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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Illumination (Mf pedo mc humil tort viol caution)
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Date: Thu, 18 Nov 2004 00:10:02 -0500
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Here I am, making like Talbot Mundy . . .


ILLUMINATION
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 1844
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



The book lay buried under volume 24 [W-X] of a thirty-year-old
encyclopedia. The two-for-a-dollar sidewalk bin in front of the Trendy
Reading Emporium was sometimes a treasure trove, though more often a
waste of time. But what in the hell was this old handwritten diary doing
there? The Scholar immediately sensed that it was grossly out of place --
an exotic flower growing atop a dungheap was the image that came to mind.

It was bound in fine-grained red leather, cracked and darkened by the
years.


    . . . hidden cleft 500 feet below the summit . . .

    The Kalipurna expedition was down to its last three oxygen bottles.
    In the rarified atmosphere at 27,000 feet, this compressed gas was
    literally the breath of life. Only our stolid native porters with
    their inscrutable dark eyes could survive for long without it.

    I set out alone that night, knowing our venture was doomed. Taking
    one of the precious oxygen cylinders, I left our pitiful little
    shelter under the rock overhang with a coil of rope over my shoulder,
    dying hope, and the tattered remnants of a vision.

    By the scant light of a three-quarter moon I laboriously made my
    way over the treacherous ridge leading toward an unseen summit. The
    thought of a cold, cleansing death was unbearably sweet to me in those
    moments, knowing that I was an outcast from home, family, and society.

    The temperature read -35 C, and the wind was at force 3.

    . . .

    All of it -- the pain and anguish, the shame, the notoriety, the
    loss of honor, the self-loathing -- had been precipitated by my
    overpowering passion for the little ones, for those delightful,
    but dangerously enticing creatures, for the unripe nymphs . . .

    Naught awaited me back there, back in so-called civilized society,
    aside from captivity, and what was euphemistically referred to as
    "rehabilitation." Escape into the purity of obliteration would be
    infinitely preferable.

    . . .

    It might have been a trick of the light. The moon had nearly set, and
    moving phantom-shadows obscured the rock face. A cave? No! Yes! There
    it was, just as it had come to me in dreams.

    Barely could I squeeze my body into the narrow crevice, encumbered
    as I was. The flickering illumination of the headlamp showed broken
    planes of rock, and . . . yes! There! Were those faint scratches
    on the far wall? Indeed. Scribings! Runes! I collapsed in exhausted
    gratitude onto my knees and wept.

    These were the signs! This was indeed the doorway I had sought for
    so long. Now it was just a matter of opening it, and the dreams had
    shown me the way. The ritual. The ritual of unbinding the Closure
    Between the Many Worlds.

    Blood. Such was the key. A knife swiftly drawn across the veins of
    my wrist, then the life elixir smeared in foreordained patterns over
    the markings. Now the chant! I struggled to recall the voice in my
    dreams, that keening child's falsetto. (There will come ILLUMINATION,
    and it will show the WAY.)

    No! Not enough! Help me! Must remember! Childhood recollections come
    vomiting up -- hopes and fears and shattered expectations. Whimpering
    in the night. Cold sweats. Throbbing rages. The time when . . . when
    HE had me in HIS absolute power, when HE overpowered me and SPREAD ME
    ASUNDER, unheeding of my terror, when HE FORCED HIMSELF INTO ME and
    ripped from me the flower of my youth, wounded my soul . . . DESTROYED
    me. There is immense power in the screams of a child (my OWN screams),
    and I REMEMBERED and SCREAMED my bloody outrage across the years. And
    LIGHT streamed into the cave. The barrier had fallen.

    Light. A gentle wind -- warm and softly caressing my cheek. Puddles
    of melted hoarfrost mirrored radiant glory and a brightly shining
    path led downward. There was abundant greenery in the distance and
    the sun lay molten gold in a blue azure sky. Dimly luminous figures
    were drawing near and there was a faint melody in the air. It was a
    song of mystery, and of welcome and exalting.

    Maidens! There were three young girls, tender nymphets in the early
    bloom of youth. Draped in garlands of purple flowers that showed
    hints of tantalizing pink beneath. Enticing, beckoning. (Something
    dark within me lusted in barely-controlled fury.)

    One of them -- the leader? -- extended a hand. "Come," she sang. "I
    am Moira. I am Fate."


Here pages had been torn out. The narrative continued.


    They are not human. Of this I am now certain. While they bear the
    outward aspect of prepubescent females, they must be ancient in days,
    and there is within them eldritch magic.

    The nightly ritual had, as usual, left me utterly depleted and
    insensible. Awakening, I could scarcely stand under my own power.
    Then did Moira enter the sleeping chamber. She, who had TAKEN me and
    drained my very life essence into her relentless unhaired slit. Now
    she gave me to drink an elixir, a restorative. "I am the Soul of
    the World," she sang. "I am the Path. I am the Giver of Life, and
    the Taker. This night I have Given."


More pages were missing.


    There had been a grim finality in what Moira sang to me. I, who had
    partaken of her and her sisters' flesh for so many turns of the cycle,
    knew that the time had come for Completion. Every journey must have
    an end, and so, too, mine.

    I have been prepared for the Ritual of Completion. Here is my cup
    to drink, and it contains -- so my Lover has sung -- exotic herbs
    and grasses, arcane mushrooms, and, to set free the magic in this
    noisome, bubbling brew, a cupful of blood, dark blood drawn from my
    own mortal veins.

    I will drink deeply, and . . .

    . . .

    The bonds have been loosened, and I have been granted a moment's
    surcease to write the following.

    It is not so much that I have been found wanting, but that my life,
    and the choices I have made in it are ACCURSED. The cup I was given
    to drink opened a window into my very soul, and I SAW. I looked
    for the first time upon the face of THE ONE who had murdered my own
    innocence so very long ago, and I saw. I SAW MY OWN FACE.

    I saw. I saw that by becoming a predator upon young maidens, I had
    condoned the CRIME upon my own younger self. I SAW. I stared into
    the abyss and saw MY OWN FACE there. I looked upon the Monster and
    saw that I HAD BECOME HIM.

    From the dizzying heights of newly-found insight, I looked downward
    upon my MONSTROUS ACTS, the RAPES OF THE SOULS of innocent girls.
    DIRTY! These acts were foul, and I was spreading FILTH. My soul
    was infested with the worms of self-loathing. I had become filth
    incarnate.

    DEGRADED. As I hung by my wrists from the tree that witnessed my doom,
    one of the Sisters had prodded my miserable body with the jagged
    end of a branch. Then She had pressed it into me, into my backside,
    deep into my OPENING, and I felt something tear within me as the blood
    ran down my thighs. I had been RAPED and RIPPED OPEN and HUMILIATED,
    and so brought down to the level of my own victims.

    I think of what might have been. Early in my childhood years, Mother
    had told me how very special I was, that I would be a torch to
    illuminate the world. Illuminate the world. Instead of illuminating
    the world, I have darkened it.

    There is nothing left to me in this life. Perhaps the Sisters shall
    grant me Completion if I ask. Perhaps I will beg this one favor
    of them.

    Thus sang Moira:

   "These children are flesh of our flesh, and nightly we hear their
    screams, undimmed by the chasm of the world-divide. And, You, the
    jackals, the predators upon their innocence, in turn We shall hunt
    you down in your dreams. We, the Furies, and in our wrath We bring
    you PAIN. We BLIGHT and CURSE the miserably twisted courses of your
    petty lives. We feed off the raw bitterness of your existence. We
    DEVOUR your souls."


Following more blank pages, there was written in pale purple pigment,
in a different hand:

    It took the emasculated and eviscerated HUMAN TORCH many hours to
    die in blazing glory, and he was screaming out his agony the entire
    time. Afterward, the expression on the shriveled remnants of his face
    was strangely calm. He had finally found peace. HE HAD ILLUMINATED
    THE WORLD.



The Scholar laid down the book. He pondered.

This was powerful stuff, powerful indeed. Compellingly real. Myth come
to life.

Oddly enough, there had been a rash of recent incidents of child molesters
castrating and gutting themselves, then ending their lives in a pyre
of flaming gasoline. They had reportedly been babbling to friends and
neighbors of the unendurable nightmares that haunted them. It was tempting
to think that supernatural intercession had a hand in that.

No! It was only a story, what purported to be a handwritten account
of a demented lunatic's paranoid fantasies in a make-believe land of
nubile goddesses. That the outcome of this parable of the Three Furies
was condign punishment only added to its immediacy. But it was only a
story. A flight of the imagination.

Only a story. The deranged fabrication of a deranged mind. Because if
it were not so, then . . .

    . . . a pedophile reading the tale might be expecting to have his
    lust slaked by graphic descriptions of unbridled sex with little
    girls. Instead, he would be cursed. Accursed and blighted in full
    measure in the sense only the ancient storytellers understood. The
    hapless child-molesting reader would suffer nightmares, find his
    virility compromised, might well be afflicted with unpredictable
    chronic impotence of the most aggravating sort. Might find his
    elemental life force diminished. Might be reduced to half a man,
    if, in fact, he were anything resembling a whole man before.

What should he do with this . . . thing? Toss it in the trash?
Surreptitiously slip it back into the bargain bin at the Trendy Reading
Emporium? Write it up for the "Annals of Abnormal Psychology"?

No. He knew what must be done. He had contacts at major publishing houses
who could help him get the book into print. And it would sell. It would
be a huge success. The public's fascination with the bizarre and morbid
would ensure that. And the power of the message would darken the life
of every "child-lover" that it touched.

The Scholar thought of the horror and dismay the book would let loose
amongst the pedo crowd. Good! Anything to strike back at that subhuman
scum. He owed this much, at least, to his daughter. His young daughter
who had been molested . . .

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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