“There is a hole in the moon. A spiral. Like the one in your soul,” said the thing in the eggshell mask. “It is a tunnel painted with clocks and stars and like an artery it pulses. Do not be afraid. It will wait for you. There is a choice to be made.”
The final words of the black-fingered creature circled the drain of memory as Corsa awoke to his dim and dusty cabin. A book of medieval forgeries on his lap. Wood shavings caught in his frayed flannel. He had meant to be meditating, but lost composure and had fallen asleep instead.
When had he last slept? Lit by the embers of a waning fire, dust danced like the pale transit of stars. His eyelids drooped lazily as he tried to insert himself back into the dream by focusing on what faint memory remained: A pale stone tower. Green ivy. A banquet hall littered with half-starved bodies. Balanced delicately on the thin wire edge of sleep and lucidity, he walked further and further along the wire until he could almost see the cracks in the sun bleached rock. And then with one loud snap of kindling, he tumbled back into the wide waking world that, of all worlds, he hated more than most.
He curled his fingers to grasp the last remaining wisps of dream but caught nothing. It was unusual for him to forget. An uneasiness in his stomach told him that it could have only been on purpose. Though he had dreamt it, it was not his dream. The thing in the mask was not talking to him. Once again, he had merely been the observer. The thought stung a little, as trifling as it was.
Beneath his feet, the rug gave like a sigh, inviting him to indulge in soft sensation and let the strands massage in-between his toes. Ignoring this insulting, whorish invitation, he rose, found a glass filled halfway with honeyed tea and black mold on the kitchen countertop, and then returned to pour it over the rug so that the strands might stiffen to quills. Sensual pleasure was the material world’s most basic trick. And though groggy, he would not be pulled further into delusions of earthly pleasures by a rug of all things.
He would however have a coffee, and so he grabbed an unmarked tin from the kitchen cabinet and shoved a handful of beans in his mouth. He crunched on some, the others spilling haphazardly from his mouth as he began to pace.
He stared at the last few dying embers in the fireplace, the tension behind the eyes like piano wire. How had it all come to this?
Of course, he had not forgotten.
As the wood began to smoulder, dark blue night invaded and dispersed itself within the cabin. He was out of firewood. A lamp of brilliant copper stood unused by the wall, the gleam of its body like white flecks of lapis lazuli. A beautiful, but thoughtless gift from an old friend that he had long meant to discard. Since childhood, Corsa had been sensitive to electricity. The best case scenario was to suffer a dull, aggressive hum. And at worst it was like having his ears filled with gnats, each one trying to whisper something, none being able to articulate their abstract dread into words, as though their feelings were too potent for so small a body. It left him easily overwhelmed, and more than a little haunted. If that wasn’t enough, it did not take long for him to connect the dots between proximity to certain frequencies and the contant migraines.
It’s all in your head, he used to say to himself. It’s all in your head. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no such thing as pain. Pain is just a message, and you don’t have to listen. It’s not you. It’s all in your head.
Yeah. Right. Where else would a migraine live?
Rain lashed the windows while Corsa gathered candles to light his cabin, a wild wind thrashing and whipping the walls. Having finished, he sat back down in his armchair. The glow from the candle light pulled him into a momentary trance. Born in a prison of flesh; condemned now to one of wood. Only Babalon might save him.
Lady Babalon. Beautiful Babalon. Butcher of Orpheus. Raging mask of Dionysus. Who is the force that propels the pendulum back as hard as it was swung? It had always been her. The red-haired whore who rides the beast of seven heads, the union of whom will eat away at the fabric of existence. And in the end, perhaps some kinder god might pick up the needle and thread and sew together a world less broken.
If only.
She had been born not even a week ago. A timeless force who, now, had once more been fitted to a human host. Each of those involved in the ritual had wanted something different. Corsa to tear the world asunder. Gregor, the one who had eaten the worm-parasite and consummated the contract, wanted to destroy the laws and lethargy that he believed enveloped the world, and to return human law to its most fundamental rules; finding a reconciliation with nature. He believed it was one thing to not go someplace because a wall stood in your way, another because an authority commanded you. Where had words been granted such authority? And the woman, the host, wanted to become something more than herself. It was simply her desire to become a God. She felt as though her body was in constant maintenance, constantly fighting the urge to die, and to her, divinity would be a reprieve from this persistent anxiety. What was the point in living if it was spent maintaining mere life?
Her name. What was her name? It didn’t matter. All that remained was Babalon. There was no room for anyone else.
She was not the first vessel for Lady Babalon. Many scarlet women existed before her, each lacking the secret key that they had discovered. Earlier attempts had used channeling, and as such the connection between spirit and host could be severed by as little as a kick to the shins. The worm was a different story. Once inside the body, the parasite would find its way to the brain and nestle itself comfortably on a throne of fresh wrinkles. It was the perfect antennae for a spirit, permanently anchoring the spirit of Babalon to the body. Nothing barring lobotomy could undo its influence.
The ritual continued to linger fresh in his mind. Gregor’s ribcage protruding as he hyperventilated in preparation. The hair-thin Babalon worm wriggling above his outstretched tongue. His shining amber coyote eyes. The vessel staring at him with blood-smeared face and a look that was hungry to become God. Their method for creation would be the oldest. Gregor would impregnate the vessel with the worm mixed amongst his seed. Corsa knelt beside them with his eyes closed, hunting for Babalon in his mind’s eye and tempting her with his undying love, perfect food for a God, while beckoning her into the body of the worm. The memory made him sick to his stomach.
Caught deep in thought, Corsa jumped from the sudden static crackling from the radio on the mantelpiece. Its battery was long since removed. Someone wanted to speak to him. He closed his eyes to focus on separating rainfall from static, and then further plucking words from a sea of noise. Eyes of lilac crystal flashed before him, leaving pale imprints on the dark of his eyelids before fading into the static. Babalon was returning to speak to him.
When the knocking started, he jumped again, this time nearly hitting the ceiling. He hadn’t expected her so soon. But there she was on the other side of the door, bearing down angry, knuckle-tearing knocks that echoed about his empty stomach. He gathered his glasses from the side table next to the armchair. It was best not to keep her waiting.
When he looked through the peephole, all he saw was black.
She must be pressing her thumb against the glass, he thought, fighting the urge to laugh.
So that’s the game we’re playing tonight.
He cleared his throat.
“Who might you be?”
“Don’t test my patience. Open the door.”
Corsa smiled. He appreciated her sense of irony. Adjusting his glasses, he went to unbolt the lock. Then, thinking better of it, he took off his glasses first and gingerly placed them on the floor.
“Okay. I’m opening the doo-”
The handle hardly moved an inch before the door smacked him on the nose, staggering him to the floor.
A woman in red stormed the cabin. The wind whirled behind her, flaring out her red locks like winter branches. Water pooled at her feet.
“His body is gone. What have you done with it?” she said, shaking with rage. Her pupils sat like pin pricks in frosted, violet eyes.
“Me?” Corsa replied, wiping the blood dripping from his nose. “What do you think I did? Ran ahead of you and carried him all by myself? Maybe he moved himself. These things happen.”
Babalon reached down and grabbed Corsa by the throat.
“He was dead,” she hissed.
“It’s all…” Corsa coughed. “Relative.”
“Let’s find out.” said Babalon. She pressed a little harder on his windpipe.
“If you want to kill me,” wheezed Corsa, involuntarily slipping a little smirk. “you should press a little harder.”
He squeezed Babalon’s fingers.
“See,” he croaked. “There…we…ack…”
Babylon flung him aside. Gasping and holding a hand to his throat, Corsa limped past the wreckage of a wooden dresser and grabbed a stick of gum from a pile of discarded garbage.
“You want,” he coughed. “any gum?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” He peeled off the wrapper and popped it into his mouth, chewing sloppily. Babalon watched him.
“Corsa. You said you would help me.”
Corsa grimaced at the sound of his name. She never said it quite right. Catching her eye, he nodded towards the living room.
“Come on.”
She followed him in, standing like a rooted tree as he fell back into his armchair. He waved a hand to offer her a seat. She stared at him. Of all things, it was the breathing that unnerved him the most. She didn’t do it.
“So,” Corsa nodded. “This is about him. And here I thought you wanted to see me.”
“No one wants to see you,” said Babalon. “People pity you.”
“So what?” he said. “You pity yourself and that’s a hell of a lot worse. I know why I don’t want to be me. But you? It’s disturbing.”
“Careful,” said Babalon. She raised her left hand. “I’ve suddenly found the urge to peel away your eyelids.”
Corsa smiled, “I have enough trouble keeping my eyes off of you.”
She tilted her head and watched him with her dead, purple eyes. Corsa plucked the wad of gum from his mouth and placed it in the middle of his poetry book. He then ripped out the page, crumpled it and threw it behind him.
“Look, it’s raining,” said Corsa dryly. “You caught me in the middle of a wonderful dream. I don’t like it here, so forgive me. I need to readjust to this material hellscape.”
“Adjust.”
Corsa cleared his throat.
“You want to know what happened to the body? If you want my guess, someone took it and put it somewhere no one but Gregor would ever go looking.”
“You mean the catacombs?”
“I would assume, yeah. Why bother implicating me?”
“I could believe you would visit the curtains. If only out of envy,” said Babalon.
Corsa winced, “It’s very far from here.”
“I don’t believe you had any intention of helping me. Don’t lie to me Corsa. This is how you always wanted me. You were there at my turning. I felt you. Wishing. Wanting.”
He paused. He still couldn’t say her name out loud.
“You. You’re a dream come to life. But it’s not what I wanted. I didn’t know that then.”
Silence passed between them, punctuated with the pelting of rain.
Behind Corsa, Babalon’s dead eyes spotted something unusual. Her gaze began to fixate on a white cloth draped over what looked like the frame of a human head.
“What is that?” Babalon whispered. “Whose head is that?”
Corsa turned.
“Hm? That’s nothing. Relax.”
“Have you been hiding him here this whole time?”
Babalon rushed towards the cloth, flinging it aside. Babalon furrowed her brows.
“Who is this?” she asked, turning to Corsa.
“Andrei Gromyko.”
“Who?”
He shrugged, “I don’t know what more to tell you.”
Babalon dug her fingers into the dead man’s skin. Brine ran down his forehead, pooling in the lines of his powdered flesh as her fingers effortlessly pierced his skull. She hurled it like an stone towards a bookshelf, spilling books and crystals to the ground.
“I can’t live like this,” Babalon said. She stormed over to the bookshelf, crystals crunching beneath her bare feet. She grabbed a black orb off the top shelf.
“What have you seen in this? Anything good?” She asked Corsa accusingly. “What is it you do all day?”
“Please put that down.”
She cocked her head at him, then hurled the orb at her feet, where it shattered into a million black pieces.
There was a glint in Corsa’s eye. He fought back his irritation. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have put it that way. Besides, it was a material thing. It meant nothing. But fuck was it expensive.
“Forget Gregor. There’s more than one was to end this.”
“The residue in his body can kill the parasite inside me. You said so yourself.”
“Gregor is long gone. You’ll never find him behind the curtain. But there are more options. Please. Moontide. and end this horrible nightmare. Let us all wake up together.”
“I am not giving birth to your apocalypse. I don’t care what you want,” she sneered.
“I don’t want anything, Babalon.” She was surprised he had found the courage to say her name. “This is not about what I want. This is about what we all need.”
Babalon stretched her neck to the side.
“Why isn’t it you haven’t killed yourself?”
“The ride doesn’t end there. You know that.”
Babalon eyed the wreckage of Corsa’s stuffy, little cabin. Pages of books strewn across the floor like carpet. Broken crystal dimly sparkling like faded stars. The marks across the wall her nails had left.
“Yes, I do. Very well.”
Babalon fixed her dead gaze onto Corsa.
“I would help you, you know, if I didn’t think you were a coward. I will not do your work for you. If you think this is out of spite, you are entirely correct. Continue to rot in your self-imposed cell. I will not save those who cannot lift a finger to save themselves. Why don’t I kill you, Corsa? It’s because you never fight back.”
Babalon turned and began to walk towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“The catacombs. And then behind the curtains. I will recover Gregor’s body, syphon his blood and destroy the worm within my body.”
“Someone must have eaten him by now.”
“’And? ‘The ride doesn’t end’. You said it yourself.”
“But it can end. Please. Babalon. Light of my life. My divine scarlet woman.”
“Enough of your Moontide,” said Babalon. “I have no reason to end existence, save that it’ll stop your whining. And if I wanted that, all I’d need to do is tear off your fingers and your tongue.”
“All I ask,” Corsa said in a quiet voice, “Is that if the opportunity comes, you remember. You think about it.”
“How could I forget,” she said. “It’s all you ever talked about.”
She turned again to leave.
“Wait,” said Corsa. He got up and limped towards the closet. He picked out a weathered, camo-printed army jacket.
“It’s cold,” he said, holding it out for her.
Babalon took it. She had not felt cold since the turning, but still, it was a sacrifice. A paltry offering, but an offering nonetheless.
“I don’t feel the cold,” she said, slipping on the jacket.
“Sure,” said Corsa.
Babylon turned to the door and flung it open, spilling back into the storm and leaving Corsa to his cabin. She felt as though she were the center of a maelstrom, wind nipping at her heels.
Babalon’s feet sunk deep into the mud, her body like lead.
Beyond the bowl of mud and grass that lay at the foot of Corsa’s cabin were hills that flourished with a vast wilderness. Somewhere in there, Babylon was certain she would find an entrance to the spinal catacombs. It was no use to follow physical directions. That way was not old enough.
“How do you find something that is lost?” Corsa had once asked her. Rhetorically. The only questions he bothered asking. “Become lost yourself.”
Anger bubbled to the surface. Babalon held it back. It was not a good idea to give in to the temptation. She could crumble a stone wall or scream until the hills trembled, but nothing would relieve the pressure. She was not that kind of being anymore.
Anger, lust, desire, it only built over time, churning inside the cauldron of her womb like hot poison, eating away at what was left of her. Whatever part was still human.
Under the canopy of the forest, the rainfall had begun to lessen. A paste of mud clung to her feet. She took the time to scrape it off against a rock.
Babalon, she repeated in her head. Babalon.
It was a title more than a name. A separate will that had been released inside her. A parasite possessed by a dormant, immortal force that now bathed in her veins.
She caught her face in a puddle. Beautiful by any standards but her own. It was disgusting. A stranger’s face. A lantern that had stolen the light of her soul. She looked up at the canopy. The light of a few stars had snuck their way between the thick clots of leaves and branches. She had wandered enough for one night.
Gathering an armful of stone, Babalon set them in a circle. In the middle, she stacked a pile of twigs. She bent down and softly blew, setting the kindling alight.
She had no need for rest. She did not sleep.
It would be nice, she thought. To hunger for food. To grow fatigued and sleep and dream of a world that was different from her own. Corsa talked about needs. She had no needs. Only wants.
The fire’s empty warmth buzzed against her toes. Faster vibration. Was that all it ever was?
She heard a rustling Fire licked the underside of her eyes like golden whips as she turned to face the bushes.
More rustling. And then a coyote poked its head out from the bush. It glared at her, then took a few timid steps forward. Its legs were mangled. Scabs rested between thin sprouts of fur.
Upon making eye contact, the coyote lunged at Babalon, sinking its teeth into her wrist. She let it gnaw for a moment before lifting the animal into the air, where it hung limp, refusing to unhinge its jaw.
With thumb and forefinger, Babalon reached between the coyote’s quivering lips and tore out a tooth. She plunged the fang into its eye, splattering like egg white, then grabbed the coyote by a tuft of flesh and tore its head clean from the body. She let it fall to the dirt.
She stared at the body for a few moments. Then she bent down, and peeled away the skin at the chest, sticking in her hand to dig around for its liver. It would be a shame to waste it.
Babalon skewered the organ on a loose branch, then planted it next to the fire. She had no appetite for it, but she liked the smell.
“You think you’ve got it bad, huh?”
Babalon looked around. Nothing but a one-eyed coyote head. Not wanting to be watched, she plucked another tooth from its mouth and plunged it into the other eye socket.
“You’re killing me here,” said the coyote head.
“You’re already dead.”
“True.”
Babalon scratched the coyote between the ears.
“It’s not that great, you know,” said the coyote head.
“What isn’t?”
“Being dead.”
“Was it the way you would have it?”
“You killing me? It was fine I guess. That’s not what matters anyways. There’s a trick to dying, you see.”
“Oh? And what is that, little coyote?”
“Being dead’s not all that different from being alive. You’re still you. The only difference is you can’t be anyone else anymore. There’s no room to change or grow. So stay alive. At least until you’ve become someone you’d be happy being forever.”
“I’m hardly alive. I’m no longer human.”
The coyote’s nostrils twitched.
“You smell human.”
“Your death,” Babalon said with cold eyes. “Do you regret it? Would you have wanted a different end?”
“It was as good a death as any, not that it matters how you die. I’m not unhappy with the state of my soul. But now I’m a little cold,” said the coyote head. “Can you put me closer to the fire?”
Babalon picked up the head and moved it closer to the stone circle.
“Thanks.”
Babalon turned her attention towards the fire.
“You chose to attack me and you died. I don’t have the same luxury. I don’t get to choose.”
Babalon gazed at her fingers, imagining them tearing into her own flesh and pulling out the worm that bore her name. It was too late for that. She scratched the back of the coyote’s head.
“I was told I was made to undo creation. In the way that your purpose was to be a coyote, mine is to herald the end of times. How would you feel about that?”
“Hm,” said the coyote, mulling it over. “Not great. Why end everything? Don’t you want to see where it goes? Aren’t you curious?”
“I don’t know,” said Babalon softly. “How could it be worth the trouble?”
They sat together in silence as Babalon massaged the coyote’s ears, lightly pinching the tips at the end of each stroke.
“Hey, I’m still a little cold,” said the coyote. “Could you put me inside the fire?”
Babalon picked up the head and moved it closer towards blaze.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait, can you throw that liver in too? It smells pretty good.”
“It’s your own liver.”
“I know,” he said proudly.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Yes. And in return maybe I’ll do something nice for you.”
“I don’t need any favors.”
“Good for you. I didn’t ask.”
Babalon smiled, “Goodnight, little coyote.”
“Goodnight Babalon.”
She gently placed the head in the center of the fire, then dropped the liver in after it. It really did smell good. Time passed, and as it did the flesh of the coyote’s face crisped, curled and fell from the bone. She did not let her eyes stray from his empty sockets, as though she intended to fill them with her sight alone.
The fire dwindled. Her eyelids felt heavy. She lay down, gazing into nothing but the abyss behind her eyes.
That night she slept, curled up on a bed of dry leaves.