichl screamed to him "Peter, you must rescue the scroll, it is all there is stopping the fabric from ripping completely. Go! Now!"

He had done just that, followed the gaggle of things, imps, demons... whatever they may be. He had run with a speed he was sure he would never find again, into the night made red from the fires burning in the distance, the night sounds those of far away screams and noises that he knew he should fear. He had to save a box, which he now knew contained a scroll, from things that he still could not believe he had seen.

With the blacktop disappearing into the darkness, like the debit column on some ethereal balance sheet, he stood at the corner, hesitant to take a step away from the sanctuary of the then and there. Christ in heaven, he found that he just wasn't sure whether the God he had committed himself to was really there. He hesitated for a moment... then walked forward.

* * * * * *

FRANCE, 1942

The candles burnt low casting slow dancing shadows across the once highly polished floor and up the walls like lost member of a Himylain expedition. The former beauty of the place now wrecked beyond recognition. The destruction was violent. This may seem a strange word to use for destruction, but people that hated it completely had raped the place.

Once ringing with the voices of the congregation it was now dead except for the old man, the last of the faith in the town. He knew that soon he would hear the shouts and the rough knocking that came with it all, he would disappear in the night of "fog and rain", disappear like he had never existed, like the Jews of St. Michael had all disappeared.

The small village in the foothills of the Cevennes seemed dumb struck by the events of the past few weeks. Occupation had been uneventful on the most part. Admittedly the Germans where victors and had behaved as such but, to date, their demeanor had been civil. After the posting of the proclamations, particularly the list gleaned from the town hall showing, in groups of 10, the names of the men of the village that would be shot for each German soldier killed by any partisan activity, the long months of occupation had gone quietly. The garrison had fitted in well and the war was far away.

The fifteen families that had made up the Jewish community of this small village were integrated completely with most being able to take their line back four or five generations. Except for their faith, there was nothing less French about them than any other. The old Rabbi had been there for 40 years and had never seen or experienced anything that resembled anti-Semitic sentimentality. Not even from the Germans that first came and took control.

That had all changed when the SS arrived. Their approach was at night; the families routed and gone before the dawn kissed the snow-topped peaks of the Alps to start the new day. It was the Sabbath, the day the Jews left St. Michael.

Solomon Bidderman was alone. He had been away, given permission to visit the rabbinical college in Bordeaux. Word of the "relocation" had filtered through and he had managed to effect his escape on the very night the large nondescript lorries had come. He had hid in the Abbey with his very old and dear friend Father Pierre Mont Classon, staying there for a month, hidden in the house of God; albeit a very different dialect.

The fears of what was happening were firming in all people. In a matter of a week, all over France, the Jews disappeared. Life went on, it was just life without them.

Solomon was so scared he was beside himself. Not scared for his wellbeing, but for the failure to perform his mission, a mission that had been passed from one member to another of the most secret of sects within his faith for over two thousand years.

Now, in a matter of weeks, it could all be destroyed. Destroyed by an evil Solomon was convinced his very existence made sure was not so much more so.

The Red Ribbon had existed since the birth of modern Christianity. It was charged with one task and one task alone, to protect the sanctity of the scroll.

Now, in the hour of the destruction of the Jewish race, the Keeper found himself alone, so alone there was no word he could find to describe it; silent in a cell in an abbey dedicated to the antipathy of his faith. The irony was not lost on him as he sat and rocked and made the best of a very bad lot.

His prayers whispered were they should have been sung. He knew that he would have to share the secret with someone to protect its very being. What to do, how to do it and most importantly, who to do it with?

Now, in the middle of the night, standing before the remains of the alter, the polished wood scattered like discarded match-sticks from an upturned ashtray, he was about to let the secret leave his hands.

Bidderman made his way through, back to the offices at the west of the Synagogue. The Monk walked behind him almost disappearing in the shadows, his habit as black as the night, pulled over his face till it disappeared.

The man had arrive a week after he had shared the gist of the secret with Mont Classon. Their meeting had gone into the night and concluded with the dawn of the new day. The importance of the thing and its ecumenicity was not lost on the Abbot.

This Monk, the strange young man with little or no words, had arrived as an answer to Bidderman's entreaty. Mont Classon said little except that that monk was an enigma, he did not exist anywhere and that it was his responsibility in the faith to do the work that people that do exist can not.

Bidderman understood the meaning of the riddle without any further discussion, after all, he was completely aware of what secrets meant and, more importantly, how important they were to be kept.

The relief the old man had felt when he saw that the building was still standing washed over him like ants crawling over honey coated skin, he actually felt his knees give a little when he first saw the ghostly outline in the almost moonless night.

The destruction, the yellow stars daubed everywhere with the fingers of paint running down like hanging ropes, the graffiti of the most vial sentiment all personifying the touch of evil that had passed, lingered for that fleeting moment and moved on, erasing all trace of what was before.

His heart was solid in his chest. It just was not beating anymore. He knew that he would die, he had to, there was nothing left for him. But his last task was to make sure that the scroll was safe. To make sure that this evil was not allowed any further release. That the machinations that where currently in place not allowed any further strength.

The constructs of the "Activity" had to be performed to mend the rip. The fabric was rent and it was pouring through.

This task had always been the dedication of his order, his people and his sect. Now, for the first time since the start, its secrets were to be shared, and, perhaps, its power controlled by someone other than he or his.

The fear of this was less than the fear he felt for the evil that was destined to tear the world asunder. The evil that would destroy all that good had created like ants under the Jackboots of the Reich. He felt his soul turn as the last thought crossed his mind.

The Monk was now beside him, his hand on his arm to steady the old man. Bidderman felt a complete strength in his touch. A strength that he knew instinctively was good. It was strong, ruthless, dedicated, but at is core, good.

For the first time, the old Rabbi, leader of a community that no longer existed in a small village that had little or no strategic worth in the strange world in this strange time, felt that it might be all right.

He steadied and moved forward. The inner sanctum that was his office was the worst hit by the vial activities. Everywhere, books ripped and burnt, his desk charred with a mound of ash that must have once been the Torah. Shit everywhere and piss stinking in the sad smell that always accompanies fire, more paint, the paintings of the past Rabbis cut and ripped, shit on.

He felt the hand again, supporting and he tapped it gently, feeling it stay under his grip warm to his touch, understanding.

He found the place, the carpet was still in place although sodden and stinking. He ripped it up, now just wanting to get it and he out of this ungodly place, its sanctity lost forever.

The floor was stone, with a masonry that was magnificent in its simplicity. The blocks fitted with edges butting flush with no gap. Three stones in and one back from the north east corner he pressed the left corner of the block, then the opposite. The block seemed to move up; in fact it rocked on a hidden pin set in the sides of the surrounding stone. This block was really a thin lid with beveled edges fitting so tightly it could have been hit with a sledgehammer and not moved, yet the slightest pressure in the right sequence moved it with no effort.

He slide the lid away and there, in a small crypt covered with red velvet cloth was the box. He reached in and removed it, only the third time it had been done during his long life. Placing it on the floor he replaced the hiding place's lid then gently folded the cloth back. The box was lead, engraved with words and symbols that had no modern meaning, the dialect deliberately destroy almost two thousand years ago, ripped out of the tongue of his race to protect its existence.

He felt the top, it was intact, the wax solid and pliable, guaranteeing an airtight seal. He wrapped the material over it again and stood. The Monk had watched all this with no movement of noise.

The Rabbi stood and moved toward the doorway and the tall man standing there. His foot slipped in the excrement of the rapists and evil artists of the desecration and he fell forward, the box projected from his hands and towards the Monk. As quick as a flash the Monk was moving to catch the relic but its weight was such that the trajectory dropped it short and it fell on its corner, bursting out of the velvet and bouncing, the lid dislodged and the seal broken.

Bidderman screamed.

In the darkness of the room a light so wonderful, so absolute, flooded from the rent between the box proper and the lid, it swam around the room and filled ever corner, flowing like a stream from the box. The Monk stood awestruck as Bidderman scrambled on his knees to it and pushed it shut as best he could, the corner bent and broken.

The light stopped leaking, that already released swam and flowed around them, streaming out into the Synagogue, growing with each millisecond, a tempest of brilliance so marvelous it pushed the darkness away like a tidal wave does a beach.

"Oh my God in Heaven." the Rabbi said. Wrapping the box in the velvet cloth to complete the encapsulation of the thing. "We must go! Now! Quickly, they will know it's here. Lord help us."

The Rabbi was now the one with the helping hand. He pushed the young Monk out the doorway and found feet he thought he would never find again. They ran into the night and turned to watch.

Every window of the building was like a search light, light flooding into the night sky bouncing off the clouds and growing with each second. Running across the sky in all directions and moving away from the source. The synagogue seemed to be throbbing with power as this Roman candle of ethereal brilliance just went on and on.

The Rabbi pushed the Monk again. "Come on my young friend. We must go now. It may be too late."

They moved off into the night. To the old Citroen Traction parked a kilometer down the road, then away from the village, towards whatever the future held. The Rabbi and the Monk together, the scroll sitting dormant in the old man's lap, its power released for the first time without the containment ceremony. Just the smallest tip of the iceberg it was to the powers of evil that would destroy it so completely if they just could.

He turned to the other man, his face still hidden by the cloak, which he thought for a moment must be doing absolutely no good for his peripheral vision and said, "I don't know what we have just done. I think we will now have to protect this with more than our lives."

CHAPTER TWO

PHILADELPHIA/SOMEWHERE, Now

Vicarel felt the dark swim around him. The noises that had been the counterpoint to his breathing seemed to be swallowed by a blanket of sounds. Like conversations heard through tired ears; like lovers in rooms late at night; like radio stations tuned on country roads when there is just not enough signal. Sounds of laughter counterpoint with screams, a harmonious concophony that drew his breath and amplified his fear. He started to move forward. The world was dark.

He could make out shapes, things, nothing identifiable. Like an out of phase television transmission his world flickered between the here and the there then just there and then more so there than here and back to here again, like the shimmer of tarmac on a hot day, except it was dark, black... gone.

He felt movement around and saw shapes running and jumping like silent hyperactive chimpanzees. He was so scared by all this that he just reset. Fear has a means of doing this to people. It manifests in three stages. First the metabolic, where the system presents the fear in its systematic way; cold sweats, racing heart, faint feelings. Second the shutdown, where Vicarel was, when the denial mechanism kicks in and the sensors just refuse to process the information that caused the first stage.

At this time the endorphins kick in and an euphoric state makes things seem better. A lot of folk stay right here, pull up a chair and settle in for the duration, feet up and resting in that cotton wool world that is shock.

Finally, for those that reckon that sitting in a little room relaxing while strange and grotesque creatures feast on your bones is not the best course of action, there is acceptance. Vicarel jumped the second stage, perhaps by good fortune more than design, as he tripped over something. Just as shock welcomed him, he toppled and was jarred back to reality.

He fell to his hands and knees and felt wetness, sticky and warm, smelling like rusty water. A flash of dull red light burst into his night vision like an old strobe light at some macabre 60's disco. The trunk of the body was parallel to his, the neck hacked and torn, like it had had its head bitten off; the larynx and flaps of skin floating on the pool of blood he had fallen into. He screamed so completely that all other sound seemed to stop.

Scrambling to his feet he slipped and slid as the blood provided a very effective lubricant. He couldn't walk so he crawled, half slipped, away from the mess. It was pitch black again and the ground was dry except now it felt loose like gravel not the Macadam previously.

* * * * * *

BERLIN 1942

The corridor was as tall as it was long. The architecture grand and of a scale that was Speer. Everything about the Reich was such, everything new that was. The polished stone floor and walls gave off a chill that only made the amplified footsteps of the three men all that more foreboding.

They walked with an urgency that was not disguised, past the doors that ran from floor to ceiling some twenty feet above, past solitary SS Verf�gungstruppen guards in their black uniforms and death head insignia.

Past the offices of the ministers of the various departments that were the ruling elite, towards the end, towards the inner sanctum of their world. Called immediately, they responded as such and now, as the hour approached 01:00 they were soon to be with their leader. The F�hrer himself made the calls to the men and they all know that, for this to happen, important things were afoot.

They were three, all doctors of various disciplines in obscure social sciences; at least that would be how they would appear in any documentation that would ever be referred to. "Advisors to the leadership of the modern world's warrior princes". Goebbel's words always seemed to make such magnificent images from such poor foundations.

They arrived at the door, a guard stood alone in the most immaculate black uniform of Hitler's most trusted and innermost sentinels. Standing over six-foot, blond haired and blue eyed, this modern day Adonis typified all that was "grand" in the grand plan.

The guard did not say a word. He stood in the doorway with his machine gun at Port Arms and studied each man's papers in turn and then, when completely happy they were as was to be expected, knocked twice on the door and waited for it to be opened.

Von Triffel opened the door of the outer office. A tall thin man, middle aged and severe in all aspects of his presentation. In an immaculately tailored dark blue double breasted suit, hair slicked back and held in place with brilliant hair oil, he looked like a Shakespearean actor rather than the leader of the F�hrer's Force Five group.

And leader he was there was no doubt, the only hint of his affiliations with the machinations of this regime was the small party badge on the lapel of his jacket.

He did not say a word, stood to one side and allowed the other three men to enter. They looked bedraggled in comparison to their leader and he adjusted Schroeder's tie and ordered Grossman to straighten his belt before making his way to the inner office doors with the trio in tow.

The four men entered the large room, dark, and lit only by a single green shaded reading lamp on the desk at the far end. The windows behind the desk ran across the wall that was the back of the room and Berlin shone and twinkled in the cold night air. Hitler was sitting at the desk. Dressed in his uniform and looking as tired as any man had ever seen him.

They walked towards the desk and he looked up, nodded at them all, and Von Triffel indicated that they should all take a straight-backed chair at the large boardroom table to one side.

This room was not the F�hrer's normal day office, it was Von Triffel's and it was the place that Force Five met to discuss things that needed discussing. It was not where Force Five undertook what they did to facilitate what was discussed that needed facilitating, that was done away from the veneer of civility that was the Reichschancellery. Here, they met like any committee would have met in the modern world of the Thousand-Year Reich.

Von Triffel motioned them to sit and moved to Hitler's side. He whispered to the man and he stood, each man noting his demeanor, shoulders slumped and gate like that of an old man. Von Triffel along side, guiding him to his place at the table.

In front of the five places, now each occupied by the late night meeting, were burgundy red folders, each with a gold embossed Swastika in the right bottom corner and tied with a cord matching the leather of the covers.

Von Triffel was sitting to Hitler's left, where he always sat, Hitler at the head, Schroeder next to Von Triffel and across both Grossman and Schmidt.

"Gentleman..." he began, sounding all the world like the Shakespearean actor he looked like, turned to the F�hrer and continued "...it has happened, someone has "shown" the scroll."

The only sound was the combined synchronized exhaling of the other four men, the F�hrer for the third time that evening. Von Triffel made a gesture for each to open their folders, which they did, and before them was a single sheet of paper with the insignia of the Reich and that of their group.

Five paragraphs were written on the sheet, typed without a single mistake or correction in an italic face. Five paragraphs that for all intents and purposes changed the fortunes of the Third Reich, five paragraphs that told each of these men that their activities were now shot to pieces.

The men all sat silent, introspective. Von Triffel spoke "Gentlemen, in some ways this offers us a perfect opportunity to rid ourselves of this scourge once and for all. If we could find the scroll and control it, nothing..." his voice raised, Hitler beside, lifted his head "...nothing could stand in our way."

He stood, staring at each man in turn, his eyes the colour of coal, shining in the reflections of the half-light.

"We all knew the scroll was there, we knew this could happen. So now, we must act, for the glory of the Reich and our F�hrer."

The men all sat up; Von Triffel was a wonderful leader, his powers understood by all in this room.

"We must find The Keeper and destroy it. We must use our powers and decimate the obstacle. Not only for us but for our F�hrer."

This was the first time in the history of the group that a direct mention of their beliefs, however remote, had been made in this room. Always, prior, euphemisms had been used to work around the real agenda's, softly toned words to hide the true course of Force Five.

Now, late at night in the centre of the evil that was Nazi Germany, the purpose was cited. It was obvious that a new phase was to begin. Von Triffel was the leader; even the F�hrer would never argue or disagree with that. He led and they followed, Adolf Hitler dragging the millions of Germans behind him but for all intents and purposes they all followed Von Triffel.

To this day, his existence is hidden, all mention of him and the group he led struck from record and reference like... magic.

But this evening, in this room, it was all very much there. Von Triffel turned to Hitler.

"My F�hrer, I suggest we move immediately. We must put paid to this. I have assembled the group and will depart immediately. By the morning we will know where the scroll is and by this time tomorrow it will be destroyed."

Hitler had a light in his eyes that matched Von Triffel's. The F�hrer was a believer; he had long ago given himself to it all. In fact, everything he had today he owed to the group; he owed to the Master. Every decision and victory was drawn on the power and he now felt its surge within him. He always felt it when the hour of triumph was near. His spirits soared and he stood. Erect; hand behind him, caressing the small of his back the way he was prone to do. He smiled and turned back to the table.

In his best voice, the voice that had launched a thousand tanks, a thousand planes, millions of men, he said, "Go now, all of you. It rests on your shoulders. Make us strong and guarantee our destiny."

With that he marched to the door at the end of the room, turned and saluted the men, arm straight and hovering in an air of majestic superiority. They all returned the salute with the expected salutation and he left the room, the door slamming behind him like the full stop at the end of the sentence at the end of the story.

Von Triffel turned to the group. His face was glowing in the darkened room. Not from reflected light. It was glowing; each of the men stared at the transformation, having witnessed it before, but never here, always at the place.

His voice took on a tinge, a rasp so deep and cruel it would curdle milk. "Quickly now... find this fucking Jew, find this paper and have it ripped and torn into a thousand pieces."

Then it stopped and Von Triffel was back.

They left the building and boarded the two Mercedes Benz Limousines at the front steps. In front was one of the new troop wagons with a platoon of SS Verf�gungstruppen guards all armed with the latest and most deadly close quarter weapons. The platoon leader, a captain, saluted Von Triffel and gestured to the wagon to move off. The Mercedes both followed out, the exhausts filling the night air with a foggy white shawl.

Bringing up the rear was an SS staff car and the captain jumped in while the vehicle was moving. The motorcade drove out onto the avenue and headed off at high speed into the night, down wide deserted Berlin streets. Off to the Von Triffel castle, off to do the work that needed to be done.

CHAPTER THREE

FRANCE 1942

The Monk drove on. Bidderman had learnt his name was Alfredo Benelli on the day that they had first met, but little more than that.

A storm had seemed to role out of the night, from skies that had seemed to be free of any suggestion of it hours before. Now, the Old French car drove on, clawing its way into the night, being surrounded by the weather, protected in its impenetrable blanket.

Much and all as the idea would have seemed preposterous, Bidderman had slept and was awoken hours later as the car pulled up to a checkpoint, about nine kilometers short of the Abbey. The false dawn was trying to fight its way into the storm and the rain was so severe, opening the driver window had the effect of drenching Bidderman.

The guard was angry and irritable at the intrusion at this early hour on such a foul night and was going to make everyone pay for it. That was until he saw the Monk and the Priest next to him.

Quickly checking the papers, finding them to be in order and noting that the earlier entry had noted that they would be returning before dawn, having been called to bed of a dying local man, the young soldier, not much older than sixteen, returned to the car and saluted.

Bidderman made the sign of the blessing and they drove forward as he put his weight on the pulley end of the boom gate.

The Monk turned to Bidderman and smiled. Something he had never done before, it seemed to lighten up his soul when he did. Bidderman shrugged, and in perfect Italian said "So Alfredo, what difference does it make, after all, we both agree it is the same God".

Together, in a small French car, in a world on the edge of ruin to the dark forces, they laughed; fitfully and with great verve. The old Rabbi and the young Monk, alone, in the presence of a power that they had no understanding of its scale, knowing that now, they were linked, forged, together.

* * * * * *

SOMEWHERE - Now

Fr Peter Vicarel walked alone the road. It was a different place. No longer the Philadelphia Street he had entered that little while ago. Now it was... different. Now it was somewhere else.

He walked slowly, the road was a track by any other definition, pitted and pocked like some lunar landscape, deep ruts suggested that some form of wheeled vehicle had driven it prior and by the depth of the tracks, it was either very big or very heavy.

He stood for a moment, absentmindedly wiping his blood stained hands on the sides of his coat and the legs of his trousers. In the manner of a man not prepared to accept that fact that they were blood stained, in fact, not prepared to accept much of this at all.

He felt the shock he had skirted earlier growing stronger in this weird juxtaposed place but decided consciously that he was going to stay in charge.

This was the 21st century after all. His order was one of teaching and he was a teacher of science, something that often tickled the wry side of his humour. His charges leaving his science class and trouping to morning mass to have the doctrines of the Christian antiquities pushed in alone side the work of Oppenheimer, Edison and Einstein, wondering which would seem the more awesome.

Mrs. Fischl's words still rang in his ears. He had to find the scroll, had to retrieve it from the... God in Heaven, what were they? He had seen them, looking like something from Dante's dreams of the 7th Circle.

He should have felt scared but he considered himself a practical man (practicality is a strange trait for a man of God he was sure) and it had stood him in good stead, so, on he walked, wherever this was.

What did he know of the scroll? Nothing, he hadn't even known it existed prior to this evening. Rabbi Tillermann had shown him the holy things at the Synagogue. The scroll was not one of them. Yet, this night, as the old man burst into the boarding house Peter called home... it was all he carried.

He looked like death, the society was crumbling and he seemed one of the crumbs. For days, the world had been running amok. It was the 10th day since the Crash... the day the economy of the world stopped... order just disappeared the morning the systems died.

All the predictions of all the events that would lead to the end of civilization, as it was known, had most often ridden alongside the horsemen. Plague, pestilence, famine, war and the wrath of God were the popular beliefs sounding a little like one of those ridiculous "Best Five Ways To..." things Letterman does. No one could have foreseen what would happen when a group of religious Zealots took it upon themselves to manufacture a number of small but effective nuclear devices and then, on the dawn of one day, explode them in all the major commercial capitals of the world.

New York, Tokyo, London, Sydney to name just four of the seventeen nuclear instances alone with a number of other less powerful but equally destructive. Their targets were the commercial and banking districts and communications facilities. So sophisticated was the attack that they did more than just explode devices, they made sure that they would destroy the systems that controlled the financial world.

Targeting computer systems and communications centers, in two hours, the world's accounting was gone. Since, 10 days seeming like a year; the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket. The events culminating in Peter watching the old Rabbi die at his feet while creatures of some old drunk's Delirium Tremors stole an old scroll that Tillermann had given his life to try to save.

Given the alternatives, and given his being a practical man, Fr. Peter Vicarel, Jesuit Teacher of the Philadelphia order walked on. At least he now felt he had a job to do again. As jobs went it was as good as any.

It was strange he thought how walking in the direction he was seemed the right thing to do. Stopping for a moment he turned his head and looked back along the track. Shapes of things were all he could make out. Looking up the sky was a deep crimson; the whole place had a deep red glow. To the sides of the track was a rough spinifex grass that grew in tussocks, the soil sandy and then gravely between.

It was about now that he noticed the noise... a rumble in the distance, coming towards him from beyond the horizon that was now glowing for the first time with the morning light of this strange place. The ground seemed to growl with the approach of what ever it was. Vicarel was not sure of much at the moment but he was sure that he should not be seen. He moved off the road and through the spinifex until he found a clump that was a little larger than the rest behind which he crouched and waited. The noise grew louder.

Sitting in the half light of the dawn, in a place beyond his world, waiting for something he knew he should hide from... he felt like a character in that novel he had read a while ago... the one by Clive Barker... about the different worlds, dimensions, goodness he could not think of the name "Imagination", no "Imajica" was that it? Looking down at his hands, he noted that they still showed traces of the blood he had swum in prior... this was no work of fiction. This was real.

* * * * * *

FRANCE 1942

They arrived at the Abbey as dawn pushed its way onto the world. The air was heavy with a mist that was the child of the storm of the previous evening and early morning as they had made their way back from St. Michael.

Bidderman had sat with the scroll firmly planted in his lap; his hands never letting it go for a second. Except for the one check point, little was said between the two men, the Monk driving the Citroen over the country roads, through the dark with an intensity that Bidderman had come to expect from his young companion.

The importance of the scroll was not lost on any of them. They were all men of God after all and ecumenical considerations tended to be put in second place when true issues of faith were called to order.

The day stood to be much the same as the others of the past week. A morning mist that had the ability to dampen everything it touched most commonly the spirit of anyone in it. Followed by rain in the afternoon and night, replaced by the morning mist again. There seemed to be a mocking portent in it all.

The shadows still had the darkness of the false dawn about them as Benelli parked the Avante in the corner of the stables. Next to relics of the horse-drawn age that this now dirty, but previously gleaming black vehicle's kind had unceremoniously pushed to one side in such a short time. Bidderman could still remember a time when the automobile was thought of as a fad, a rude joke life plays on various generations at times.

The morning air was heavy, dull, thick. Faint musings could be heard, echoing from the Chapel as the brethren plied the morning's laments in the way the Abbey had done so for many hundreds of years.

They walked across the cobble-stoned courtyard between the stables and the Abbey Keep. The dormitory was a part of the Abbey building with the Chapel forming the major entrance off the gateway to the north.

It was walled completely and would have offered the inhabitants protection from any attach or siege... that was once, now, as the light of the modern world illuminate the regime that was the Reich, such thoughts were foolish. This place could be crushed with little more than a blink of an eye.

They made their way to a dark space in the west wall. It went down two steps to a wooden door, held in place by roughcast hinges that would have been made in the Smithy at the back of the stables. It was obvious that this door had not been used in ages, the cobwebs on the hearth stood as testament to its lack of use of late.

The door opened into the kitchen and it was empty although the preparations for the morning were established, the hob fires burning and the smells filling the air heavy with the bread that would form the major part of the day's meals.

Bidderman now realized how hungry he was and as if reading his mind, the Monk found two bowls and heaped two ladles full of the oat mix into each. This they ate in silence, only time taken to add a little milk and sugar to the heavy porridge.

The Abbot's room was on the second floor of the dormitory block that also held the administration of the organization.

Mont Classon entered, his habit of the more utility robes used when the day held no more than introspection and toil as was the way of their order.

He stood before the two men, the tall Monk, off to one side and his old friend standing in the middle of the room. In his hands, wrapped in red velvet cloth was the artifact. One of myth and mystery in the Christian orders, one that was said to exist but its origins so lost in folk-lore, none could ever be sure.

Now, Mont Classon knew. He knew that his friend, Rabbi Solomon Bidderman was a Keeper. He knew that the old man's story, told just a week prior was not some Rabbinical postulance, not some Jewish fairy story, the events of those seven hours past had put paid to any such thoughts.

The Chapel had exploded into light and the mid-night vespers given a counter-point never felt before... a spirit, event, entreaty, call it what you would, had filled the place with a holiness as great as any Mont Classon had ever known.

Now, the dull grey of the leaden box, sneaking its nose out of the corner of the cloth seemed benign completely, although he now understood its power... its power to stop, halt, eradicate, the evil that faced the world.

The two men stood and looked at each other. Mont Classon, reached his hand out, towards his friend, towards the box he held. Bidderman moved the cloth to reveal the steel grey flanks of the container, the symbols and etchings visible in their relief, its corner bruised and broken, like some badly matched prize fighter's nose.

The Abbot touched the side of the box. His eyes closed lightly, Bidderman knowing this was a true supplication, Bidderman knew the power of the scroll was established. Unfortunately, the cause of this fervor was the accidental release of an once of its power, he knew that the reverence here was caused by the effects the release had had, in what ever way it had. He also knew that the antipathy of this was awareness from the other side... of its presence and possible place.

The danger had never been more so.

Bidderman moved the cloth back over to cover it. The Abbot stood still for a moment then broke the trance. Bidderman moved back to his desk and placed the bundle on the top, making sure it was secure in its position, there was no way he was going to dare to let any mishap befall it again.

It was a decree of his order that this was never to be so. The scroll was never meant to travel. It was not supposed to be exposed to these possibilities.

The men all moved to the desk. Mont Classon moved to his side, the lead-light windows behind seeming dull and lack-luster in the morning's cold half-light, casting a soft grey halo on proceedings.

Bidderman took the initiative. After all, all this was new. There was no etiquette or protocols for who should do what. The existence of the scroll was something so secretly guarded that it was a hint of reality to most Jews, let alone Gentiles. In the history of its existence it had been used a few times. Now, the morning past was the another of those few instances, albeit completely accidentally, and without the safeguards the ceremonies put in place.

Its completely unbridled power had been let loose. This may have been for the good, after all Bidderman believe that all events were events of God so nothing ever happened of its own accord.

Perhaps this was destined to be. He explained the events of the previous evening and early morning to the Abbot and, in turn, learnt of the passing of the spirit through this place, reasoning that this occurrence possibly happened elsewhere as the light that had exploded from the Synagogue had leaped into the world.

This further enforced his belief that this power had been felt. Here it has been for good. Elsewhere, well elsewhere, who knew.

"My friend..." he said to Mount Classon "...you must understand that the experience you felt, will have been felt by others. We must escape here, before it is too late. If this were to get into the hands of the dark people, we would be doomed."

The Abbott nodded his head in meter with the Rabbi dressed in Catholic Priest's habit's words. "We have to find the Initiators, to bring the good here to a head."

"Find who?" Mont Classon asked.

"The Initiators" he paused for a moment, the way someone does when they are looking for words "you see, I am a Keeper. I am not able to utilize the power of the scroll. This is deliberate. I keep it safe. I can use some..." he looked for a word that would translate from Yiddish to French, couldn't find one so switched to English, a language they all shared "...magic." Paused for a second to let the impact swell "To protect it."

The Abbot didn't stir at the use of this word. After all, all religion relied on their own magic of sorts, some lost in the procedures of worship, some hidden from the rank and file of the masses, but all magic just the same.

He had known of things that were magical within the doctrines of his order, he knew of the more esoteric of Jewish beliefs and had no difficulty in Bidderman claiming to perform such things.

"My magic is simple by comparison to that of the Initiators" he continued, once again using the English word for the French could suggest foolery or trickery which he did not ever consider part of this lot.

The Monk stood passive during the exchange. Drinking the moment for what it was. The realization of two disciplines at loggerheads with one and other that they were both on the same side. This interchange a turning point if good could come of it.

Bidderman sat back in the straight-backed chair and sighed.

"Where we will I am at a loss to know."

The Abbot nodded his head.

"Your race is being persecuted like no other Solomon, all your people are gone to where no one knows, some say to camps, others, Israel, others... well, others suggest to God. How we will find these people is beyond me. We are being treated not much better." By "we" the Abbot meant the Church. Throughout Europe, people were disappearing amongst whom ranked the clergy of most ecumenical denominations.

The German machine was just moving across the land, eating all before it and shitting a thin shell of what was in its wake. The church was persecuted, as were the various ethnic minorities in all countries. The Jews and Gypsies the worst treated, but over 50,000 of the churches army had been processed and their location unknown at this time.

The Vatican was doing all it could to stem this persecution of its people and also that of others. At this time, that required a collaborative stance with the regime responsible. Later, when history was to review all that happened, it would find the Vatican guilty of compliance with the most evil endeavors of mankind. But now, mid-1942, it was doing all it could at the political level of State to State to secure the sanctity of belief and church that the Nazis were just not interested in honouring or allowing to exist.

The only saving grace was that the Nazi machine relied on the people and the people, except for a very small cadre of Democratic-Socialist Zealots, were god-fearing and respected certain sanctities that the machine would squash if it was not likely to disenfranchise its soldiers at the far corners of its empire.

Bidderman sat quietly, thinking. His teaching had included all manner of fail safes put in place for the protection of his charge. After a while, the silence sitting like a weight on the room he spoke aloud, although it was more the words of thought than conversation.

"There is a chance. If we can get to the Barsque-lands, to the highlands of the Pyrenees, there are people who can help there. For a long time we have had Initiators spread to all points, not just Jews."

The Monk moved to the table, intruding for the first time. "Rabbi Bidderman is Father, I know a little of these things, the scroll is a particular interest of mine." Bidderman turned to the young Monk with a surprise surfacing gently across his brow, the Monk looked at the old Rabbi, a gentle smile on his lips, like some prodigy playing for his teacher for the first time. "I have studied its existence in all documents available in the Vatican as well as all libraries I could gain access to. I have been trained for this eventuality since my joining the church."

He paused as his words worked their way into the other men's realities. "The church has known of the scroll since it began. It has always resourced a support network in case..." he gestured in the offhand manner a man does when he wants you to consider "all of this" "...well, just in case."

"I know a little of the containment and control ceremonies myself and know of the Initiators."

Bidderman stood and faced the Monk. "But this is..." he was searching for a word, amazing, preposterous, remarkable, he just couldn't find one, he settled for "...incredible."

Benelli touched the old man on the shoulder. "Don't fear Rabbi, the Church has no agenda per se. In fact, we have gathered many other artifacts and much knowledge of such esoteric powers during our history. Our knowledge of your duties was broad, the piecing together over the thousands of years of little bits of information, documents found that were thought lost, information bought from less than scrupulous individuals who may have considered the whole thing less than important to their own greed."

"We would never dream of interfering, but will offer what ever help we can in this. We know we must not interfere... we do not know enough about it and from what I have seen, we would be fool-hardy to so much as touch the thing."

Bidderman nodded, he to felt the same way. He was the Keeper but was scared to his sole of the scroll's power. He had about as much idea of what or how to use the thing as the Monk, and with his admissions, now wondered whether Benelli was better placed than he for the next part of the journey.

The Abbot had been sitting quietly during the revelations, now interrupted.

"So my son, what do you suggest."

Benelli outlined his plan.

* * * * * *

LUKENWALDE 1942

The room was dark, lit only by black tallow candles, their yellow tips seeming to increase the darkness as shadows danced across the walls like court fools. Around the circle they stood, all dressed in black cloaks, hoods pulled high and covering their faces, the circle surrounding the altar, no sound, save a breath here and there.

The altar was bare, except for a sprig of white lilies. A solitary figure stood at the head of the altar, at the North position, made obvious by the large "N" etched into the circle inlaid into the floor, black stone inlaid with white marble.

The other points of the compass were shown in their cardinal positions and the altar appeared to hover above the ground. Closer scrutiny would have shown it was supported by a number of bearings running on a turntable at its centre and this allowed it to be moved in single degree increments to face any point so decided.

This was not the room of witch craft or devil worship, the beliefs held by these people were as old as time; the best kept secret in the world. Relics of The Order, it had no other names, well at least no other name that would have meant anything to anyone, had been found in Egyptian digs although the archeologists had not idea of the purposes of the various paraphernalia as the order protected its existence viciously.

There was never any leaving. It was passed from father to son as a birthright. No one in this room would ever expect any clemency in the event of any transgression or mention of the faith. Under fear of death and torture they would stay silent, they would betray all, but never betray The Order.

Such was the security surrounding their endeavors that even if an inkling of its existence was made known it would disappear in a machine that was oiled by the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world.

Now, on this cold spring evening, in a modern world caught up in a struggle that had seen no match. These men, mostly the architects of the confusion that was strangling these life and times, stood silently, all eyes to the Master Of The North.

Von Triffel held the badges of office for the North Quarter. As such, he, like his line prior, unbroken since the Crusades, was the leader of what was now known as The European Order. Loosely broken into four distinct groups and spread to the points of the compass, The Order spread worldwide. As civilization spread, so did it, taking with it its beliefs and charters.

Today, it was truly north, south, east and west and all points in between. As history discovered new and exciting places, places where opportunity would manifest, chapters would be established, established in the secrecy and stealth that had surrounded it since time began.

Quite often, it was a joining together with other organizations that had existed in their own right, some surprisingly sophisticated, others just savage magic in comparison to what The Order had at its disposal, but in all cases, focused on controlling events, to some predetermined course. To confuse free choice and manipulate it all so maximum profit and power could be obtained for the members.

There was not a decision of global importance that was not made with some member or another of The Order being involved. During history, the flux was controllable. Most initiates where pre-ordained through birthright, but the advent of both global travel and the Industrial Revolution had introduced the need to approach those not exposed and offer them solace within the ranks of this most secret of things.

The New World has grown so quickly that the ranks swelled at alarming rate. To this end, the need was established to appoint Master's of the Cardinal Points, of which Von Triffel was one, passed to him like some genetic trait.

The North's agenda was simple enough, to facilitate the maximum confusion and mayhem in Europe. In the first instance, to reap the profits of war, something The Order had been doing since the birth of time and second, to rape the other Travelers.

The term, Travelers, was a reasonably sorry attempt to capture the spirit of a concept that was beyond normal human understandings. The Order were members of an elite that knew things, knew how to do things that most other folk had just lost complete understanding of.

In a relentless persecution of any other group who knew of these things, The Order had been able to claim top spot in a hierarchy born on skills lost in the smoke of human history.

Of late, two hundred years past being "of late" to The Order, their attack had been the Earth People of the New World, for it was with these races at one with their spirituality that the knowledge of the Great Powers was the strongest.

The power The Order had had guaranteed control of their competitors. The various persecutions of the ages in most instances were the machinations of The Order in an attempt to protect the knowledge of the Great Powers.

It had been known that the scroll existed, it had to, after all, others had, albeit safely in the control of The Order. This one was possibly the most dangerous, to The Order that is, as it contained elements that would rent the very fabric of their power. It had been used a few times in world history and once for the greatest import.

At the birth of the first millennium, at a time of great turmoil when they were ready to strike and control this existence; it had been bought to bear. Stopping in a one fell swoop the activities of The Order and causing them to have to wait another thousand years.

Time was close; the elements were settling and getting ready for it. The new millennium was dancing in front of them all, intoxicating in its brilliance, with its ability to open the doors again, to bring within their grasp the power needed to completely control, dominate, dictate... to be all there was.

This time... was just a precursor to what was to happen at the turn of the century. This was a dry run of sorts. A testing ground for their abilities and a sharpening stone for the edges of their influences.

The Reich was just a tool; its controllers were just nails to The Order's hammer. If it succeeded it would just make things better. If it failed it didn't matter because the activities set to make it fail were just examples of The Order's control in other areas.

It controlled Russia, America, Japan and so it went. In all instances, the control was absolute.

Now, the cursed scroll had reared its head again. Forever, The Order had been set on finding and controlling it. The fourth scroll in a set of nine, drawn and scribed by the initiates of the Great Powers in a time when things were different, this held the elements of containment and focus, the elements The Order did not truly have available to them.

It stopped them having the surgically sharp control they craved. It stopped them being able to foist their mantel over all. Worse, in certain hands, it could control them. It had been hoped that it was gone, destroyed the last time it was used.

No one was sure as its existence was kept as secret as The Order its self. The Jews, damn them, were masters of secrets, magic, subterfuge, as good as them. In a way, Von Triffel was secretly supportive of the attempts being made to rid the world of their kind. He found that his influence had been minimal to make it happen, like it was just a logical thing to do.

The Germans, God how stupidly these people marched to any drum, benefited in the wealth that the persecution bought to them. They were a fine conduit for The Order's influences and their war efforts, used more than once before in the tapestry that was the history of The Order, were a fine foil for the control and confusion that was the hallmark of their work.

Von Triffel had hoped that the relentless persecution of these people would turn up something. Perhaps in no other form than just removing them from consideration, catching any Keepers in the web and destroying them and theirs at the same moment.

Perhaps the mindless destruction that was "Kristallnacht" and since would find and destroy the scroll. Destruction was acceptable. Over time The Order had managed to wrest control of the Great Powers without the scroll.

It had learnt to counterpoint control with time and to allow the powers to pulsate and flow without the absolute direction the scroll would offer. Sometimes this meant that side effects would occur that were not planned as the Great Powers were living things and grew accordingly.

None the less, the fourth scroll was not missed. If they could get it, well if they could... but its destruction was acceptable. What was not acceptable was what could happen if it were in the hands of The Initiators, damn them to eternal hell.

Damn those that broke away from The Order all that time ago; that stole their right; taking the focus and confinements that were theirs. Those lost soles that saw the rights of humanity before that of The Order to control that same humanity. Their arguments of a God with a benevolent mercy were the ramblings of weak-kneed individuals. Von Triffel rued the ancestors that let them depart. Let them leave intact.

If only they could have understood the result of their activities. Once, the Great Powers were used to send back a message to that time. It almost worked. History was changed. Those departing were set upon by armies in control of The Order but were kept safe by the very magic The Order set to control. Their leader, the greatest of The Order's shaman, had turned the Great Powers against them. Long enough to guarantee their retreat... now, thousands of years later, The Order was just as controlled by that legacy as it had ever been.

Von Triffel cursed the Jews, the sons of David, the children Moses led into the wilderness. Moses with his powers, with is concern for man. How Moses has haunted The Order. What could have been achieved if he were not as he was?

He turned to face the Brethren surround the altar; it was time to start. He smiled. The scroll's power had been felt all right. Felt like a searchlight on a dark night, now, to follow it and to fix this problem once and for all.