To converse with the Master

[Marlowe J. Faust]

The dim light of a dozen candles set at floor level, the only light pushing back the darkness that surrounded the boy kneeling on the deep burgundy carpet. The overbearing smell of incense would have choked anyone not dulled to its powerful scent, as the young acolyte was. Marlowe rested on his knees in the center of the shadowy room; his robed form and voice would have been alien to those students that had gotten to know the youth. He sat in this room, locked away from the prying eyes of the world; here he could study free from the spells he cast upon himself for his defense and survival.

His voice was low and guttural as he repeated an arcane chant, powerful words spoken in a long dead tongue. Marlowe bent low and touched his head to the floor, an act of supplication and a request for an audience with his master. He repeated the gesture, each time copying the slow pace down and back precisely. As he continued his chant and rose from the floor a final time, a green fog began spreading out in the darkness just outside the meager illumination of the twelve evenly spaced points of light.

As this fog washed across the indistinctly lit features of the room, Marlowe rose to his feet and spoke in a strident and authoritative voice. “I beseech you, Lords of the Outer Darkness. Allow me to speak with Heinrich Faust! My father and master!”

As the request, left his lips, a chill and forceful wind blew through the windowless room. The fierce wind gathered the rolling green fog that had settled knee deep upon the library floor, shaping it into a hulking translucent shape. The form slowly took shape; that of a middle aged man, a man who still bore the horrific wounds that caused his untimely demise. This ghostly visage, still made from the transparent green fog looked lovingly upon the young man that stood before him, kept safe within the circle of light.

The ghost of the boy’s long dead father spoke a single word as an ethereal tear streamed down his face.

“Marlowe…” The last syllable lingered on the now still and stifling air.

“Father. It is I.”

[Marlowe J. Faust]

The nineteenth century Jerome Grandfather clock struck four, as Marlowe rose from his knees. The candles he had lit more than four hours previous were now clinging to the last of their wicks, glowing embers lying in pools of harden wax.

With a few arcane words spoken softly, the boy stepped outside the ring. In nearly pitch-black darkness, Marlowe moved effortlessly and silently through the room, as though his vision was not impeded by the teeming gloom. He walked directly to the light switch located on the wall near the room’s massive ebony door.

The sharp snap of the switch falling into the “on” position, echoed through the room. The echo preceded the darkness that have inhabited the room being swept away by a flood of soft white light, as the overhead halogen lights blazed to life.

Their glow shone upon the room, its details previously hidden from view. The room was a windowless study, located in the heart of his home in Providence. Shelves built into the rooms North and South walls housed countless books and tomes of endless size, shape and bindings. The large square room’s slate flooring ran the expanse of the room, laying untouched except by only a few pieces of furniture that were housed in the four corners, and by the study’s most prominent feature and the only object that one could describe as decoration.

Housed against the room’s West wall stood, the most prized possession of the Faust lineage. An eight foot tall bronze casting of Johann Faust, the progenitor of the young man’s bloodline and the first of his ancestors to tame the infernal powers and to shape them with his force of will. The statue was of a man in the later stages of his life, though not decrepit. The fires of youth still burned in those lifeless metal eyes, his beard and dress were those of the sixteenth century, the time of the man’s life.

Marlowe stood before this monument, as he often did within the walls of this sanctum. The young man, removing the hooded robe her had worn for the audience with his father’s departed spirit, stared unflinchingly into the face of this object. As he stood before this effigy, Marlowe contemplated the lesson he had learned from this evening’s study.

A firm knock at the study door awakened him from his reflection. “Please enter, Robert.” Marlowe’s deep voice reverberated across the room.

It was no great feat of divination for the young sorcerer to know who knocked at the chamber door. The only other person to occupy the boy’s expansive home was Robert Thorn, at one time his father’s devoted manservant now Marlowe’s.

“Good morning sir. I have arrived as you requested.” Robert spoke to the young man from across the room. The boy turned to look at the aging gentleman that spoke; Marlowe spoke softly under his breath, muttering an arcane phrase. He walked towards Robert and the oak desk that sat on the right hand corner of the door, as he moved and finished the incantation, Marlowe’s form shifted into the shape that he wore amongst the outside world.

“Thank you, Robert.” Marlowe stole a glance at the antique clock facing his desk, the hands stood exactly at quarter past four. “Your punctuality never ceases to amaze me, dear Robert, even after all these years.” The young man smiled charmingly to his assistant. A slight frown passed the young man’s face. “I was not able to reach her, I can feel her presence during the summoning but I can not call her forward.” The older man answered simply, “Perhaps next time, sir.”

The small exchange let Marlowe have a slight sense of closure at the night’s failure. “Yes. Perhaps next time.” Robert merely nodded politely, returned the young man’s smile and waited for his assignment.

The pair had had similar exchange for years now, their relationships was an odd one. They were not friends, Robert never spoke to him in such a manner and while Marlowe was young made it clear that he was here to serve the young boy until he was “no longer needed”. It had always been this way, Robert eagerly waiting to fulfill his young master’s commands whenever needed.

“If you would be so kind Robert; please remove the markings from the floor and replace the candles.” Marlowe motioned to the chalk writing and diagram that lay on the gray slate in the center of the room surrounded by the last remains of the wax pooled upon the stone. “I must rest now, please awaken me at seven Robert. I have class this morning, I must at least try to sleep some before then.”

“For your breakfast sir?” Robert asked, as if on queue.

“Oatmeal Porridge and Tofu Scramble. Thank you Robert, I would starve if you were not here to remind me to eat.” Marlowe finished with a reserved chuckle. “I am off to bed. Thank you again.”

The young red haired boy left Robert alone in the empty study and retired to his bedchamber. While he slept, Robert Thorn stooped on bended knee and chipped hardened wax away from slate, while he performed his duties to the letter; his slight smile never left his thin lips.

[Marlowe J. Faust]

Marlowe lay awake in his large canopy bed. The heavy red velvet drapes were pulled shut to protect him from the early morning light. He had slept perhaps an hour last night after communing with his father’s disembodied spirit, the communication allowed the young man to tap into his father’s superior knowledge of spells and incantation, enabling him to learn from the ghost of his father.

It was no surprise to they boy, that he had not slept. He never slept well after communing. Nightmares, most foul, always followed the spell of summoning. Marlowe understood it was merely a side effect of infernal power needed to reach his father. Others might have suggested that the nightmares were his mind’s way of the vile horror of the mere act of a son speaking with the ghastly visage of his father bearing the wounds of his violent demise as well as the torture he was suffering in the afterlife.

Any normal child, that had not willingly subjected himself to the terrors that lie just beyond the mortal realm, would have lost their precious little minds at the sight of that man’s specter. The right side of his father’s face worn down from the abrasive fiction, suffered during the automobile accident that claimed his life, left portions of his skull clearly visible through torn muscle and shredded skin. Shockingly, the other side of his father’s constantly sad face was left in perfect shape, just the young man that Marlowe could recall from his few childhood memories.

Beyond the facial deformities he had suffered, Heinrich’s spirit bore hundreds of splinters and shards of glass across his body. Again, the boy assumed as he thought of his father’s death, from the accident. These shards protruded like the needles of some sort of hellish cactus.

The worst of his father’s deformities, and the one that haunted his son the most, was the one the man suffered after his death. Heinrich’s head had been turned about his body so that it face backwards. This terrible injury was bestowed upon his spirit at the gates of Malebolge, the resting place of his damned soul, the same is bestowed upon all astrologists, seers, sorcerers and others who attempted to pervert the Lord’s laws to divine or alter the future. With their heads have been twisted around, they are forced to walk backwards around the circumference of their circle for all of time.

This, perhaps, caused Marlowe’s nightmares because deep down the young man knew full well that this same horrendous fate awaited his damned soul as well upon his final demise.

[Marlowe J. Faust]

As the young sorcerer lay pondering his mortality and the tortures that he would face in the next life, the vibrant smells and sound of activity were eminating from the kitchen in the rear of the house.

Peppers and onions danced and sizzled in the cast iron pan as it sat upon the old gas range as Robert prepared his young ward’s meal as he asked. The man seemed to be of an inderterminent age; his face was a little too lined to be in his fifties and he seems far too spry for his sixties. He kept his long silver white hair tied behind him in an impeccably kept ponytail. Robert Thorn was constantly dressed in a dark silk button down shirt and light cotton slacks, added to his normal attire he wore a white canvas apron to protect his clothing.

The older man precisely chopped and added ingredients to the pan, every cut quick and each piece perfectly cubed. Robert’s movements were that of a professionally trained chef but there was something strange about the scene.

Robert’s face was cold, he took no pleasure in his work or even in the act of cooking. The sounds and smells that would have brought a smile or a sound of pleasurable delight to any other, elicited no reaction in the man. Though while he was not pleased; he was neither angry or frustrated, as some may imagine of a man whose job was to meet the every demand of a teenage boy. He merely performed his duties with seemingly robot-like precision and thoroughness.

Finishing the boy’s meal with a dash of ground pepper, Robert deftly removed the cuisine from the hot pan. Setting it upon a fine china dish, and adding the porcelain plate amongst the other items for Marlowe’s breakfast. A bowl of hor porridge, the plate of sautéed tofu and vegetables, as well as a glass of distilled water and his only regular indulgence, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Robert gathered the meal and placed it upon a mahogany tray.

He carefully placed the organized tray into the kitchen’s dumbwaiter, using a rope inside the small opening in the wall to hoist the tray to the second floor hallway. Gently raising the small elevator quietly, not a dish nor cup made the slightest sound as it traveled upwards within the shaft. Robert continued to pull the rope until he heard the quiet tell tale click of the ray reaching its destination and locking into place.

Robert removed his apron and hung it upon a hook at the entrance to the narrow servant’s stairwell, which connected the kitchen to the second floor hallway. As he reached the top of the stairs, he pushed slightly on the panel that kept this tight and winding stairwell hidden. Another light “click” sounded as the spring latch holding the panel shut gave way, granting him access to the hall. Stepping out, he tuned and opened another panel. The door opened to the upper level for the dumbwaiter, allowing Robert to again carry the tray to the boy’s bedchamber.

Quietly, Robert came to a stop right outside the carved door to the master bedroom. He stopped and appeared to be listening to some voice, yet the hall was quiet only the ticking of the clock at the end of the hall broken the silence. As he listened, a soft smile bloomed on the man’s fast, slowly the smile turned to a cruel sneer. Quietly, Robert whispered to himself.

“Doubt. Fear. Confusion. The child is frightened of the prospect of damnation.” Robert‘s face quickly melted back to its normal stoic countenance as he prepared to open the door. “He is ready for the next step.”

Knocking on the carved wooded surface of the heavy door. He waited for the boy to grant him entry.

[Marlowe J. Faust]

Marlowe’s attention was wrenched away from his morbid contemplations at the sound of the wrapping at the bedroom door. “You may enter, Robert.” He spoke loud enough to be heard by the man outside. The older man silently opened the door and made his entrance into the boy’s bedchamber. “Good morning, Robert.” Marlowe said to the servant as he brought the tray to his bedside. Robert’s simple and standard reply to the greeting, “Good morning, sir.”

The boy thanked him kindly as Robert expertly placed the tray across his lap. The servant turned to pull back the draperies that were cloaking the chill room from the warming morning rays. The brilliant light spilled across the deep red oak floor and fell across the young man’s pale face. The heat from the sun radiated through those rays; they lighted upon his face burning away the black horrors of his nightmares and the heavy gloom that rested upon his soul after pondering his dark future.

Marlowe was not hungry, but he forced down the breakfast that was prepared for him. He ate with no rush, taking his time making sure each movement was that of a proper gentleman. Robert stood beside his bed, stoically waiting for the young lord of the house to finish so he could remove the dishes.

The boy savored the large glass of orange juice as he drank it; the rush of the sugar invigorated his body. Placing the fine crystal glass back on the tray, Marlowe wiped the corners of his mouth with the white linen napkin. He nodded and Robert lifted the tray are carried it back to the hallway. The young man waited patiently for his manservant to return to the room, from years of routine, he knew that Robert would re-enter the room. As he expected, the man returned to the room and approached his bedside, taking up the cashmere robe hanging nearby.

Marlowe drew back the linens; he slowly spun his legs towards the edge of the old bed and placing his feet into the slippers that waited for him. The young man stood an allowed Robert to slip the cashmere robe onto his arms, above the fine silk pajamas he wore. “I must be getting prepared for school, Robert. Please lay out one of my uniforms.” The boy prepared to head the bathroom, to get ready for the day ahead. Half listening, Marlowe began to hear Robert reply however the boy frozen in shock upon hearing his manservant’s words.

"I'm afraid, sir, that you shall not be attending school today. There is something of paramount importance, that I must insist you see... at once."

[Marlowe J. Faust]

The auburn haired young man stood at the top of a wooden staircase. The oak door, which hid this flight of stairs, was located in an alcove within the home’s foyer; it’s surface designed to match the details of the surrounding wall. Tucked away from view, hidden beneath the main staircase. This secret door was constructed so that only a person knowing its location (or perhaps the extraordinarily lucky) could find it.

Marlowe had, of course, known of its location. After his parents earthly demise, Robert had instructed him of the locations and contents of the rooms within the boy’s American estate.

Before he began his study of the occult and his instruction in Sorcery and Alchemy, when Marlowe was just a young boy, this room frightened him. Once, many years ago, he had wandered down these stairs with a small candle into the darkness beneath his home.

He could still remember his first time entering into the cavernous cellar. The air held a chill; it was the same coolness a person feels when entering into a cavern below the earth’s surface. The candlelight illuminating hundreds of tall wooden racks, each rack, nesting dozens of glass bottles. The soft orange glow reflecting and refracting off of the green, black and brown glass surfaces, creating an eerie glow the followed him as he made his way further into the huge cellar.

When he had finally found the center of the maze of racks, the young boy suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that he was being watched. That some malevolent force was gazing upon his flesh, the boy had the notion that this force was hungry. In that moment, the delight and wonder that young Marlowe had felt for the cellar, only moments before had instantaneously become sheer unadulterated terror.

At first the boy had walked, quickly but calmly; making efforts to prevent panic from setting in. He strode back along the path; fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder, afraid that some horrible nightmare creature would be behind him with spittle soaked teeth gnashing for his young tender flesh.

No longer could his fear be held at bay. In his panic, Marlowe dropped small candle he had carried with him for light. The holder clattered to the floor and the boy was engulfed in darkness. Above the racks ahead he could see the single shaft of glowing light casting itself into the crushing dark. At an all out sprint, the child raced for the safety of the light from above.

The blood was pounding in his ears; the sound was like a drum beating out a rapid rhythm so loud that that everything else was lost to its crescendo. He could hear nothing beyond his heart’s frenzied hammering, not even his own ear splitting scream. Racing up the stairs, Marlowe spilled out onto the foyer floor. Sobbing and shivering, the boy laid in the warm sunlight that bathed his ody in its reassuring warmth.

He could not recall now as a teenager, just how long he had laid on this marble floor before he had regained his composure. The young man could remember however, with vivid clarity, why he had never returned to the cellar of his home after that terrifying race.

As he lay upon the floor, the young child began to doubt his fear. He steeled his nerves, convinced himself about the folly of his behavior. Marlowe crawled to the frame of the cellar door and peered down into the gloom below. Perhaps what the boy then saw, was merely the ghost of the last dying embers of his discarded candle, or even the reflection of the blinding sunlight off some random amber bottle…

But as he stood now once again facing down into that haunting darkness, Marlowe was as sure as he was that day so many years ago; that when he had peered down into the cellar that two burning fiery orange eyes had returned his gaze.

[Marlowe J. Faust]

“It is at the end of the path.” Robert’s voice whispered into Marlowe’s ear. “It?” he inquired. The boy turned to question the man’s cryptic statement, only to find that his servant had gone. Marlowe was shaken up by the man’s behavior; Robert had raised him since his parent’s untimely demise. Always maintaining a stoic and cold façade, the young man was used to his guardian’s eccentricities. He knew that for that outer shell to slip, something of the utmost importance was on the horizon.

The silk slippers that Marlowe wore on his feet made a slight scuffing sound as he took the first tentative step onto the wooden staircase leading down into the cellar. The instant his foot touched the rough wooden plank, the riser groaned in protest and he felt that hint of fear creeping back into his mind.

Looking down into the gloom below, Marlowe lamented the lack of lights in the basement. Heinrich, his father, had been the first Faust to embrace the electric light, a technological leap that had not included the cellar. The boy had always assumed it was for the benefit of the priceless collection of wines and rums stored under the estate.

Marlowe stood at the bottom of those stairs for the first time since he had run up them so many years ago. Things were different this time, instead of lighting a small candle for illumination, the young man made a gesture with his hand and uttered a few arcane words. With that Marlowe’s eyes burst into a blaze of fiery light, in the darkness ahead it appeared as if a pair of burning orbs floated effortlessly along the pathway. With his eyes heightened with the simple mystical spell, his vision cut through the oppressing shadows.

Normally, the sorcerer would detest such a frivolous use of his power when more conventional means were available. Secretly, the act of using his magic strengthened his will to undertake this exploration. He was still aware of the feeling that his movements were being observed by some unknown force, that old sensation of terror was quietly gnawing at Marlowe’s nerves.

He berated himself for letting such a childish fright affect him in such a way. In the years since that terrifying chase, Marlowe had delved into the occult studies of his forefathers. Communing with all manner of ghastly spirits and twisted souls, observed the tortures and punishment meted out to sinners after their souls pass on. Yet despite bearing witness to these things, here and now he still remained a boy afraid of the imagined horrors that wait in the dark.

Seemingly after an eternity, the young man came once again to the end of the pathway that snaked through the old wine racks. The dim light cascading down into the cellar was blocked out by the height of the shelves, yet he could still see clearly. Standing here, the feeling of being watched was at it’s strongest. Then Marlowe saw something out of the corner of his eye, there on the floor something carved in the floor.

A Sigil.

There on a perfectly rectangular granite slab, laid amongst the odd piece-mail shapes of stone that made up the floor. He dropped to the his knees in front of the engraved stone, not caring about the delicate fabric of his night clothes as he settled upon the smooth rock. The young man investigated the complex combinations of geometric shapes, arcane symbols and ancient letters.

The carving was done with masterful talent and tremendous patience. Each line was half the width of the boy’s small finger and three times as deep as it’s width. Marlowe ran his hands across the surface of the engraving as he tried to decipher the markings hidden within the seal.

A realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. “This is a true name sigil,” he nearly shouted. The ornate diagram contained within its lines the power to bind and control a supernatural being by knowing the creature’s true name. Marlowe had used many such seals in his study and bargaining, this ancient marking was like them yet markedly different. More ornate than any he had experience with.

He read to himself the translation of the outer ring of the Sigil.

“Being bound. Travel forbidden. Scrying blinded. Power siphoned. Commands obeyed.”

The boy studied the arcane text and knew why this seal was unfamiliar to him. It was not only a seal to summon and subjugate, but it also had the power to imprison and enslave the summoned creature. His eyes turned back to the center markings of the sigil. Hours passed as Marlowe knelt in the inky darkness, scrutinizing the cipher contained within the carved text.

As the pieces came together in his mind a name was formed…

“Avnas”

Merely thinking the name filled Marlowe with a sense of amazement and power. With this sigil, someone had summoned and commanded a being of an outer plane. Though not just someone, a Faust had, one of the forbearers of Marlowe’s mystical legacy.

In the dark, the boy’s hand collided with an object. He looked to the edge of the slab; nestled between the etched stone and its neighbor was a round iron bar. The cold metal rested just above the surface of the stone floor and as his eye was drawn along the edge where it rested, he saw another.

They were not iron bars at all.

They were hinges.

This was a door.

[Marlowe J. Faust]

Within the windowless private library, the young sorcerer poured over a selection of ancient tomes and grimories. Slowly, the young man leaned back into the padded leather cushion of his chair. His eyes burned from the hours upon hours he had spent reading the small tight handwriting that seemed to take up every inch of the yellowed antique parchment pages.

Marlowe closed his eyes momentarily and thought back upon his readings, hoping the rest would quiet the screaming ache inside his skull. Even when his vision was clouded by the darkness, the words translating the demon’s description seemed scorched upon his mind.

The antediluvian sorcerer Alsophocus penned in his Black Tome the following entry on the demon…

• “The Fifty-Eighth major spirit pronounceth herself ‘Avnas’ and beareth the honor of once being the chief concubine of the Arch Lord Mephistopheles. One of the few Great Beings that chooseth to bear the burdens of the female gender, though when she be summoned up from the depths she shall appeareth first in the form of an undulating Pillar of Fire. Upon commanding she putteth on the shape of man.
  
  Her office is to giveth the summoner wonderful knowledge in the Astrological and Alchemical Sciences. She giveth trustworthy and loyal familiars, and can betray Treasures kept secret by other spirits. She governth over thirty six legions of spirits, whose abilities a summoner can command through the Great Being.”

The “Black Tome” was the preeminent reference guide to dark spirits within his family’s expansive and quite comprehensive occult library. The book was an old English translation of the Latin version of Aslphocus’ original diaries, transcriptions of his summoning rituals and his communications with malevolent spirits. Most unsettling to the young man was the mere fact that the tome held so little information on the demon.

Also troubling was the newer notation added to the to musty page in a different handwriting.

• “There has been no evidence of a successful summoning of this spirit since the destruction of a Malandanti cult in Northern Italy in the year 1575. – J. Curwen 1770”

Marlowe turned back to the current passage he had been reading. The thick leather book’s iron hasps scraped lightly across the oak tabletop as he edged the book closer. Freidrich Von Junzt’s “Unaussprechlichen Kulten”, where he had followed the footnote and researched the Malandanti cult.

Scanning back over the portion that he had previously read, the warlock once again began reading at the discussion and commentary on the last known summons of the spirit “Avnas”

• “The Malandanti conjurers sought to call upon this demon, to build themselves and army. Seeking to enhance knowledge and mystical powers of the ranking members of the coven. The fragments of their writings leave immense holes in the verbal components for the incantation, and there is no copy of the warded Sigil used for the summoning. It would seem the ritual has been lost to the fires of the Roman Inquisition.
  
  Though the incantation and material components have been lost there does remain writing on the summoning itself. Below is a translation from the original Italian manuscript…
  
  Be warned those that seek an audience with this spirit, the pernicious smoke and fumes from her first chosen form may overcome those unprepared. Leaving the neophyte conjurer choking and helpless.”

The boy pushed away the book in disgust, the writing continued on about the destruction of the cult itself but contained no more on the demon or it’s summoning. With a sigh, Marlowe ran his hands though his cropped red hair, he was disappointed that he knew he could do no more on his own. The boy thought of the contacts at his disposal.

Though, before he would reach out to others, he would seek counsel.

The boy pulled open the top drawer of his desk and removed a tiny silver bell. The light tone echoed though the quiet chamber. Almost immediately, a knock on the study door came in response.

Marlowe spoke to his servant, without looking towards him. “Robert, please ready the necessary items. Tonight, I’ll converse with my father.”