#numinous spirit press

[tuiliel]

Also y'all should check out this tarot deck:

One of my favorite queer creators?? ✅

Gorgeous watercolor art?? ✅

Kitchen Witchery?? ✅

I think it's fully funded but damn this is Cedar McCloud's first deck in a while and I really want it to do well and I've been really excited about this project for Y E A R S

[solivar]

Ghost Stories On Route 66

Chapter 14

The sky simply did not look right -- had not, in fact, looked right since that morning, when the sun rose red above the eastern hills, hanging there like a baleful crimson eye glaring doom at the desert and everything living in it. The cloud wrack overhead swallowed it up shortly thereafter, vast, dark lenticulars piled miles into the sky and as far as the eye could see, curling around themselves like some massive, living thing looking for a place to set down its feet. When they parted enough to permit a glimpse of anything but themselves, the arch of heaven was the dangerously pale and sickly yellow that, in summer, was a precursor for heavy weather, hail and flooding rain, lightning and damaging winds, sometimes tornadoes. Now, at the tail end of October, almost November, that color sky and the savage, stifling heat the pressed down on the world beneath those clouds was unseasonal at best, unnatural at worst.

Nathaniel McCree, returning from battening down the animal enclosures, wished quietly that the storm, whatever kind it might be, would break. The waiting was always the worst part and this kind of waiting was particularly bad: every nerve alive and twitching, every sense physical and numinous straining to perceive something, anything. It put him far out of sorts.

A low rumble of thunder riding a hot gust of wind, the first to stir the ground level air since dawn, followed him up onto the ranch house’s back porch, set the wind-chimes hanging from the eaves to either side of the steps ringing with spirit-calling music. Also not a good sign: the chimes wouldn’t call in such a way if there was no need for them to do so. From inside, he heard a chair dragging across the kitchen floor and Yanaba came to the back screen door, stepped outside to join him. “Anything?”

“Nothing lurking around the barns, no.” A second gust, stronger than the first, rolled over them, strong enough to lift his wife’s heavy iron-and-pepper braid off her shoulder, and a louder, closer roll of thunder. “Readings settle down yet?”

“Not a bit.” She held the door open for him and he stepped inside, sliding the internal locks to keep the screen door in place but not yet closing the inner door.

The pieces of her rifle were still spread out across the kitchen table, along with her cleaning kit, a trio of 3D printers chugging away on the kitchen counters to produce her specialized ammunition. A fan of holoscreens, hanging just high enough not to be disrupted by her movements, displaying the current data provided by their web of sensor modules, a sphere of more than three hundred square miles of New Mexico, Arizona, and the multiple borders physical and more-than-physical they shared. The local telluric currents fluctuated violently across their surface, as unsettled as the ocean driven before a hurricane, the storm-surge passing through them and bleeding into the natural world in pulses that were slowly becoming more regular, more closely spaced together.

“Nothing’s opened up yet, but it’s only a matter of time now.” Yana remarked, evenly, as she slid the pieces of her weapon back together.

“So I see.” Nate fetched them both a cup of coffee and sat to help load her magazines once the rounds cooled and hardened enough to allow it, to watch the monitors and wait for whatever was coming to arrive.

When the storm finally broke, it did so with shocking speed and violence. The wind, gusting hotly against the shutters and the sides of the house, rose to a screaming sledgehammer as hot as the exhalations of a blast furnace, carrying with it sand and grit and something that might have been smoke and it took their combined strength to wrestle the inside door shut and bolt it in place against the force of it. Lightning, thus far not much in evidence despite the thunder, arced from cloud to cloud and fell in curtains rather than bolts, hanging suspended between earth and sky, visibly pulsing as they raked across the desert. Thunder literally shook the ground, rattled the windows in their casements and the bones in their bodies as they took cover under the kitchen table, the border wards embedded in the yard fence coming to life in an effort at blunting the storm’s ferocity. Wardfire danced with lightning and wind and the both broke around the house at least enough to keep the photovoltaic roof intact and feeding the power that let their monitors scream dire warning tones of imminent doom from overhead. Yanaba poked her head up and grabbed one.

“It’s close, whatever it is,” She muttered and reached up again, this time for her rifle.

“So I see.” The etheric patterns had coalesced from chaotic cross-sea waves into a single stable vortex that, even as they watched, imploded, sending a secondary shockwave rippling through the world beyond the world.

Outside, the storm itself visibly shuddered , the wind curling in on itself, voice dropping from a roar, the rotation of the clouds stuttering and slowing away from tornadic intensity. A torrential downpour followed, washing the dust and the heat and the taste of lightning out of the air, drumming on the roof and cutting fresh courses through the hard-packed dirt of the yard.

“You think something came through?” Yanaba asked, as she tossed him his ballistic vest and shrugged into her own.

“Only one way to be sure of that, darlin’,” Nate replied, and went to retrieve his medical kit.

The hoverjeep was, predictably, not having any of it so they loaded their gear into the back of the gas-drinker: emergency medical kit, detection and mitigation equipment, the larger of her several weapons, extra ammunition. Yanaba made him strap on his own freshly cleaned and loaded by her hands sidearm before she’d let him get in the vehicle and slid behind the wheel herself, because of the two of them her night vision was better and it was rapidly getting dark. The navigation system was at least not inclined to be pestiferous, interfacing smoothly with the house’s monitors and accepting the guidance data as they pulled out. “Last solid contact was about twenty miles north of here, in the hills near Nakaibito. We can take the 491 almost all the way there.”

The drive into the hills was entertainingly fraught, enlivened by heavy bands of rain lashing out of the entirely natural if unseasonable storms that followed hard on the northerly’s heels and broadside, straight-line winds nearly strong enough to blow them off the road. It grew even more so once they left the 491 for surface roads that hadn’t seen a lick of maintenance since hover technology took the lead in transportation and which were prone to being washed half-away by flash flooding and blocked by downed tree limbs and, ultimately, a pair of fallen trees that forced them to leave their vehicle a mile from their presumed destination and hike the rest of the way in.

Yanaba took point, as was her custom, her rifle slung for the moment in favor of a machete to cut through the leg-attacking ground cover and a hiking stick to brush aside things that didn’t need to be cut. Nate carried their handheld tracking and motion detection monitors, set to ignore their own movements, his own hiking stick that doubled as a heavy shock baton in a crunch, and a neatly organized pack of medical supplies. Even with the lightning arcing overhead, their lights and vision-enhancing gear, it was dark and the hike punishingly hard, the ground underfoot a sandy, boggy mire, the rain only barely starting to slack.

The motion detector sang its little rising-falling alarm tone. “Movement up ahead, ten yards. We’re almost there, darlin’ so --”

Underbrush rustled, far closer than ten yards away and with the passage of something much more solid than falling rain, and Yanaba traded her machete for a machine pistol, flipping on some extra light as she did so. Yellow-green eyes flickered in the darkness and a muzzle covered in wet silver-gray fur, a long, slender body vanishing among the junipers and ground cover in the blink of an eye.

“Whatever that was, it didn’t register on the motion detector but it did cause an etheric ripple.” Nate observed, mildly, and moved to his wife’s shoulder.

“So not actually a coyote, then.” The safety on her gun clicked firmly off. “Stay close.”

They set off in the direction the not-coyote had vanished, the sound of water roaring down a no-longer-dry arroyo rising loud enough to drown out the rain beating on the thirsty ground and the thunder still echoing among the canyons. Another sound joined it, as they came within a short stone’s throw of their destination: high and thin, a wordless wail of cold and tired and hungry .

Yanaba froze and he had to check his stride to avoid walking into her. “You heard that, right?”

“Yes, I did. Came from over thataway.” He showed her the motion detector, where a single pulsing contact glittered like a star they were probably going to have to shoot.

They proceeded carefully, Nate automatically moving to flanking position, Yanaba snapping her tactical visor into place to aid targeting in the somewhat less than optimal firing conditions. A second cry rose, closer, and it was by virtue of his place behind and off to the side that he saw its source before she did -- a huddled bundle on the edge of the arroyo, inches from the rushing water gnawing steadily away at the muddy bank. “Darlin’, it’s over here.”

The bundle shivered slightly, and he turned a targeting beam directly on it: a ratty towel, either dark to begin with or darkened with blood and mud and wet, wrapped around something small, moving weakly. A third cry, even thinner and more tired than the first too, rose from up, along with an audible gurgle and cough. Nate crossed to it and knelt, lifted the edge of the towel and dropped it back, hurriedly pulling down his own visor and activating its physical and psychic defense structures; they helped wash the afterimages of what he just saw out of his brain before they could take hold. “Leave your visor on, defense mode active. It’s...I’m not sure what it is, but it’s tiny.”

“Nate, what are you --” Yanaba came through the brush at his back and froze as he opened the towel completely, exposing the thing it was wrapped around to merciless light and enhanced vision gear.

“It’s a baby. ” Nate finally managed, after a moment of stunned silence. “Umbilicus is still attached -- still some blood in it, even. Fresh out of the wrapper. How the --”

“Nathaniel McCree, step away from that thing now. ” Yanaba’s voice was low and tight.

He shrugged out of his backpack. “Just a minute, darlin’. Gotta find something to wrap --”

“ Nate. ” Her voice somehow managed to tighten another notch. “ Get back.”

He glanced over his shoulder and found the muzzle of her rifle leveled with the bundle, her mouth an expressionless line beneath her visor. “Yanaba -- it’s a baby. ” He checked again. “ He’s a baby. Can’t be more than a few hours old. Whatever happened -- however he came to be here -- he didn’t do it himself. He’s not the threat here.”

“That is an infant naayéé , Nate. It’s only innocent now , because it can’t bite you in half yet. ” The tightness was giving way to exasperation. “Step away. I promise I won’t let it suffer.”

“He. Not it. He .” Very deliberately he opened his pack and very deliberately removed an emergency support bubble which he very deliberately inflated and began running the internal readiness diagnostics and very deliberately removed the little bundle of squirm and too many limbs and a head that wasn’t shaped quite right from his ratty old towel and placed him in said bubble, which immediately began scanning to determine his medical intervention needs. “And he’s human enough that I’m getting readings here and indicators that he’s suffering from exposure and dehydration and borderline hypothermia. So it’s possible that he’s been out here since he was born.”

“The mother probably abandoned it when she saw what it was.” Yanaba said, after a long, uncomfortably silent moment broken only by the emergency support bubble’s assorted diagnostic tones. She lowered her weapon and flipped on the safety. “It’s a monster , Nate.”

“A baby monster.” He looked up from the diagnostic panel. “You see any tracks coming in?”

Yanaba snorted. “In this mess? Fuck no, are you kidding? ”

“Not even coyote tracks.” Nate replied, and initiated the processes that would provide hydration and nutrients and bring the little bundle of squirm back to a safe and healthy core body temperature.

Yanaba was silent for a moment. Then, ungrudgingly, “It did lead us here. Not that that doesn’t mean that some one or some thing isn’t elaborately fucking with us.”

“Point.” He tucked the towel into a biohazard bag and vacuum sealed it. “That’s something we can figure out once we get back to civilization, don’t you think?” He tried it and, to his surprise, the bubble’s internal antigrav units were willing to work; it lifted off the ground to easy physical guidance range.

“Nate…” She sighed. “Don’t get attached. All I ask. Please. ”

“I’ll try, darlin’.” He reached out for her hand, and she gave it to him. “I think we should call him Jesse. He looks like a Jesse.”

He was pretty glad her other hand was too full of rifle to hit him.

*

Hanzo attempted to arrange is face into an expression that wasn’t unadulterated horror and felt himself failing completely. “You -- your parents --”

“Yeah.” The ranger’s smile was small and sad and the pain behind it lodged in Hanzo’s throat; he found himself unable to swallow or speak past it. “My mother, at least, and I can’t really say I blame her -- I’ve seen the pictures of what I looked like back then. Screamin’ and runnin’ is probably the least of what I’d do.”

“That...that is not funny , Jesse.” Hanzo’s voice sounded strangled in his own ears.

“C’mon now, darlin’ -- it’s a little funny.” Another small, sad smile.

“ No. ” He wished, at that moment, that he had more limbs of his own to hold him with. “What happened -- well, I know what happened, your grandmother must have --”

“Nana McCree was pretty hardcore, I’ll admit. Came from a long and illustrious line of monster-hunters on her mama’s side of the family and, bein’ the only daughter of her parents, took the responsibilities pretty seriously. She and Pop Pop tried to have kids of their own, but it never took, so she ended up training two of her nieces to continue the family business. We...don’t really get along that well.” The smile vanished so completely it was like it had never been. “By the time they found me, Nana was past childbearing -- past sixty, both of them, even though they were pretty spry and still doing the work of helping patrol and protect their chunk of the desert around where they lived. They owned a little ranch outside Gallup, which is a ways to the west of here, near the Arizona border. But, no matter how spry they were, nobody was going to believe Nana gave birth to me, so grandparents it was. They also knew pretty quick that they were going to need some help, so they called a couple old friends before the week was out…”

*

Gabe and Jack arrived under cover of darkness within a couple days of the call, rolling in on a moonless midnight driving a vehicle with all its transponder signals carefully spoofed and using a pair of their more load-bearing alternate identities to travel under. Nate appreciated both the speed and the discretion, if not being woken up by Gabriel ghosting through a crack in the defenses and poking him in the ribs barely an hour after he laid his head on the pillow.

“Boo.” Gabe had more eyes open than should be allowed by law and was wearing his widest, fangiest grin, which was a version of him only his husband really enjoyed waking up to. “How’s it hanging, old man? Jack and I understand that you’ve got gremlin issues.”

“You made good time.” Nate glanced over his shoulder at Yanaba, sleeping undisturbed, and decided to leave it that way -- it was technically his duty rotation, after all. “Where’s your man?”

“Waiting out on the porch with our gear.” Gabe stepped back and Nate rolled out of bed, slipping into his robe and slippers and padding downstairs to open the door.

As promised, Jack was waiting surrounded by duffle bags and equipment cases, his visor and implants engaged to give him a reasonable approximation of vision, back to the door and gazing out over the yard and the surrounding outbuildings. He turned as the door opened, and grinned that tight-lipped grin of his, and let himself be pulled into an embrace. “Good to see you, too, Nate. Gimme a hand with this?”

“Surely.” They schlepped all the gear into a corner of the sitting room, got them settled there for the nonce, and Nate fetched coffee for himself and Jack, who appeared to need it at least as much as he did. “Thank you for coming -- I know it was short notice but Yana and I could really use an extra couple hands and brains right now.”

“We got that impression from all the screaming, yeah.” Gabriel replied, and waved off an offer of something stronger.

Jack drank deeply and then set his cup aside. “So...what happened?”

Nate took a deep breath and told them. They started exchanging speaking glances about halfway through his recitation and by the time he was done, Jack was regarding him with naked concern. “Why didn’t Yanaba just shoot it?”

“Nate wouldn’t let me.” Yanaba answered that question for herself, padding down the stairs in her own nightclothes and stepping into a hug from Gabriel. “I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you can figure out how to feed it.”

“It hasn’t eaten in a week?” Gabriel asked, a faint hint of alarm in his tone.

“He’s sleepin’ in a support bubble -- it’s keeping him hydrated and feedin’ him liquid nutrients but that’s not makin’ in him very happy. ” Nate replied tiredly. “Mostly he’s like any other infant and spends most of his time sleepin’ and eatin’ and makin’ diapers but when he’s awake? Y’all will know it.”

It was almost on cue. From upstairs there came a high, thin, shivery wail, a sound that crossed a multitude of borders, and the wards built into the walls and foundation and the fence outside came to life in order to contain its force. Gabriel’s whole shape shimmered for a moment in response, swirling shadows and dark owl wings and too many eyes, before it stabilized back into something mostly human. He took the stairs two at a time as he went up and left the rest of them scrambling in his wake, a not uncommon occurrence, and by the time they caught up he was leaning over the support bubble, hands pressed flat and spread across the plassteel hood, gazing down at its contents. The contents were kicking and flailing assorted limbs but not crying any more, which was a welcome thing after so many days.

“Be careful.” Yanaba said sharply as Gabriel reached down and unlocked the hood, sliding it back.

“Always am.” Gabriel cooed, the tone clearly meant for the bundle of squirm. “Hey, bebé , look at you . Look at all those toes -- that’s a lot of toes. So many toes. We’re going to have to do something about that but for now…?”

He reached down and picked the bundle of squirm -- whom Nate was trying very hard not to call Jesse in Yanaba’s hearing -- and cuddled him against his chest. There wasn’t a onesie on Earth meant to accommodate that shape, not even a sleep sack, but they’d managed to jury-rig an effective diaper and procured a soft lambswool blanket to wrap him in. He kicked a little against Gabe’s chest, and an appendage that was far too bonelessly flexible and weirdly jointed to be properly described as a hand wrapped itself around his fingers as he stroked the baby’s face gently and dragged them into his mouth.

“ Wow , that’s a lot of teeth , too.” Gabe pressed a kiss to the baby’s approximation of a forehead. “A lot of teeth. What do you need so many sharp teeth for, bebé? ”

“Traditionally, the naayéé consume human flesh and blood.” Yanaba deadpanned. “And from a fairly early age at that.”

“Well, that’s not going to work, now is it?” Gabriel nuzzled the little critter again and made no move to pull his fingers away from teeth that were, while tiny, multitudinous, needle-sharp, and entirely capable of reaching the bones of the unwary; Nate had spent some time with his hand under a biotic field emitter as testimony to that fact. “You don’t need to eat people, you know? There’s lots of other nice things to eat. You can have those teeth later if you need them but for now can we try something else, little one? Come on, I know you can do it. Let me see you --”

A fruity little giggle rose out of the bundle in Gabriel’s arms, a sound so perfectly sweet and pure and human that even Yanaba peeked in when he carried the bundle over to them. He still had too many limbs and that head with its enormous sealed-shut eyes and weird shape was still the sort of thing that would induce nightmares in the unprepared but now, instead of a mouthful of meat-eater teeth, it had rosy gums and drool and lips stretched into a wide, sweet smile.

“He’s probably going to need something more substantial than just formula.” Gabriel said, and let him have his fingers to gnaw on again.

“We’ve got goat milk that hasn’t become cheese yet.” Yanaba suggested, and looked astonished at herself.

“If you’ve got any fresh red meat to puree for enrichment, that might be a good idea, too. He’s pretty hungry.” Gabriel looked up, a little smile settled on his face. “What’re you calling him?”

“We’re not,” said Yanaba at the same moment Nate said, “Jesse.”

“Jesse. Jessito. Yeah, I can see that.” Gabriel cooed again and was rewarded with another sweet monster-baby giggle. “He even looks like a Jesse. Jack, I think we’re going to have to stay awhile.”

“Yeah, I saw that one coming.” Jack gave Yanaba a look comprised of equal parts resignation and amusement. “I think we’re outnumbered and outflanked here, Yana.”

“ Obviously. ” Yanaba sighed, and went downstairs to liquify a steak.

*

“Gabe was convinced from the start that at least one of my parents was human, because he got my teeth to go away that night just by askin’ nicely.” Jesse was steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. “It took him the best part of three months to get me into a totally human shape and he’s been kinda smug about that ever since because the smart money said it wasn’t possible at all. Most of the old-time naayéé weren’t real human-lookin’ no matter who their mothers were, with a few exceptions, and they were...really pretty special exceptions. But Gabe’s nothin’ if not stubborn and he wasn’t willing to give up on the point, because it probably would have become a matter of life and death eventually.”

“Your grandmother,” Hanzo said, his mouth dry, the question not quite willing to form on his tongue. “She wouldn’t have...”

“Nana? Nah. For all her telling Pop Pop not to get attached, she took hold pretty hard herself. Used to say that I grew on her like saddle mold.” An amused little snort. “The rest of the local family wasn’t so keen, particularly when it became clear I was human on the outside only and that was pretty early.”

“That isn’t true.” Hanzo said, and silently willed him to meet his eyes, a signal he clearly did not receive.

“True enough for government work.” Dryly. “It became clear because I killed things without even trying hard. Or meaning to.”

Hanzo opened his mouth and closed it again without any of the possible sounds trying to crowd their way up his throat making it past his lips. Jesse, mercifully, didn’t notice.

“It was little things at first -- bugs, mostly. Scorpions are pests, y’know, and finding them all shriveled up just meant they could be swept out instead of squished. Spiders. I hated spiders when I was little. I think I might’a had a bit of a complex about things with too many legs. I’d just...look at ‘em hard and they’d keel over. I was too little to make the logical connection and it happened too fast for anyone else to see it for the longest time.” His eyes dropped closed. “One day when I was five, almost ready to go to school, one of the goats I was playin’ King of the Hill with butted me off the side of a rock with a bit more enthusiasm than usual and...it hurt. Skinned knee, bloodied lip, I was scared and mad and it came pourin’ out of me and before I could stop it everything for a hundred feet around me just...died. Everything -- the goats, the plants in the field, birds fell out of the sky. Gabe came running when he heard me screaming and caught it with both barrels -- he’s not particularly killable but I still hurt him badly enough that it took him the best part of two days to reform. Nana tranqed me from range and they bound me up in wards until they could figure out what it was and how to control it.” A tiny, humorless smile. “That was mostly Jack and Nana -- control and precision were the gifts they gave me.”

“You were so young -- you must have been so frightened .” At five, he had been aware of the interest Uncle Toshiro had in him, but was still too young to fully appreciate what it meant beyond the specialness of it.

“More scared that I was going to hurt someone else.” His voice was rough and when he opened his eyes there was a hint of moisture around their rims that had not been there before. “I told Nana and Pop Pop I didn’t want to go to school and they agreed that it was probably a good idea for me to stay away from other kids until I was old enough to keep my emotions under control.” A pause. “Y’know, this is the furthest I’ve ever gotten with this conversation? Normally by the time I get to the whole baby monster cured by my terrifying smoke Dad bit, it’s all over.”

Which confirmed at least one suspicion. Hanzo’s heart ached and he said, quietly, “We don’t have to continue if you don’t want to -- I can see how much this pains you.”

“It’s almost a good kinda hurt, darlin’.” One of the ranger’s hands found his and squeezed tightly. “Of course, the rest of the family found out. And there was a blow-up between Nana and the eldest of her nieces, Maritza, who lived on the Rez and was one of the local hunter-protectors. A bunch of hard words were said and they never did reconcile, which was a problem in the long run.” Finally, finally, those dark eyes turned to him. “Gabe and Jack stayed with us until I was ten, which was longer than they’d stayed in any one place for years, and probably about two years longer than was technically safe for any of us.”

“How did they know each other? Your grandparents and Gabe and Jack?” The question came out before he could stop it.

“They served together in an international unit under the auspices of the United Nations. Ana and Rein and a handful of others, too. Technically it was an all-volunteer outfit, it’s just that all the volunteers had particularly refined and unusual skill sets that allowed them to meet the parameters of their mission -- which was, actually, keepin’ things from Beyond out of this world or, if they managed to wiggle their way in, evictin’ them again with extreme prejudice.” Again, the smile that crossed his face had little in the way of humor in it. “Gabe and Jack got into their current condition in the line of duty and, while it took a long time, the DoD finally got around to acknowledging that fact, which is why they get to stay here unmolested now. For a while that wasn’t true, and they had to keep movin’ in order to stay ahead of the people assigned to determine exactly how hard to kill they really were. Lingerin’ as long as they did, even in the geographical ass-end of nowhere, was a huge risk for them t’take and I’ve never --” He stopped, swallowed hard, continued on. “I’ve never quite felt that I deserved it. Gabe hates that, but it’s true.”

*

Two days after his tenth birthday, Jesse sat on top of the ranch house roof and watched the men he called Papi and Jack drive away -- waited, point in fact, until there was nothing left to see of their vehicle, even with the running lights on, and there was no real reason left to stay. When he climbed back down, he dug out the wards that they made for him and which he hadn’t needed at all for going on two years and put them back on. Nate was proud of the maturity and self-knowledge that took, and also worried enough that, when he went into town for the next few weeks, he made sure there were enough chores available to keep Jesse busy. Fortunately, none of the MiBs who’d been sniffing around came to the ranch while he wasn’t home and, a few weeks later, they faded away entirely, chasing other leads.

When Jesse turned eleven, he also started to grow. He’d always been on the lean and lanky side, all knees and elbows and feet just big enough to trip over if he wasn’t being careful, but now, seemingly overnight, he shot up ten inches and outgrew almost all his clothes, his shoes, and his bed. He took a positively unholy joy in being taller than Yanaba for the first time ever, a fact about which she grumbled and smiled, because it was something that made him demonstrably happy , a thing he’d had in short supply for quite some time. The spring between eleven and twelve, he decided he’d like to try going to school in town again and so they enrolled him and requested that his records be transferred over from the online academy where he’d studied his academics thus far.

By twelve, he was starting to fill out in across the shoulders and chest, a good two inches taller than Nate, and more alone than he’d ever been, for all that he was now going into town every day and spending most of it with kids his own age. Maritza’s children lived there with her ex and they had been warned, in general terms, not to mix with their not-cousin because he wasn’t right -- a warning they helpfully shared with the peers they’d known all their lives, and the precise dimensions of the not-right-ness grew in the telling as it passed among them. Jesse put his head down and held his tongue and put the wards back on and concentrated on his studies: he was the sort of student every teacher loved, the kind that didn’t have to be nagged to do the reading or turn in his homework on time, and while he was never going to love math for its own sake, he at least tolerated it for its relationship to science (which he enjoyed) and music (which he was good at and enjoyed). The librarian was his best friend that year, feeding his appetite for books, for worlds he could escape into that were at least different than the one he presently occupied, and he made her a lovely thank you card that he handed back with the last of them at the end of the year. After that, he saw no reason to return, not so dedicated to the idea of having friends that he was willing to suffer the slings and arrows of adolescent cruelty to search them out. Loneliness was a grief he was used to, after all, and he could learn just as well at his terminal in the study.

In the winter between thirteen and fourteen, Nate began to feel his age -- not that he hadn’t been feeling it before but those long, dark months were colder and wetter than most and his joints let him know about it at length. Jesse effortlessly picked up his slack, for which he was eternally grateful, rising early to tend the animals and put on the coffee, walking miles of fence to check and maintain the integrity of the physical and numinous barriers, moving his terminal into the living room so he could run errands in the house and do his schoolwork at the same time. Yanaba fussed over him to excess, which he tolerated to the best of his abilities, and so did the boy, which gave them time together on a daily basis that they used to improve his emergency medical skills, to work on the little handicrafts that they both favored when they were too tired to think, to read their way through each others’ lists of favorite novels. They were, in fact, halfway through Lonesome Dove , one of Nate’s all-time favorites, the afternoon he started to feel a touch dyspeptic and then a little nauseous, and then a lot tired. The last thing he saw, as the world started going light around him, was Jesse reaching for him, and the look on his face.

Nate’s will stipulated cremation, which was duly accomplished, and his ashes brought home in a ceramic urn glazed the deep blue of the night sky over the desert mixed with tiny flecks of silver. For the first month after, Jesse and Yanaba drifted around the ranch like ghosts themselves, doing what needed to be done mostly on autopilot, numb and gray with grief. Toward the middle of the second, they began bumping into each others’ edges again, became aware of one another, and came back together to do more than just function. Just you and me now became the fulcrum around which their lives turned and they made the effort to keep it that way, sitting together in front of the fireplace to do coursework assignments and read novels, to watch a new old movie on the holotank, to do the 3D design work for Jesse’s own custom ammunition, built around his strengths and the nature of the power running in his veins. They both knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be taking up Yanaba’s half of the household’s self-chosen duties, no matter how little Maritza liked it, because there were things abroad in the desert by night and day that would answer to no ordinary bullets.

Yanaba caught a cold at the tail end of spring that nagged her relentlessly all through the summer. It settled in to stay as summer faded into autumn, sapping her strength to the dregs, forcing her to spend more time abed in the mornings than she liked, and finally whole days abed, feverish and too weak to stand. She didn’t want him to call an ambulance, or to go to the hospital, didn’t want to leave him alone on the ranch, not because she didn’t trust him but because she feared what would happen to him if she did. Jesse tended to her with all the skill he’d been taught over the years but there was one thing he lacked: a true healer’s touch that could have chased what troubled her away when even the biotic emitters did nothing but help her hold ground. And that he did not have, and never would, because healing was not his gift. In late October, just after his fourteenth birthday, as his grandmother lay sleeping the feverish, restless sleep of an invalid, he did the one thing he had dreaded more than anything else and called Maritza, to beg for her help. She and her eldest sons, the not-cousins who’d been a year or two ahead of him in school, arrived four hours later and an ambulance from town shortly thereafter. Before she left, as they were loading her onto the litter, she took him by the hand and made him swear his vows to her and sealed the promise he gave with her own. Maritza went with the ambulance, in her own hoverjeep; the not-cousins stayed behind, and after dinner Jesse retreated to his room, ill at ease and not entirely sure why.

He woke, sometime in the dark hours after midnight, to the sound of voices drifting up from downstairs -- quiet but clearly audible, because if the house’s heating system did anything, it carried sound.

“Everything’s ready?” That was Maritza, low and soft and somehow more dangerous for it.

“Yeah.” The Eldest of the not-cousins. “Aunt Yanaba had a lot of the things we needed already in her kit. No real need to go searching for them.”

“That’s because she knew that this would need to be done eventually and prepared to do it.” Crisply, cool, and the calm certainty of it turned the blood to ice in his veins, chased the last traces of sleep from his mind. “What is it, Chase?”

“Mom...are you sure about this? I mean -- if this was what he wanted, if this was his fault , why’d he call for help? All he had to do was wait .” The Younger of the not-cousins, who’d been almost nice to him at dinner and offered to help with the dishes and clearly wanted to talk to him but got glared off by his big brother. “If he were... hurting people it’d be one thing but he’s --”

“ Naayéé , Chase. A monster in human shape like that thing Yanaba called his father.” Her voice cooled and hardened and Jesse was already dressed and pulling on his hiking boots, dragging the bug-out bags that Gabe insisted he have packed and ready to go out of the back of his closet. “That’s all he is and all he can ever really be, no matter what he might look like -- if anything, they helped make him worse because now it’s hidden instead of written on his flesh like it should be. Do you want to wait for him to show it before something’s done about him?”

Silence. Jesse eased his window open, put the first bag on the back porch roof and reached for the second. The warmest of his jackets was downstairs hanging by the door and there was nothing to be done for that, so he pulled on another flannel shirt and the pair of gloves sitting on the chest of drawers.

“No. No, but --”

“No buts. We can’t hesitate in this -- not the way Yanaba did. She died thinking this thing loved her --”

The sound of pain that came out of him was completely involuntary, choked off as quickly as he could, and it was already too late.

“What was that?”

“Not sure -- he’s been upstairs since just after dinner. Sleeping the last time I checked. You want me to…?”

“Yes. Chase, stay here.”

Footsteps on the stairs but Jesse was already sliding off the porch roof after his bags, whispering the charm that Gabe taught him that would call the shadows, make him physically indistinct, mask his trail from even the most determined prying magic or skilled tracking. He thought Chase caught a glimpse of him as he vaulted the yard fence but, if he did, he held his tongue and stayed where he was; it was a small enough thing to be grateful for but Jesse never forgot it and repaid it as best he was able when circumstances allowed. That night, however, he thought of nothing but the best route to take across the desert and into the hills, as far from what remained of his not-really-family as he could get before the sun rose.

*

“Nana and Pop Pop had a little place up in the hills -- callin’ it a cabin was exceedingly generous but it had cots to sleep on and a wood-burnin’ stove for heat and cooking and a well for water. We went up twice a year to make sure the roof hadn’t caved in and nothing had gotten into the supplies we kept there, so I knew there’d be enough to keep me alive for awhile.” Jesse continued, evidently completely oblivious to the amount of pressure being exerted on his hand and the tiny sounds of distress forcing their way up Hanzo’s throat. “It took me three days to get there by a roundabout route and --”

“Your family was going to kill you.” Hanzo finally managed to grind out, around the equal parts sorrow and fury fighting for control of his tongue.

He was silent for a long moment after that outburst, his shoulders curving inward, head bowed enough that his hair almost completely shielded his face. When he spoke, it was with a weariness that carried the weight of years. “They weren’t my family. Not really. Never were. To them I was just a thing that shouldn’t have been allowed to grow as big as it did.” He looked up, dark eyes tired, and took Hanzo’s hand in both of his own. “To give them the minimal credit they deserve, they thought it was me -- that I’d finally shown my true colors, drank Pop Pop and Nana’s souls for their power, and then tried to cover my tracks by playin’ the lovin’, concerned adopted grandson.”

“I’m not so certain that’s something they deserve.” Hanzo said fiercely. “How could they believe that -- even if they didn’t know you, they should have known your grandparents better than that.”

“My grandparents went soft, and took an unnatural thing under their roof, because it was a baby when they found it. If they’d put one of Nana’s monster-killing rounds through my forehead or strangled me in the cradle, that they’d have understood. Because that’s what they should have done -- a naayéé that’s too small to be much of a danger to deal with is a blessing not to be cast aside.” Dryly. “I don’t blame them for what they wanted to do. It was their responsibility to the world and the people in it, as they saw it.”

I will, Hanzo thought, but did not say, instead reaching out to brush the hair out of his ranger’s face. “It’s good that you know better, at least. That the people who love you know better.”

Jesse was silent for a long moment, his eyes closed and his cheek pressed into Hanzo’s palm. “It’s gettin’ pretty late in the day -- we should probably get you back to the hacienda before sundown.”

“I have no quarrel with that.” Hanzo pushed creakily to his feet, his knees issuing a crackling series of objections over being forced to move after kneeling on cold stone for so long, and offered his ranger a hand up, as well, which he accepted. “It’s been a...very long day.”

Jesse levered himself to his feet, swaying a bit at first, and then a bit more, and then Hanzo stepped into him and put his arms around his waist to help keep him steady and upright. “It’s okay -- I’m alright -- just a little dizzy. Must’a stood up too fast.”

“Hold onto me. Tighter, I’m not so fragile as all that.” Hanzo freed a hand long enough to scoop up his bag, one arm around his ranger, the ranger’s arm around his shoulders. “Walk with me. Have you eaten anything today? How long have you been here?” A thought occurred to him. “You didn’t sleep all the way through last night and then you -- you must be completely exhausted. ”

Binky peered around the gate as they approached it and boofed softly in greeting.

“So that’s how you found me.” Jesse sounded amused, and tired. “I grabbed something before I left the house, yeah.”

“But you haven’t slept again.” For the first time, he regretted stashing his phone so deep in his bag. “Do you think you can make it back walking?”

“My place is closer. We can call you a pick up from there.” Binky, thankfully, both knew the way and took point.

“Just me? Did I snore too much for you?” Hanzo asked, trying for light and landing considerably short.

“Nah. Slept like a rock. Just thought -- I just figured…” His voice drifted off and, once again, he refused to meet Hanzo’s eyes. “This has all been a lot.”

The ranger’s house came into view in the deepening twilight and, for the moment at least, Hanzo chose to let it lie there while he used Jesse’s keys to undo the locks and guide his ranger inside, through the kitchen and down the hall into his bedroom. Once there, his ranger seemed incapable of resisting the gravitational pull of his pillows, sitting down on the edge of the bed and folding to his side with a soft groan. Hanzo hesitated for a moment, then took off his boots and helped him out of his cloak and jacket. Jesse stubbornly held onto the one and Hanzo spread the cloak back over him as an extra blanket, since it seemed to give him such comfort, and went to hang his jacket on the pegs next to the door. And to relock the door, which gave him a ridiculous amount of comfort, almost as much as the sight of Binky stretched his full length on the world’s most comfortable couch, with a pillow under his head and the throw-blankets pulled down over him. “Are you allowed to sleep there? Yes? Okay, I won’t chase you then.”

Genji had sent approximately four hundred texts in the last few hours, none of which he bothered to read before replying with one of his own. Completely safe. Found the ranger. We’re at his house w/Binky right now. Probably best to stay here for the time being? He’s totally exhausted.

His brother responded while he was eating cold leftover eggs and salsa straight from the storage container. Gabe says yes, the ranger’s place is at least as secure as the hacienda. He or somebody or him and more than one somebody will come down to help stand watch shortly. Are you sure you’re okay????

Yes. He paused, considered, continued. Send my tablet and bag along with? I’m expecting some results back from the archive.

Will do. Stay safe, aniki.

Of course.

His ranger was fully asleep by the time he returned to the bedroom, curled around himself on his side, wrapped completely in his cloak. Hanzo drew the rest of the covers over him, debated silently with himself for a moment, then shucked off his own shoes and overshirt, and lay down next to him, not quite touching, close enough to do so if necessary. Jesse stirred slightly and half-woke, eyes dark and drowsy as they met his own. “You don’t have t’do this, y’know?”

“What?” Hanzo asked, puzzled.

“You don’t have to…” His eyes drifted closed again, and his voice drifted away, and Hanzo decided he didn’t really want to know the answer, not when the pain that drove it was so clear. Instead, greatly daring again, he wrapped an arm around his ranger’s waist and counted his breaths until the slow, even rhythm of them lulled him down into sleep, as well.

*

When he woke, they were no longer alone.

[jirnkirks]

pt 1: tigers & locked tomb au

lyctorhood suited lottie poorly.

i went a little off the rails and wrote a short locked tomb au for lottie & famous 😔 this is one of my fave fics of the year i think. famous & lottie siblings forever btw.

spoilers for gideon the ninth's ending

lottie ceilingfan (lovelot triskelion) & famous: 3rd house

Lyctorhood suited Lovelot Trikahelion poorly. It roiled in aer like the whiskey ae learned Famous loved to drink too deeply. It was a furious thing, a despairing thing. Lyctorhood was Famous Trise in all their wretched, blazing glory, screaming and railing as they locked themselves in the cage of Lottie's eyes.

Lovelot was named for aer eyes- rose pink and numinous, fitting for the heir of the Third House. And now the sloe-eyed pink is frosted in Famous' pale grey, deepening, no- pulsating around the aorta of aer pupils.

And it's true- it is Famous' uncanny eyes that flit about the Gentle Emperor's ship. It is Famous' surety pressed between aer palms and the handles of their hatchets, their rank disrespect needled through their aer teeth when the Emperor Undying turns his kind face towards aer.

Quiet, quiet, Lottie begs for the first, for the ninth, for the infinitely many times since ae had pinned their heart down. Pressed Famous between aer molars and down aer esophagus, held them in aer guts until Lottie had reconstructed two into one. Infinite, because everyday ae wished they would stop speaking from aer own nerves and sinew, and come from beside aer instead. The first because Lovelot will take it back each time, because this is the closest ae will have to their viper tongue and sharp wit. Because Famous had given to themselves to aer- not to the Emperor Undying, not as the shining dead of the Third House nor to the promises to Queen Melusine Trihelia of the Third House. To Lottie, and even if it had been the hardest thing, it had been the surest thing. Their sister, in all but name. Aer brother, in all but name.

Their spirit roiled and heaved, because Famous could not stop themselves, even if it was sorry for the wretchedness it seeded in their necromancer. Famous stomped to their death, wretched and sure and Lottie walks into lyctorhood the same way, carrying two hearts on the pink of aer tongue.

[tootkin-goblin]

The Numinous Tarot by Cedar McCloud is very good (website of the author :

)

due to woke the hanged man tarot card is being replaced by the hung woman

[croneboulder]

Ya bitch got some new stuff from Numinous Spirit Press!!

I got the Numinous Tarot during its first edition on Kickstarter, and have been highkey watching for more stuff from Cedar, and as you can see, did some splurging. I’m now a patron on their patreon, and will edit this post once I figure out how to get a link to share off the app lmao

ANYWHO, the new decks are The Uncertain Oracle and the Threadbound Oracle, and they’re both gorgeous as always!! Cedar’s style has gotten more refined and I’m loving it.

I also got some Numinous related other shit 👀 namely a deckbag and a spreadcloth. The first edition box is a lil bulky and the stuff in it barely fits (I’ve heard this has been fixed in later editions!), so this was a definite upgrade. Also, if you’ve been following me for entirely too long, you’ll remember that I washed the spreadcloth I got from the kickstarter, like a fucking idiot, and the pink turned kinda grey-blue. 🙃 SO!! New spread cloth, and its CUTE.

[coldalbion]

“[T]he goês essentially becomes a daimon; that is, the goês is transformed by their relationship with the spirits and, much like the Idaean dactyls of Ancient Greek Myth is seen as offspring of, or descending from the Great Mother – the earth itself. Placing the goês within such a mythic context (or indeed their being placed there by the spirits) renders them a numinous figure. It is this which allows them to operate according to the manner of that nature, rather than being necessarily tied to a particular orthopraxy: “We can see that the definition of a goês is much more aimed at a state of being than a particular practice.” (p. 22)

Acher makes clear that these figures were not particularly accepted as time went on. Indeed, their almost uncivilized nature placed them on the margins due to their ecstatic mode:Critically, however, the term góos was not only used to describe a particular spiritual (burial) practice, but more importantly to describe the actual experience it induced in the living who observed such performance [...] [A] spontaneous, uncontrollable, ecstatic practice, loosely framed by ritual structure, aimed at the realm of the dead, and deeply disrupting to the social sense of normality and order. (p. 18-19)”

My latest Paralibrum (advance) review of Frater Acher & Jose Gabriel Alegría Sabogal's upcoming 'Clavis Goêtica' from Hadean Press is now  available. Take a gander, and enjoy the samples of wonderful art and prose.

[thegodskeeper]

Hi there! For the GTKM, questions 1 and 11 🌻✨

01. In your opinion, how do your astrological placements influence your reading style?

I don’t know astrology well enough, yet, to go into much detail here. But I have a very Scorpionic chart, and I’m pretty certain that I wouldn’t have gone into divination without that. When I read, I like to look for the story threads. I have the Moon and Saturn in my third house, too, which I imagine plays a role there - writing is my comfort, and Saturn makes me want to share.

11. Decks you want to buy

This is just cruel. I have a whole list of pretty decks on my Etsy, but I think the one that’s calling my name the most right now would be ‘The Threadbound Oracle’ by Numinous Spirit Press. Is that cheating? It’s not a tarot deck, but I love the art and I love the tarot deck by the same designer (which I own). It has queer, POC and disabled rep and I am so down for that.

[aglaean]

The True! L'Arachel interlaces her fingers, resting her chin on them to level her eyes with the man opposite. With a title such as that, there is little doubt in her mind that she has once more been matched with a kindred spirit. Whatever talk of tables and data their examiners spoke of, L'Arachel knew that such congruence could only be the hand of fate.

'Sir Forsyth the True!' She says, unable and unwilling to restrain her growing smile. Here was a man of unnatural prescience! But a few moments converse together and he had deemed her lady - a noble appelation that befitted her better than all else, no matter what nonsense Rennac muttered when she made claim to the title. 'How does one secure such an excellent epithet? I rather wish to procure one for myself...'

Her mind takes a temporary diversion down various different descriptors - L'Arachel the glowing, L'Arachel the brilliant, L'Arachel the radiant! - but discards them all as unable to capture her nigh numinous qualities.

She tunes back in just as he speaks of changing the world - such a phrase is bound to seize her attention, no matter the circumstance. 'But of course! It is the duty of a child to further her parents legacy.'

Thoughtlessly, she inserts 'her' before she can think much of it. There had been no other path to follow but the one her parent's had pressed into the ground. She pushed the soles of her magnificent heels into their footprints, and hoped that one day they would fit. 'You speak commendably; were it not for my darling Dozla's support, I am certain that my brilliance would have been somewhat hindered.'

'Without him, perhaps it would have taken me further years before I went questing! Truly, the fate of my good land deprived of such a saviour hardly bears thinking of.' She says, looking genuinely quite aghast. 'We must all find our own way to glory, but this need not be alone.'

She pauses, images of Uncle suggesting she come back inside, that she keep her distance from the woods, because she was small and they would bring her grevious harm. Her parents hadn't been small; it hadn't mattered. That was a past she was rather glad to have discarded - and for such merry company too!

Conspiratorial, inquiring, she leans forward in her seat. 'But, when do you suppose is the best time to begin inspiring them with your daring exploits? I have so many, though some are admittedly rather frightful... perhaps once they have reached 5 or 6 years...?'

(not so) mean and (very) green!

love hypothesis event: round 2!

[finishinglinepress]

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Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer who lives in Modesto, California with his wife and two children. His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including EcoTheo, Orange Blossom Review, Sojourners, and St. Katherine Review, among others. I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember is his first collection. More information at matthewjandrews.com.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember by Matthew J. Andrews

“From the beauty of the first poem, to the brilliance of the final line, Matthew J. Andrews’ I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember shepherds the reader through a landscape of familiar stories, but deftly removes the scales from eyes whose spiritual ancestry has become rote. Each poem echoes with elemental refrains—the waves, the soil, the flames, the spirit—and in doing so, lay bare the fragility of the human condition as we wrestle with the numinous. They remind us of what we are made and all that we could become if we are “determined, / for once, to be faithful to something.” The insights in this work will leave the reader breathless, pensive, challenged, jealous, and mindful of how good poetry can be good theology.

–Matthew E. Henry, author of Teaching While Black and Dust & Ashes

“Matthew J. Andrews writes like a curious exile. He plants one foot in this lowly world but stands tiptoe on the other, reaching up to seize the flickering promises of a life still to come. Describing all the tenderness, claustrophobia, hope and lovely strangeness of our being, Andrews’ poems undress their readers through a generous act of understanding realized one line at a time.”

–Aarik Danielsen, arts journalist and Fathom Magazine columnist

“At once restrained and grand, practical and transcendent, gritty and gentle, Matthew J. Andrews’ I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember is an ambitious and sweeping literary feat, recounting the Scriptural narrative through the eyes of those who lived it while remaining refreshingly contemporary. Andrews is a poet to be read, watched, and imitated, as well as a minister to be comforted by.”

–Riley Bounds, Editor of Solum Press and author of Hands of Years

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[bookofjin]

Annals of Emperor Wu, Part 1

[Warning. Names, decrees, not much else. Also one giant. From JS003]

The Martial August Emperor [wu huangdi], taboo Yan, courtesy name Anshi, was Emperor Wen's eldest son. He was magnanimous, kind, humane, and generous, and was taken to deeply having measures and capacity. In the middle of Wei's Jiaping [249 – 253], he was enfeoffed of Beiping village. He was successively Serving within the Palace, Chief Commandant of the Serving Chariots, and General of the Central Ramparts. He was concurrently Cavalier in Regular Attendance, and amassed to move to Army-Protector of the Centre, Acting with the Tally. He welcomed the Duke of Yingchang district at Dongwuyang, moved to Army-Consoler of the Centre, and advanced in fief to Xinchang district. When the state of Jin was set up, he was established as Heir. He was designated Great Army who Consoles of Army, Opening Office, assistant deputy to the Chancellor of State.

Earlier, Emperor Wen, since Emperor Jing had been Emperor Xuan's heritor, but had died young without descendants, used the Emperor's younger brother You as the inheritor, specially imparted [on him] especial love [?], speaking of himself as deputizing the post of assisting the throne, and that after a hundred years, the great patrimony ought to revert to You. He always said:

This is King Jing's Under Heaven, why I have it? [?]

He wanted to discuss establishing a Heir, with thoughts of turning it over to You. He Zeng [JS033] and others firmly disputed, saying:

The Army-Consoler of the Centre is intelligent, enlightened and godly martial, and has talents surpassing his generation, his hair piles up on the ground, his hands goes beyond the knees. This is not the assessment of a man who is a subject.

With that it was then settled.

2nd Year of Xianxi, 5th Month [1 June – 30 June 265], he was established as Heir-Apparent to the King of Jin.

8th Month, xinmao [6 September], Emperor Wen expired. The Heir-Apparent inherited the rank of Chancellor of State and King of Jin. Sent down orders to loosen punishments and pardon crimes, console the multitudes and put stop to labour service, inside the state to wear mourning clothes for three days.

That Month [29 August – 26 September], a tall man was seen in Xiangwu, 3 zhang  [~7.5 m] tall. He proclaimed to a native of the county, Wang Shi, saying:

Now there will be a Grand Peace [taiping].

[The name of the man seeing the giant, Wang Shi王始, literally means “King's Beginning”]

9th Month, wuwu [3 October], used Wei's Minister over the Masses, He Zeng [JS033], as Imperial Chancellor; the General who Garrisons the South, Wang Chen [JS040], as Imperial Clerk Grandee; the Army-Protector of the Centre, Jia Chong [JS040] As General of Guards; the Consultant Gentleman Pei Xiu [JS035] as Prefect of the Masters of Writing and Brilliantly Blessed Grandee; all Opening Office.

11th Month [25 November – 24 December], began to set up four Army-Protectors, to control the various armies outside of the city.

On yiwei [8 January 266?], ordered the various commandery Central Correctors to use six categories to raise up belatedly [those] left behind [?]:

The first was the loyal and reverently with no [thoughts for their own] persons, The second was loyal and respectful to the utmost of the rites. The third was friendly to ones brothers. The fourth was pure in person labouring humbly. The fifth was trustworthy, righteous possibly repeatedly. The sixth was studying in itself [?].

At that time Jin's virtues had permeated the Four Seas' homes and hearts. Hence the Son of Heaven understood the allotted time had gone, and therefore sent the Grand Guardian, Zheng Chong [JS033], to receive the record which said:

Inquire into this with the King of Jin: Our August Ancestor who was of the Yu clan expansively accepted the numinous fortune, received in the end from Taotang, likewise used the instructions to give to the Xia. Only three sovereigns climbed to pair with Heaven, yet [?] all used the brilliance to spread sagely virtue. From them and their descendants, Heaven again gathered the Great Instructions to Han. When the virtue of fire had declined, then [Heaven] turned gaze to instruct our Gaozu.

[The Cao clan claimed descent from Emperor Shun whose clan was Yu. Taotang was the clan of Emperor Yao.]

The square path [to?] the enlightened display of Yu and Xia's four eras [?], I do not dare to understand. However the King's grandfather and father [?] applied and undertook with enlightened wisdom to assist and bring light to our August House, [their?] meritorious virtue shining on the Four Seas. Putting together like this above and below godly reverence, [what?] the befuddled did not carry out obediently, the Earth was levelled and Heaven completed, the ten thousand nations thereby governed. Responding to receive the Instructions of the High God, the Mean of the Unison August Utmost [?].

So then We [予] the Lonely Man reverently inherited the Heavenly sequence, thereby respectfully conferring like this the throne, the allotted time truly being with this person [?]. Verily holding fast to its Mean, the Heaven's blessing [is a the] perpetual end.

Indeed! The King thus respectfully obey Heavens Instructions. Lead to pervasively [?] teach the canons, reach the soothing the four quarters of the state, use and guard Heaven's beneficence, without doing away with our Two Augusts' vast zeal.

The Emperor in the beginning used the rites to yield. The Wei court's Excellencies and ministers, He Zeng, Wang Chen and others, firmly requested it. He therefore followed it.

[Taishi 1]

[8 February 266 – 21 February 266]

1st Year of Taishi [“Grand Beginnings”], Winter, 12th Month, bingyin [8 February 266], built an altar at the southern suburbs. Those assembled of the hundred companies with ranks, the Southern Shanyu of the Xiongnu and the Four Barbarians were several tens of thousand people. Lit the fire to announce the arrangements to the High God, saying:

The August Emperor's Subject, Yan, dares to use dark-coloured victims to clarify and announce to the August August Sovereign God: The Emperor of Wei examines the Way of the Unison August, carrying on Heaven's Enlightened Instructions to thereby instruct Yan,

In the past Yao of Tang, splendidly prospering the Great Way, abdicated the throne to Shun of Yu. Shun also accordingly abdicated to Yu, his striding virtue handing down teachings for many successive years. Arriving at Han's virtue having declined, the Grand Founder, the Martial August Emperor swept away chaos and aided the times, supporting and sheltering the Liu clan, again applying the received instructions from Han.

Yea, then there was the House of Wei, in the following generations there were many mishaps, how many from the peak fell down, truly depending on having Jin's virtue of corrective help, made use of to similarly guard them carrying out the sacrifices, vastly aiding in the pressing difficulties. This then was Jin's having great attainments from Wei.

Expansively however in the Four Quarters, the befuddled did not respect and obey [?], the periphery purely bridging the Min [?], wrapped in the bosom spreading beyond [?], the eight sides vastly on the same path, the auspicious omens again and again arriving, Heaven and Man's united response, nobody thought not to submit. So then We taking as standard to set forth the three sovereigns, make use of assembling the Great Instructions from this.

Yan maintained the virtue not inherited, declining for not similarly being instructed [?]. Hence the crowd of Excellencies, ministers and gentlemen, the hundred nobles and numerous companions, the masses offering to keep company as servants, reaching until the chieftains of the Hundred Man [tribes], all said:

“August Heaven reflecting on the beneath, seeking the afflictions of the people, already have the complete instructions. Firmly not overcoming the yielding obtains resistance and disobedience. The Heavenly sequence cannot thereby control, the spirits of men cannot thereby broadly rule.”

Yan reverently receives the August fortunes, respecting and fearing Heaven's power, honouring frugally [?] the inaugural time, climbing the altar to receive the abdication, announcing the arrangements to the High God, perpetually answering the multitudes' expectations.

The rites completed, he assumed the palaces of Luoyang to favour the Grand Utmost Front Hall. A decree said:

Formerly Our August Grandfather, King Xuan, sagely, wise, respectful and enlightened, expansively responded to the times' fortunes, shining on the Emperor's burdens, commencing and beginning the vast foundation. [Our] Late Elder, King Jing trod the way and proclaimed the plan, mending and shining on the various Xia. Arriving at [Our] August Late Father, King Wen, astute, wise, brilliant and far reaching, indeed united the spirits' reverence [?], responding to Heaven and obeying the times, accepted these enlightened instructions, humanely aid to the eaves and ridge-poles [the cosmos], achieving bringing order to above and below.

So then the Wei clan's vast perceptions in the ancient teachings, the rites and laws in Tang and Yu, who consulted the crowd of princes, lead to bringing together the Great Instructions in Our Person. We the Lonely Man in awe of the Instructions of Heaven, made use of not daring to disobey.

Nevertheless We of scant virtue, carrying and shouldering the vast zeal, entrusted to be the superior to kings and dukes, as Lord presiding over the four, fearful and fretful with only dread, are befuddled in understanding help [?]. Nevertheless the assistance of you the thighs and forearms, claws and teeth, subjects of civil and military [skill] without equal, as your grandfathers and fathers, truly the left and right of our Former King, brilliantly prospers our Great Patrimony. Think with the ten thousand states, together enjoy beneficent blessings.

Hence there was a great amnesty, and changed the inaugural [to Taishi]. Bestowed on Under Heaven noble rank, five grades per person, on widowers, widows, orphans, the solitary and those not able to take care of themselves grain, 5 hu per person. Remitted Under Heaven's rents and taxes and the duties of the frontier markets for one year, unsettled debt and past burdens all never to be collected. Eliminated old mistrusts and loosened restrictions and prohibitions. The lost feudal ranks of perished officials were thoroughly restored to them.

On dingmao [9 February], dispatched the Grand Coachman Liu Yuan to announce to the Grand Temple.

Enfeoffed the Wei Emperor as King of Chenliu, with an estate of 10 000 households, to live in the palaces of Ye, the various kings of the Wei clan all to be marquises of counties.

Posthumously honoured King Xuan as August Emperor Xuan, King Jing as August Emperor Jing, King Wen as August Emperor Wen, King Xuan's Consort, Ms. Zhang, as August Empress Xuanmu.

Honoured the Consort Dowager, Ms. Wang, as August Empress Dowager, her palaced named Chonghua [“Esteemed Reform”].

Enfeoffed the imperial granduncle Fu as King of Anping.

[Sima Fu was Sima Yi's younger brother, by this point the only one still living of that generation.]

The imperial uncles: Gan as King of Pingyuan, Liang as King of Fufeng, Zhou as King of Dongguan, Jun as King of Ruyin, Yong as King of Liang, Lun as King of Langye.

[Sons of Sima Yi, Sima Zhao's younger brothers.]

The imperial brothers: You as King of Qi, Jian as King of Le'an, Ji as King of Yan.

[Sima Zhao's younger sons.]

The imperial elder first cousin once removed Wang as King of Yiyang.

[Sima Wang was son of Sima Fu, he been made the adopted son of Sima Lang, Yi and Fu's elder brother, and so technically was senior to the Emperor in the family hierarchy.]

The imperial junior first cousins once removed: Fu輔 as King of Bohai, Huang as King of Xiapi, Gui瑰 as King of Taiyuan, Gui珪 as King of Gaoyang, Heng as King of Changshan, Ziwen as King of Pei, Tai as King of Longxi, Quan as Pengcheng, Sui綏 as King of Fanyang, Sui遂 as King of Ji'nan, Xun as King of Qiao, Mu as King of Zhongshan, Ling as King of Beihai, Bin as Chen.

[Sons of Sima Yi's younger brothers, i.e. of the same generation as Sima Zhao.]

The imperial senior second cousin Hong as King of Hejian

[Sima Hong was Sima Wang's second son, who had been made the adopted son of Sima Lang's son Sima Yi遺]

The imperial junior second cousin Mao as King of Dongping.

[Sima Mao was Sima Wang's fourth son.]

Used the General of Agile Cavalry, Shi Bao [JS033], as Great Marshal, enfeoffed as Duke of Leling; the General of Chariots and Cavalry, Chen Qian [JS035], as Duke of Gaoping; the General of Guards, Jia Chong [JS040], as General of Chariots and Cavalry, Duke of Lu; the Prefect of the Masters of Writing, Pei Xiu [JS035], as Duke of Julu; the Palace Attendant Xun Xu [JS039] as Duke of Jibei; the Grand Guardian Zheng Chong [JS033] as Grand Tutor and Duke of Shouguang; the Grand Commandant, Wang Xiang [JS033], as Grand Guardian and Duke of Suiling; the Imperial Chancellor, He Zheng [JS033], as Grand Commandant and Duke of Langling; the  Imperial Clerk Grandee, Wang Chen [JS039] as General of Agile Cavalry, Duke of Boling; the Minister of Works, Xun Yi [JS039], as Duke of Linhai; the Great General who Garrisons the North, Wei Guan [JS036], as Duke of Ziyang.

The remainder were increased in fief and advanced in feudal rank each proportionally. The civil and military officials were universally increased in rank by two steps.

Changed the Jingchu calendar to be the Taishi calendar. For the la臘 twelfth month sacrifice used you酉 (the 10th branch), for the altar of soil sacrifices used chou丑 (the 2nd branch). [The Jingchu calendar had been instituted by Cao Rui, I believe the rest refers to which days certain sacrifices were made.]

On wuchen [10 February], sent down a decree the great and vast [be?] frugal and restrained, and sent out the imperial offices' things of precious stones, jades and playthings, conferring and bestowing them on the Kings, Excellencies and down each proportionally.

Set up the General of the Central Army, to thereby control the Lodged Guards and Seven Armies.

On jisi [11 February], decreed the King of Chenliu to carry the flags and banners of the Son of Heaven, to prepare the Five Seaons Assistant Chariot, for journeying on the Wei New Year, suburban sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, rites and music, rules and measures al to be like in Wei in the past, and when sending up submissions not to call himself a subject.

Bestowed on the Duke of Shanyang, Liu Kang, and the Duke of Anle, Liu Shan, one son or brother to be Chief Commandant of Attendant Cavalry.

On yihai [17 February], used the King of Anping, Fu as Grand Steward, Acting with Yellow Battle-axe, Great Commander-in-Chief of All Army Affairs in the Centre and Outside.

A decree said:

Formerly, Wang Ling planned to depose the King of Qi, yet the King in the end was insufficient to ward the throne [?]. Deng Ai, although prudent and meritorious, was deficient in moderation, and as such with bound hands received punishment. Now greatly pardon their families, restore and bring about establishing their descendants.

Arise the extinguished and continue the cut off, restrain the law and scrutinize punishments. Remove the restrictions and prohibitions of the Wei clan's imperial house. Those of the various generals and magistrates who have come across the three year mourning, dispatch to soothe and end the mourning [?]. For the hundred families remit the their compulsory labour service. Cease with the private troops commanders, chiefs, magistrates and below providing hostages.

Scrutinize the commanderies and states' management and transfers [?]. Forbid the music office' performers of delicate and beautiful hundred plays and the drawing up of engraved ornaments on the roaming hunt [?].

[Not sure if all of the above are really intended as direct quotations of a single decee.]

This Month [23 January – 21 February], six phoenixes, three blue-green dragons, two white dragons and one qilin seen in the commanderies and states.

[undercovermcdfan]

title: numinous

summary: stolen moments were like prayers. Vylance. Gods au.

a/n: just a little quickie between homework assignment—I’m struggling to beat this gd writers’ block.

dedicated to: @sonhabem since the au is hers ; w ; check it out my dudes. here’s a small gift to you /cries

warning(s): bit of worshippy language, v v prose-y, nsfw

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nu·mi·nous

latin (adj.)

1.        describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted—the powerful, personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired

2.        having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating or suggesting the presence of a divinity.

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Vylad could only smile, the sort of that made his cheeks stung but nevertheless continued to do so.

I can’t help it, as fingertips trail drag along the front fabric of Laurance’s robes, pulling him closer. It’s fleeting moments, all they have—secrecy felt so odd, because their worlds circled one another yet somehow orbited separately too. A scandal, improper, whatever word to describe the inappropriate way they stumbled into bed and shut out the world until the sun lazily broke dawn.

Laurance worked with delicacy, his hands swift and gentle like a summer breeze, blue eyes stormed with desire that could swallow him whole. He doesn’t forget the way things are, no matter how often Vylad took his chiseled face into his hands and soft prayers to push those thoughts away, for the task on hand was much more urgent. He didn’t listen totally, of course, but kisses peppering along his jaw were a little more reassured as clothing joined the pile on the ground.

The way his hair curtained around them, Laurance hovering above him with a grin and excitement. “I love you,” he’d confessed breathlessly, “I want you.” Gone away the stress, gone away the loneliness—soft sighs and moans, Vylad greedily lets the god have him. Sometimes they laugh, dizzying sort coming off a high; the next time, they didn’t know when it was but they enjoyed being in love in the moment.

Morning rolled in with suspense and Laurance was the first to go.

Sometimes he left a gift.

Other times, a soft kiss on the forehead, with a gentle warning of him to take care. Warnings that Vylad simply brushed off, because taking care was second nature to him.

And every return, he would wish that he never left his side.

Like prayers, these stolen moments were sweet and easing to their battered selves; their fingers locked together as Laurance pressed his forehead against his own.

“I’ll free you,” he quietly said and Vylad could only smile dolefully, shutting his eyes.

Vylad rubbed his thumb against the deity’s cheek, a touch of amusement, “Why do you want to?”

“Because if you’re free, you could come back to paradise with me,” Laurance said, “live beside me, maybe… I could make good to my promise to you.”

“….hm,” Vylad glanced up at him from under his eyelashes, “You still haven’t let go of that silly memory?”

“I want to make justice on every promise I make,” he laughed, kissing his forehead, “I wouldn’t be good at what I do if I failed to keep up with what I said.”

Vylad shook his head. Then pushed Laurance, rolling on top of him as he brushed back the god’s long hair, “Be careful. Do you really want to propose to a human,” Vylad leaned in, pressing his lips under his neck as he whispered, “I know how it works—they can turn a blind eye to a lover but—”

“That isn’t going to stop me,” Laurance grinned, “I’ll do what I want. And what I want is you, because you’re more than a lover.”

As hands trailed down his back, Vylad nestled close, sighing. He couldn’t keep up the fight—Laurance made him selfish, saying words he wouldn’t want to hear from anybody else. “What am I then?”

He was smiling.

Laurance was smiling.

“You’re my heart,” Laurance whispered in his ear, “our spirits are interwoven, therefore calling us just lovers is a little insulting.”

Moment like these, like prayers, persuasive and desperate, Vylad couldn’t help smiling.

Even if Laurance’s promise was technically impossible, even if he couldn’t see them beyond as nighttime lovers that part when the sun was guided across the skies, he wanted nothing more to believe.

And belief was powerful.

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one where Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate art student, Jesse McCree is an NPS ranger, both are more than they seem, weird stuff is going down in the New Mexican desert, and their lives collide in the middle of it.

Now with 100% more teenaged Jesse McCree, genius polymath.

The sky simply did not look right -- had not, in fact, looked right since that morning, when the sun rose red above the eastern hills, hanging there like a baleful crimson eye glaring doom at the desert and everything living in it. The cloudwrack overhead swallowed it up shortly thereafter, vast, dark lenticulars piled miles into the sky and as far as the eye could see, curling around themselves like some massive, living thing looking for a place to set down its feet. When they parted enough to permit a glimpse of anything but themselves, the arch of heaven was the dangerously pale and sickly yellow that, in summer, was a precursor for heavy weather, hail and flooding rain, lightning and damaging winds, sometimes tornadoes. Now, at the tail end of October, almost November, that color sky and the savage, stifling heat the pressed down on the world beneath those clouds was unseasonal at best, unnatural at worst.

Nathaniel McCree, returning from battening down the animal enclosures, wished quietly that the storm, whatever kind it might be, would break. The waiting was always the worst part and this kind of waiting was particularly bad: every nerve alive and twitching, every sense physical and numinous straining to perceive something, anything. It put him far out of sorts.

A low rumble of thunder riding a hot gust of wind, the first to stir the ground level air since dawn, followed him up onto the ranch house’s back porch, set the wind-chimes hanging from the eaves to either side of the steps ringing with spirit-calling music. Also not a good sign: the chimes wouldn’t call in such a way if there was no need for them to do so. From inside, he heard a chair dragging across the kitchen floor and Yanaba came to the back screen door, stepped outside to join him. “Anything?”

“Nothing lurking around the barns, no.” A second gust, stronger than the first, rolled over them, strong enough to lift his wife’s heavy iron-and-pepper braid off her shoulder, and a louder, closer roll of thunder. “Readings settle down yet?”

“Not a bit.” She held the door open for him and he stepped inside, sliding the internal locks to keep the screen door in place but not yet closing the inner door.

The pieces of her rifle were still spread out across the kitchen table, along with her cleaning kit, a trio of 3D printers chugging away on the kitchen counters to produce her specialized ammunition. A fan of holoscreens, hanging just high enough not to be disrupted by her movements, displaying the current data provided by their web of sensor modules, a sphere of more than three hundred square miles of New Mexico, Arizona, and the multiple borders physical and more-than-physical they shared. The local telluric currents fluctuated violently across their surface, as unsettled as the ocean driven before a hurricane, the storm-surge passing through them and bleeding into the natural world in pulses that were slowly becoming more regular, more closely spaced together.

“Nothing’s opened up yet, but it’s only a matter of time now.” Yana remarked, evenly, as she slid the pieces of her weapon back together.

“So I see.” Nate fetched them both a cup of coffee and sat to help load her magazines once the rounds cooled and hardened enough to allow it, to watch the monitors and wait for whatever was coming to arrive.

When the storm finally broke, it did so with shocking speed and violence. The wind, gusting hotly against the shutters and the sides of the house, rose to a screaming sledgehammer as hot as the exhalations of a blast furnace, carrying with it sand and grit and something that might have been smoke and it took their combined strength to wrestle the inside door shut and bolt it in place against the force of it. Lightning, thus far not much in evidence despite the thunder, arced from cloud to cloud and fell in curtains rather than bolts, hanging suspended between earth and sky, visibly pulsing as they raked across the desert. Thunder literally shook the ground, rattled the windows in their casements and the bones in their bodies as they took cover under the kitchen table, the border wards embedded in the yard fence coming to life in an effort at blunting the storm’s ferocity. Wardfire danced with lightning and wind and the both broke around the house at least enough to keep the photovoltaic roof intact and feeding the power that let their monitors scream dire warning tones of imminent doom from overhead. Yanaba poked her head up and grabbed one.

“It’s close, whatever it is,” She muttered and reached up again, this time for her rifle.

“So I see.” The etheric patterns had coalesced from chaotic cross-sea waves into a single stable vortex that, even as they watched, imploded, sending a secondary shockwave rippling through the world beyond the world.

Outside, the storm itself visibly shuddered, the wind curling in on itself, voice dropping from a roar, the rotation of the clouds stuttering and slowing away from tornadic intensity. A torrential downpour followed, washing the dust and the heat and the taste of lightning out of the air, drumming on the roof and cutting fresh courses through the hard-packed dirt of the yard.

“You think something came through?” Yanaba asked, as she tossed him his ballistic vest and shrugged into her own.

“Only one way to be sure of that, darlin’,” Nate replied, and went to retrieve his medical kit.

The hoverjeep was, predictably, not having any of it so they loaded their gear into the back of the gas-drinker: emergency medical kit, detection and mitigation equipment, the larger of her several weapons, extra ammunition. Yanaba made him strap on his own freshly cleaned and loaded by her hands sidearm before she’d let him get in the vehicle and slid behind the wheel herself, because of the two of them her night vision was better and it was rapidly getting dark. The navigation system was at least not inclined to be pestiferous, interfacing smoothly with the house’s monitors and accepting the guidance data as they pulled out. “Last solid contact was about twenty miles north of here, in the hills near Nakaibito. We can take the 491 almost all the way there.”

The drive into the hills was entertainingly fraught, enlivened by heavy bands of rain lashing out of the entirely natural if unseasonable storms that followed hard on the northerly’s heels and broadside, straight-line winds nearly strong enough to blow them off the road. It grew even more so once they left the 491 for surface roads that hadn’t seen a lick of maintenance since hover technology took the lead in transportation and which were prone to being washed half-away by flash flooding and blocked by downed tree limbs and, ultimately, a pair of fallen trees that forced them to leave their vehicle a mile from their presumed destination and hike the rest of the way in.

Yanaba took point, as was her custom, her rifle slung for the moment in favor of a machete to cut through the leg-attacking ground cover and a hiking stick to brush aside things that didn’t need to be cut. Nate carried their handheld tracking and motion detection monitors, set to ignore their own movements, his own hiking stick that doubled as a heavy shock baton in a crunch, and a neatly organized pack of medical supplies. Even with the lightning arcing overhead, their lights and vision-enhancing gear, it was dark and the hike punishingly hard, the ground underfoot a sandy, boggy mire, the rain only barely starting to slack.

The motion detector sang its little rising-falling alarm tone. “Movement up ahead, ten yards. We’re almost there, darlin’ so --”

Underbrush rustled, far closer than ten yards away and with the passage of something much more solid than falling rain, and Yanaba traded her machete for a machine pistol, flipping on some extra light as she did so. Yellow-green eyes flickered in the darkness and a muzzle covered in wet silver-gray fur, a long, slender body vanishing among the junipers and ground cover in the blink of an eye.

“Whatever that was, it didn’t register on the motion detector but it did cause an etheric ripple.” Nate observed, mildly, and moved to his wife’s shoulder.

“So not actually a coyote, then.” The safety on her gun clicked firmly off. “Stay close.”

They set off in the direction the not-coyote had vanished, the sound of water roaring down a no-longer-dry arroyo rising loud enough to drown out the rain beating on the thirsty ground and the thunder still echoing among the canyons. Another sound joined it, as they came within a short stone’s throw of their destination: high and thin, a wordless wail of cold and tired and hungry.

Yanaba froze and he had to check his stride to avoid walking into her. “You heard that, right?”

“Yes, I did. Came from over thataway.” He showed her the motion detector, where a single pulsing contact glittered like a star they were probably going to have to shoot.

They proceeded carefully, Nate automatically moving to flanking position, Yanaba snapping her tactical visor into place to aid targeting in the somewhat less than optimal firing conditions. A second cry rose, closer, and it was by virtue of his place behind and off to the side that he saw its source before she did -- a huddled bundle on the edge of the arroyo, inches from the rushing water gnawing steadily away at the muddy bank. “Darlin’, it’s over here.”

The bundle shivered slightly, and he turned a targeting beam directly on it: a ratty towel, either dark to begin with or darkened with blood and mud and wet, wrapped around something small, moving weakly. A third cry, even thinner and more tired than the first too, rose from up, along with an audible gurgle and cough. Nate crossed to it and knelt, lifted the edge of the towel and dropped it back, hurriedly pulling down his own visor and activating its physical and psychic defense structures; they helped wash the afterimages of what he just saw out of his brain before they could take hold. “Leave your visor on, defense mode active. It’s...I’m not sure what it is, but it’s tiny.”

“Nate, what are you --” Yanaba came through the brush at his back and froze as he opened the towel completely, exposing the thing it was wrapped around to merciless light and enhanced vision gear.

“It’s a baby.” Nate finally managed, after a moment of stunned silence. “Umbilicus is still attached -- still some blood in it, even. Fresh out of the wrapper. How the --”

“Nathaniel McCree, step away from that thing now.” Yanaba’s voice was low and tight.

He shrugged out of his backpack. “Just a minute, darlin’. Gotta find something to wrap --”

“Nate.” Her voice somehow managed to tighten another notch. “Get back.”

He glanced over his shoulder and found the muzzle of her rifle leveled with the bundle, her mouth an expressionless line beneath her visor. “Yanaba -- it’s a baby.” He checked again. “He’s a baby. Can’t be more than a few hours old. Whatever happened -- however he came to be here -- he didn’t do it himself. He’s not the threat here.”

“That is an infant naayéé, Nate. It’s only innocent now, because it can’t bite you in half yet.” The tightness was giving way to exasperation. “Step away. I promise I won’t let it suffer.”

“He. Not it. He.” Very deliberately he opened his pack and very deliberately removed an emergency support bubble which he very deliberately inflated and began running the internal readiness diagnostics and very deliberately removed the little bundle of squirm and too many limbs and a head that wasn’t shaped quite right from his ratty old towel and placed him in said bubble, which immediately began scanning to determine his medical intervention needs. “And he’s human enough that I’m getting readings here and indicators that he’s suffering from exposure and dehydration and borderline hypothermia. So it’s possible that he’s been out here since he was born.”

“The mother probably abandoned it when she saw what it was.” Yanaba said, after a long, uncomfortably silent moment broken only by the emergency support bubble’s assorted diagnostic tones. She lowered her weapon and flipped on the safety. “It’s a monster, Nate.”

“A baby monster.” He looked up from the diagnostic panel. “You see any tracks coming in?”

Yanaba snorted. “In this mess? Fuck no, are you kidding?”

“Not even coyote tracks.” Nate replied, and initiated the processes that would provide hydration and nutrients and bring the little bundle of squirm back to a safe and healthy core body temperature.

Yanaba was silent for a moment. Then, ungrudgingly, “It did lead us here. Not that that doesn’t mean that someone or something isn’t elaborately fucking with us.”

“Point.” He tucked the towel into a biohazard bag and vacuum sealed it. “That’s something we can figure out once we get back to civilization, don’t you think?” He tried it and, to his surprise, the bubble’s internal antigrav units were willing to work; it lifted off the ground to easy physical guidance range.

“Nate…” She sighed. “Don’t get attached. All I ask. Please.”

“I’ll try, darlin’.” He reached out for her hand, and she gave it to him. “I think we should call him Jesse. He looks like a Jesse.”

He was pretty glad her other hand was too full of rifle to hit him.

*

Hanzo attempted to arrange is face into an expression that wasn’t unadulterated horror and felt himself failing completely. “You -- your parents --”

“Yeah.” The ranger’s smile was small and sad and the pain behind it lodged in Hanzo’s throat; he found himself unable to swallow or speak past it. “My mother, at least, and I can’t really say I blame her -- I’ve seen the pictures of what I looked like back then. Screamin’ and runnin’ is probably the least of what I’d do.”

“That...that is not funny, Jesse.” Hanzo’s voice sounded strangled in his own ears.

“C’mon now, darlin’ -- it’s a little funny.” Another small, sad smile.

“No.” He wished, at that moment, that he had more limbs of his own to hold him with. “What happened -- well, I know what happened, your grandmother must have --”

“Nana McCree was pretty hardcore, I’ll admit. Came from a long and illustrious line of monster-hunters on her mama’s side of the family and, bein’ the only daughter of her parents, took the responsibilities pretty seriously. She and Pop Pop tried to have kids of their own, but it never took, so she ended up training two of her nieces to continue the family business. We...don’t really get along that well.” The smile vanished so completely it was like it had never been. “By the time they found me, Nana was past child-bearing -- past sixty, both of them, even though they were pretty spry and still doing the work of helping patrol and protect their chunk of the desert around where they lived. They owned a little ranch outside Gallup, which is a ways to the west of here, near the Arizona border. But, no matter how spry they were, nobody was going to believe Nana gave birth to me, so grandparents it was. They also knew pretty quick that they were going to need some help, so they called a couple old friends before the week was out…”

*

Gabe and Jack arrived under cover of darkness within a couple days of the call, rolling in on a moonless midnight driving a vehicle with all its transponder signals carefully spoofed and using a pair of their more load-bearing alternate identities to travel under. Nate appreciated both the speed and the discretion, if not being woken up by Gabriel ghosting through a crack in the defenses and poking him in the ribs barely an hour after he laid his head on the pillow.

“Boo.” Gabe had more eyes open than should be allowed by law and was wearing his widest, fangiest grin, which was a version of him only his husband really enjoyed waking up to. “How’s it hanging, old man? Jack and I understand that you’ve got gremlin issues.”

“You made good time.” Nate glanced over his shoulder at Yanaba, sleeping undisturbed, and decided to leave it that way -- it was technically his duty rotation, after all. “Where’s your man?”

“Waiting out on the porch with our gear.” Gabe stepped back and Nate rolled out of bed, slipping into his robe and slippers and padding downstairs to open the door.

As promised, Jack was waiting surrounded by duffle bags and equipment cases, his visor and implants engaged to give him a reasonable approximation of vision, back to the door and gazing out over the yard and the surrounding outbuildings. He turned as the door opened, and grinned that tight-lipped grin of his, and let himself be pulled into an embrace. “Good to see you, too, Nate. Gimme a hand with this?”

“Surely.” They schlepped all the gear into a corner of the sitting room, got them settled there for the nonce, and Nate fetched coffee for himself and Jack, who appeared to need it at least as much as he did. “Thank you for coming -- I know it was short notice but Yana and I could really use an extra couple hands and brains right now.”

“We got that impression from all the screaming, yeah.” Gabriel replied, and waved off an offer of something stronger.

Jack drank deeply and then set his cup aside. “So...what happened?”

Nate took a deep breath and told them. They started exchanging speaking glances about halfway through his recitation and by the time he was done, Jack was regarding him with naked concern. “Why didn’t Yanaba just shoot it?”

“Nate wouldn’t let me.” Yanaba answered that question for herself, padding down the stairs in her own nightclothes and stepping into a hug from Gabriel. “I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you can figure out how to feed it.”

“It hasn’t eaten in a week?” Gabriel asked, a faint hint of alarm in his tone.

“He’s sleepin’ in a support bubble -- it’s keeping him hydrated and feedin’ him liquid nutrients but that’s not makin’ in him very happy.” Nate replied tiredly. “Mostly he’s like any other infant and spends most of his time sleepin’ and eatin’ and makin’ diapers but when he’s awake? Y’all will know it.”

It was almost on cue. From upstairs there came a high, thin, shivery wail, a sound that crossed a multitude of borders, and the wards built into the walls and foundation and the fence outside came to life in order to contain its force. Gabriel’s whole shape shimmered for a moment in response, swirling shadows and dark owl wings and too many eyes, before it stabilized back into something mostly human. He took the stairs two at a time as he went up and left the rest of them scrambling in his wake, a not uncommon occurence, and by the time they caught up he was leaning over the support bubble, hands pressed flat and spread across the plassteel hood, gazing down at its contents. The contents were kicking and flailing assorted limbs but not crying any more, which was a welcome thing after so many days.

“Be careful.” Yanaba said sharply as Gabriel reached down and unlocked the hood, sliding it back.

“Always am.” Gabriel cooed, the tone clearly meant for the bundle of squirm. “Hey, bebé, look at you. Look at all those toes -- that’s a lot of toes. So many toes. We’re going to have to do something about that but for now…?”

He reached down and picked the bundle of squirm -- whom Nate was trying very hard not to call Jesse in Yanaba’s hearing -- and cuddled him against his chest. There wasn’t a onesie on Earth meant to accommodate that shape, not even a sleep sack, but they’d managed to jury-rig an effective diaper and procured a soft lambswool blanket to wrap him in. He kicked a little against Gabe’s chest, and an appendage that was far too bonelessly flexible and weirdly jointed to be properly described as a hand wrapped itself around his fingers as he stroked the baby’s face gently and dragged them into his mouth.

“Wow, that’s a lot of teeth, too.” Gabe pressed a kiss to the baby’s approximation of a forehead. “A lot of teeth. What do you need so many sharp teeth for, bebé?”

“Traditionally, the naayéé consume human flesh and blood.” Yanaba deadpanned. “And from a fairly early age at that.”

“Well, that’s not going to work, now is it?” Gabriel nuzzled the little critter again and made no move to pull his fingers away from teeth that were, while tiny, multitudinous, needle-sharp, and entirely capable of reaching the bones of the unwary; Nate had spent some time with his hand under a biotic field emitter as testimony to that fact. “You don’t need to eat people, you know? There’s lots of other nice things to eat. You can have those teeth later if you need them but for now can we try something else, little one? Come on, I know you can do it. Let me see you --”

A fruity little giggle rose out of the bundle in Gabriel’s arms, a sound so perfectly sweet and pure and human that even Yanaba peeked in when he carried the bundle over to them. He still had too many limbs and that head with its enormous sealed-shut eyes and weird shape was still the sort of thing that would induce nightmares in the unprepared but now, instead of a mouthful of meat-eater teeth, it had rosy gums and drool and lips stretched into a wide, sweet smile.

“He’s probably going to need something more substantial than just formula.” Gabriel said, and let him have his fingers to gnaw on again.

“We’ve got goat milk that hasn’t become cheese yet.” Yanaba suggested, and looked astonished at herself.

“If you’ve got any fresh red meat to puree for enrichment, that might be a good idea, too. He’s pretty hungry.” Gabriel looked up, a little smile settled on his face. “What’re you calling him?”

“We’re not,” said Yanaba at the same moment Nate said, “Jesse.”

“Jesse. Jessito. Yeah, I can see that.” Gabriel cooed again and was rewarded with another sweet monster-baby giggle. “He even looks like a Jesse. Jack, I think we’re going to have to stay awhile.”

“Yeah, I saw that one coming.” Jack gave Yanaba a look comprised of equal parts resignation and amusement. “I think we’re outnumbered and outflanked here, Yana.”

“Obviously.” Yanaba sighed, and went downstairs to liquify a steak.

*

“Gabe was convinced from the start that at least one of my parents was human, because he got my teeth to go away that night just by askin’ nicely.” Jesse was steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. “It took him the best part of three months to get me into a totally human shape and he’s been kinda smug about that ever since because the smart money said it wasn’t possible at all. Most of the old-time naayéé weren’t real human-lookin’ no matter who their mothers were, with a few exceptions, and they were...really pretty special exceptions. But Gabe’s nothin’ if not stubborn and he wasn’t willing to give up on the point, because it probably would have become a matter of life and death eventually.”

“Your grandmother,” Hanzo said, his mouth dry, the question not quite willing to form on his tongue. “She wouldn’t have...”

“Nana? Nah. For all her telling Pop Pop not to get attached, she took hold pretty hard herself. Used to say that I grew on her like saddle mold.” An amused little snort. “The rest of the local family wasn’t so keen, particularly when it became clear I was human on the outside only and that was pretty early.”

“That isn’t true.” Hanzo said, and silently willed him to meet his eyes, a signal he clearly did not receive.

“True enough for government work.” Dryly. “It became clear because I killed things without even trying hard. Or meaning to.”

Hanzo opened his mouth and closed it again without any of the possible sounds trying to crowd their way up his throat making it past his lips. Jesse, mercifully, didn’t notice.

“It was little things at first -- bugs, mostly. Scorpions are pests, y’know, and finding them all shriveled up just meant they could be swept out instead of squished. Spiders. I hated spiders when I was little. I think I might’a had a bit of a complex about things with too many legs. I’d just...look at ‘em hard and they’d keel over. I was too little to make the logical connection and it happened too fast for anyone else to see it for the longest time.” His eyes dropped closed. “One day when I was five, almost ready to go to school, one of the goats I was playin’ King of the Hill with butted me off the side of a rock with a bit more enthusiasm than usual and...it hurt. Skinned knee, bloodied lip, I was scared and mad and it came pourin’ out of me and before I could stop it everything for a hundred feet around me just...died. Everything -- the goats, the plants in the field, birds fell out of the sky. Gabe came running when he heard me screaming and caught it with both barrels -- he’s not particularly killable but I still hurt him badly enough that it took him the best part of two days to reform. Nana tranqed me from range and they bound me up in wards until they could figure out what it was and how to control it.” A tiny, humorless smile. “That was mostly Jack and Nana -- control and precision were the gifts they gave me.”

“You were so young -- you must have been so frightened.” At five, he had been aware of the interest Uncle Toshiro had in him, but was still too young to fully appreciate what it meant beyond the specialness of it.

“More scared that I was going to hurt someone else.” His voice was rough and when he opened his eyes there was a hint of moisture around their rims that had not been there before. “I told Nana and Pop Pop I didn’t want to go to school and they agreed that it was probably a good idea for me to stay away from other kids until I was old enough to keep my emotions under control.” A pause. “Y’know, this is the furthest I’ve ever gotten with this conversation? Normally by the time I get to the whole baby monster cured by my terrifying smoke Dad bit, it’s all over.”

Which confirmed at least one suspicion. Hanzo’s heart ached and he said, quietly, “We don’t have to continue if you don’t want to -- I can see how much this pains you.”

“It’s almost a good kinda hurt, darlin’.” One of the ranger’s hands found his and squeezed tightly. “Of course, the rest of the family found out. And there was a blow-up between Nana and the eldest of her nieces, Maritza, who lived on the Rez and was one of the local hunter-protectors. A bunch of hard words were said and they never did reconcile, which was a problem in the long run.” Finally, finally, those dark eyes turned to him. “Gabe and Jack stayed with us until I was ten, which was longer than they’d stayed in any one place for years, and probably about two years longer than was technically safe for any of us.”

“How did they know each other? Your grandparents and Gabe and Jack?” The question came out before he could stop it.

“They served together in an international unit under the auspices of the United Nations. Ana and Rein and a handful of others, too. Technically it was an all-volunteer outfit, it’s just that all the volunteers had particularly refined and unusual skill sets that allowed them to meet the parameters of their mission -- which was, actually, keepin’ things from Beyond out of this world or, if they managed to wiggle their way in, evictin’ them again with extreme prejudice.” Again, the smile that crossed his face had little in the way of humor in it. “Gabe and Jack got into their current condition in the line of duty and, while it took a long time, the DoD finally got around to acknowledging that fact, which is why they get to stay here unmolested now. For a while that wasn’t true, and they had to keep movin’ in order to stay ahead of the people assigned to determine exactly how hard to kill they really were. Lingerin’ as long as they did, even in the geographical ass-end of nowhere, was a huge risk for them t’take and I’ve never --” He stopped, swallowed hard, continued on. “I’ve never quite felt that I deserved it. Gabe hates that, but it’s true.”

*

Two days after his tenth birthday, Jesse sat on top of the ranch house roof and watched the men he called Papi and Jack drive away -- waited, point in fact, until there was nothing left to see of their vehicle, even with the running lights on, and there was no real reason left to stay. When he climbed back down, he dug out the wards that they made for him and which he hadn’t needed at all for going on two years and put them back on. Nate was proud of the maturity and self-knowledge that took, and also worried enough that, when he went into town for the next few weeks, he made sure there were enough chores available to keep Jesse busy. Fortunately, none of the MiBs who’d been sniffing around came to the ranch while he wasn’t home and, a few weeks later, they faded away entirely, chasing other leads.

When Jesse turned eleven, he also started to grow. He’d always been on the lean and lanky side, all knees and elbows and feet just big enough to trip over if he wasn’t being careful, but now, seemingly overnight, he shot up ten inches and outgrew almost all his clothes, his shoes, and his bed. He took a positively unholy joy in being taller than Yanaba for the first time ever, a fact about which she grumbled and smiled about, because it was something that made him demonstrably happy, a thing he’d had in short supply for quite some time. The spring between eleven and twelve, he decided he’d like to try going to school in town again and so they enrolled him and requested that his records be transferred over from the online academy where he’d studied his academics thus far.

By twelve, he was starting to fill out in across the shoulders and chest, a good two inches taller than Nate, and more alone than he’d ever been, for all that he was now going into town every day and spending most of it with kids his own age. Maritza’s children lived in there with her ex and they had been warned, in general terms, not to mix with their not-cousin because he wasn’t right -- a warning they helpfully shared with the peers they’d known all their lives, and the precise dimensions of the not-right-ness grew in the telling as it passed among them. Jesse put his head down and held his tongue and put the wards back on and concentrated on his studies: he was the sort of student every teacher loved, the kind that didn’t have to be nagged to do the reading or turn in his homework on time, and while he was never going to love math for its own sake, he at least tolerated it for its relationship to science (which he enjoyed) and music (which he was good at and enjoyed). The librarian was his best friend that year, feeding his appetite for books, for worlds he could escape into that were at least different than the one he presently occupied, and he made her a lovely thank you card that he handed back with the last of them at the end of the year. After that, he saw no reason to return, not so dedicated to the idea of having friends that he was willing to suffer the slings and arrows of adolescent cruelty to search them out. Loneliness was a grief he was used to, after all, and he could learn just as well at his terminal in the study.

In the winter between thirteen and fourteen, Nate began to feel his age -- not that he hadn’t been feeling it before but those long, dark months were colder and wetter than most and his joints let him know about it at length. Jesse effortlessly picked up his slack, for which he was eternally grateful, rising early to tend the animals and put on the coffee, walking miles of fence to check and maintain the integrity of the physical and numinous barriers, moving his terminal into the living room so he could run errands in the house and do his schoolwork at the same time. Yanaba fussed over him to excess, which he tolerated to the best of his abilities, and so did the boy, which gave them time together on a daily basis that they used to improve his emergency medical skills, to work on the little handicrafts that they both favored when they were too tired to think, to read their way through each others’ lists of favorite novels. They were, in fact, halfway through Lonesome Dove, one of Nate’s all-time favorites, the afternoon he started to feel a touch dyspeptic and then a little nauseous, and then a lot tired. The last thing he saw, as the world started going light around him, was Jesse reaching for him, and the look on his face.

Nate’s will stipulated cremation, which was duly accomplished, and his ashes brought home in a ceramic urn glazed the deep blue of the night sky over the desert mixed with tiny flecks of silver. For the first month after, Jesse and Yanaba drifted around the ranch like ghosts themselves, doing what needed to be done mostly on autopilot, numb and gray with grief. Toward the middle of the second, they began bumping into each others’ edges again, became aware of one another, and came back together to do more than just function. Just you and me now became the fulcrum around which their lives turned and they made the effort to keep it that way, sitting together in front of the fireplace to do homework assignments and read novels, to watch a new old movie on the holotank, to do the 3D design work for Jesse’s own custom ammunition, built around his strengths and the nature of the power running in his veins. They both knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be taking up Yanaba’s half of the household’s self-chosen duties, no matter how little Maritza liked it, because there were things abroad in the desert by night and day that would answer to no ordinary bullets.

Yanaba caught a cold at the tail end of spring that nagged her relentlessly all through the summer. It settled in to stay as summer faded into autumn, sapping her strength to the dregs, forcing her to spend more time abed in the mornings than she liked, and finally whole days abed, feverish and too weak to stand. She didn’t want him to call an ambulance, or to go to the hospital, didn’t want to leave him alone on the ranch, not because she didn’t trust him but because she feared what would happen to him if she did. Jesse tended to her with all the skill he’d been taught over the years but there was one thing he lacked: a true healer’s touch that could have chased what troubled her away when even the biotic emitters did nothing but help her hold ground. And that he did not have, and never would, because healing was not his gift. In late October, just after his fourteenth birthday, as his grandmother lay sleeping the feverish, restless sleep of an invalid, he did the one thing he had dreaded more than anything else and called Maritza, to beg for her help. She and her eldest sons, the not-cousins who’d been a year or two ahead of him in school, arrived four hours later and an ambulance from town shortly thereafter. Before she left, as they were loading her onto the litter, she took him by the hand and made him swear his vows to her and sealed the promise he gave with her own. Maritza went with the ambulance, in her own hoverjeep; the not-cousins stayed behind, and after dinner Jesse retreated to his room, ill at ease and not entirely sure why.

He woke, sometime in the dark hours after midnight, to the sound of voices drifting up from downstairs -- quiet but clearly audible, because if the house’s heating system did anything, it carried sound.

“Everything’s ready?” That was Maritza, low and soft and somehow more dangerous for it.

“Yeah.” The Eldest of the not-cousins. “Aunt Yanaba had a lot of the things we needed already in her kit. No real need to go searching for them.”

“That’s because she knew that this would need to be done eventually and prepared to do it.” Crisply, cool, and the calm certainty of it turned the blood to ice in his veins, chased the last traces of sleep from his mind. “What is it, Chase?”

“Mom...are you sure about this? I mean -- if this was what he wanted, if this was his fault, why’d he call for help? All he had to do was wait.” The Younger of the not-cousins, who’d be almost nice to him at dinner and offered to help with the dishes and clearly wanted to talk to him but got glared off by his big brother. “If he were...hurting people it’d be one thing but he’s --”

“Naayéé, Chase. A monster in human shape like that thing Yanaba called his father.” Her voice cooled and hardened and Jesse was already dressed and pulling on his hiking boots, dragging the bug-out bags that Gabe insisted he have packed and ready to go out of the back of his closet. “That’s all he is and all he can ever really be, no matter what he might look like -- if anything, they helped make him worse because now it’s hidden instead of written on his flesh like it should be. Do you want to wait for him to show it before something’s done about him?”

Silence. Jesse eased his window open, put the first bag on the back porch roof and reached for the second.

“No. No, but --”

“No buts. We can’t hesitate in this -- not the way Yanaba did. She died thinking this thing loved her --”

The sound of pain that came out of him was completely involuntary, choked off as quickly as he could, and it was already too late.

“What was that?”

“Not sure -- he’s been upstairs since just after dinner. Sleeping the last time I checked. You want me to…?”

“Yes. Chase, stay here.”

Footsteps on the stairs but Jesse was already sliding off the porch roof after his bags, whispering the charm that Gabe taught him that would call the shadows, make him physically indistinct, mask his trail from even the most determined prying magic or skilled tracking. He thought Chase caught a glimpse of him as he vaulted the yard fence but, if he did, he held his tongue and stayed where he was; it was a small enough thing to be grateful for but Jesse never forgot it and repaid it as best he was able when circumstances allowed. That night, however, he thought of nothing but the best route to take across the desert and into the hills, as far from what remained of his not-really-family as he could before the sun rose.

*

[7serendipities]

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Here's June's "Choose Your Own Adventure" reading, with this month's deck, the Threadbound Oracle, published by Numinous Spirit Press. For June and Pride Month, I picked a deck by my favorite queer divination artist, Cedar McCloud! Pick whichever card + stone resonates with you, and swipe through and scroll down for the reveal!

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1. Left: Grey Moonstone (grey)

2. Center: Amethyst (purple)

3. Right: Howlite (white)

:readmore:

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1. Left: Grey Moonstone (grey) - Ace of Ink: Pigment

The keywords on this card are: Alchemy, Process, Experiment. Pigment is the part that gives the ink its colors, though not all pigments are the same color as the final ink. Some are transformed into a new color through interactions with the other ingredients! This card tells you that if you've had difficulties reaching a goal lately, you should try different tactics. There isn't a problem with your goal - it's your approach that needs to change. Some things can only be learned through trial and error.

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2. Center: Amethyst (purple) - The Train

This is the equivalent of a tarot Major Arcana, and the keywords on the card are: Transition, Travel, Liminal Space. You'll be going on a journey this month, whether literal or metaphorical. In this liminal space, many things are possible. Think about your most ideal destinations, and try to travel in that direction.

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3. Right: Howlite (white) - Four of Paper: Signature

The keywords on this card are: Tradition, Organization, and Planning. This signature is not a fancy way to write your name, but rather the name for a section of papers folded together before being added to other signatures and stitched into the spine of a new book. It requires careful planning to get the words in the right order so that you can fold the signature in half and insert it. That kind of careful planning should be your focus for the month. Don't be afraid to use other people's structures, but adapt them so that they work well for you.

[myreadingsshannonreid]

Reading one week one

Böhme, G. (2017). The aesthetics of atmospheres. [electronic resource]: London : Routledge, 2017.

Introduction

The aesthetic theory of atmospheres

Historical background

As to me, I first introduced the concept of atmosphere in my German book 1

Towards an Ecological Aesthetics. The point of the book was a critique of scientific ecology and a plea to introduce the human factor into the science of environment. Our main interest, I argued, was not in the natural inter- relatedness of nature as such, but in our own environment, i.e. in human

2

If you do not feel well in an environment, the reason might not be a toxic agent in the air but aesthetic impressions.

For example: again and again the population of my home town, the city of Darmstadt, complained saying “There is a bad smell in the air.” The origin supposed was the production site of Merck, a big chemical and pharmaceutical company. Well, the scientists of Merck made an investigation the outcome of which was: no toxic substances in the air. No toxins, no problem. But there was a problem: the inhabitants of Darmstadt “did not feel well.”

This “feeling well or not” in a certain environment clearly is an indicator of the aesthetic qualities of it. This is the point where aesthetics come into ecology. The elements of the environment are not only causal factors which affect human beings as organisms but they produce an impression on their feeling (Befindlichkeit). And what mediates objective factors of the environment with aesthetic feelings of a human being is what we call atmosphere.

The atmosphere of a certain environment is responsible for the way we feel about ourselves in that environment.

Atmosphere is what relates objective factors and constellations of the environment with my bodily feeling in that environment. This means: atmo- sphere is what is in between, what mediates the two sides. Two main traits of the theory of atmospheres arise from this. Namely, first, that atmosphere is

beings. This interest on the general scope must lead to a social–natural science. But the main concern of the book was to introduce the aesthetic perspective into the science of ecology: what affects human beings in their environment are not only just natural factors but also aesthetic ones.

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2 Introduction

something in between subject and object and can therefore be approached in two different ways: either from a perception aesthetics or a production aesthetics viewpoint. Atmospheres are quasi-objective, namely they are out there; you can enter an atmosphere and you can be surprisingly caught by an atmo- sphere. But on the other hand atmospheres are not beings like things; they are nothing without a subject feeling them. They are subjective facts in the sense of Hermann Schmitz: to talk about atmospheres, you must characterize them by the way they affect you. They tend to bring you into a certain mood, and the way you name them is by the character of that mood. The atmosphere of a room may be oppressive, the atmosphere of a valley may be joyful. But on the other side you can argue about atmospheres and you even can agree with others about what sort of atmosphere is present in a certain room or landscape. Thus atmospheres are quasi-objective or something existent intersubjectively.

But, as mentioned, you can approach the phenomenon of atmospheres not only from the side of perception aesthetics but also from that of productions aesthetics. This is why stage design is a kind of a paradigm for the whole theory and practice of atmospheres: you can learn from a stage designer what means are necessary in order to produce a certain climate or atmosphere on the stage: what the sound should be like, how the stage is illuminated, what materials, colors, objects, signs should be used, and in what way should the space of the stage itself be arranged. The art of stage setting again proves that atmospheres are something quasi-objective. Namely, if each member of the audience were to perceive the climate of the stage in a different way, the whole endeavor of stage setting would be useless.

The origin of the term atmosphere and its original use as a concept in science and humanities

The term atmosphere was originally used within meteorological contexts. Here it designated the upper part of the air mantling the earth. But since the eighteenth century atmosphere was used as metaphor describing a certain mood hanging in the air. The mediating link obviously is the weather: the weather is affecting my mood – a rising thunderstorm may frighten me, bright weather may raise my spirits.

Today atmosphere may be defined briefly as tuned space, i.e. a space with a certain mood. From here two more traits of the theory of atmospheres can be advanced: atmospheres are always something spatial, and atmospheres are always something emotional.

We talk about atmospheres by naming their characteristics. These are their tendencies to modify my own mood. The serious atmosphere of a gathering may make me serious; the melancholic atmosphere of garden scenery may make me melancholic.

The first scientific use of the term atmosphere in this sense is to be found in 3

Hubert Tellenbach’s book Geschmack und Atmosphäre. This book, which actually deals with the sphere of the oral, uses the term in particular for the

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Introduction 3

smell of the nest: atmosphere is what makes you feel at home. This book is of lasting value for the theory of atmospheres because it links the natural with the cultural realm. Atmosphere is something which affects us deeply, that means on the level of bodily feeling.

Later the concept of atmosphere was elaborated by the so-called new pheno-

4

menology, in particular by its founder Hermann Schmitz. He conceives of

atmospheres as being overwhelming emotional powers, or – as he sees it – quasi-objective feelings. He was influenced by the research on the numinous

5

Applications of the concept of atmospheres

Scenography

We mentioned already the art of stage setting could be used as a paradigm for the theory of atmosphere. Here, long before anybody thought of atmospheres, a practice of soliciting atmospheres was developed: stage setters knew how to produce a certain mood, or – as they call it – a certain climate on the stage. So, what can to be learned from the tradition of stage setting is:

Atmospheres can be produced.

Atmospheres are something out there, quasi-objective.

Atmospheres are produced by certain agents or factors, in particular by

sound and illumination, but also by the geometry of a room, by signs, pictures, etc.

But the art of stage setting is sort of tacit knowledge; you would be hard

pressed to find a book telling you how and by what means a certain atmo-

sphere can be to produced. This is why a book seemingly from a quite different

This leads us to an extension of the field: stage design might be a useful paradigm of producing atmospheres, but today it is much better to talk of scenography. Under this very old term7 a new discipline is developing, the job of which is staging of everything: this might be political, sportive, or cultural events. The point is that these human practices are no longer performed, as such, but must be set in scene, performed in a certain frame, celebrated in a way. Politics before the camera, sportive competitions as a festival; and the presentation of artworks must take place within a certain setting, a certain

as carried out by Rudolf Otto.

strand must be mentioned, namely C. C. L. Hirschfield’s theory of English 6

gardening. This book obviously is inspired by the world of the theater. Thus Hirschfield talks about natural scenery and of the emotional character of it – what we would refer to as its atmosphere. But what is important is that he gives detailed instruction as to what sort of trees and other plants a certain mood may produce, how the light falling through the leaf must be, how the murmur of the brooks, whether the sight must be open or closed; in short, he talks about atmospheres like an artisan who knows to make them.

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4 Introduction

arrangement and illumination. One of the earliest fields of this type of extended scenography is the staging of commodities. The origin of this was located by Walter Benjamin within the arcades of nineteenth-century Paris. Today it is not only the single commodity what is on stage, but the brand must be staged, if possible presented as a whole world. The Nike-World is an example of this endeavor, but other brands like Joop or Dior might be even more extended, covering a strand of commodities far beyond the original.

Commodity aesthetics

8

The most impressive example of the first is Volkswagen’s production of the Phaeton automobile in Dresden. In a corner of the Great Baroque Garden they built the so-called Gläserne Manufaktur – this may be translated as “production site in the shop window display.”9 In this huge glass building visitors can watch how the Phaeton is finished in the assembly line. The whole process is celebrated in a glamorous environment like a church ceremony.

The other field of extended commodity aesthetics is consumption. Whereas in Haug’s book the aesthetics of the commodity is its packaging, which is soon discarded, now we notice that the aesthetic outfit of the commodity has a function in the realm of consumption. The first step in this direction was noticed by Jean Baudrillard:10 the commodity got a function as a status symbol. Today many commodities are not really used in a literal sense but they get their use-value merely as ingredients of a certain lifestyle of the user.

This development was the reason why I began talking about an aesthetic

11

Advertising

This new use of commodities, namely as a means to produce an atmosphere, caused a shift in advertising. Whereas traditional advertising, say, from the nineteenth century up to the first half of the twentieth century represented commodities as well made and useful, contemporary advertising does not present the commodities as such but rather a scene within which they have a certain function, namely contributing to an atmosphere. So you might notice a bottle of Beck’s beer in the hand of a member of a sailing crew, or a Vuitton

The concept of commodity aesthetics was introduced by Wolfgang Fritz Haug. But his book concentrated particularly on the packaging of commodities, how they were presented in the marketplace. Since his time, we have seen an extension of commodity aesthetics into the fields of production and consumption.

economy.

merely satisfy basic needs; for their staging-value, they are valued to the extent that they help individuals or groups to stage their lifestyles. Here commodities have their use-value; a means of producing a certain atmosphere. This gives us a reason to talk about a new type of commodity value besides the Marxian use-value and exchange-value, namely to attribute the new type of stage-value to commodities.

Commodities are valued in the aesthetic economy where they now

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Introduction 5

bag in an outdoor picnic scene. The appeal of advertising is not to a customer who wants to make use of a commodity but to somebody who wants to be embedded into a certain atmosphere of life. This also means customers want to belong to a certain group; they want to distinguish themselves from the crowd by association with a certain lifestyle. Thus the aesthetics of atmospheres in advertising means that commodities are not presented as things which are useful within a certain practice but as signs which help to produce a certain atmosphere in life.

Architecture and design

One of the main applications of the aesthetic theory of atmospheres is archi- tecture and design. Architecture and design have always produced atmospheres, but the thinking about architecture mainly concentrated on buildings and their visual representation; and thinking about design concentrated on the form or shape of things. This type of thinking came to its peak with Bauhaus modernity and found adequate expression in the slogan “form follows function.” But since the turn to postmodernity we have a new humanism in both fields and that means that the way we experience buildings and the surroundings, how we feel as visitors or people who live there, comes to the fore. In the theory of design, the situation is comparable: it is not only the function or, say, the use-value of things which is at stake, but what sort of impression the objects make. It is necessary to observe that this turn has something to do with the transformation of capitalism into an aesthetic economy.

But what interests us here is the shift in thinking both in architecture and design as a consequence of the theory of atmospheres. We said: atmospheres are something spatial and at the same time something emotional. If you are explicitly considering atmospheres in architecture and city planning the main topic of your considerations is space. Architecture is not just about buildings but essentially about spaces. Architecture is opening and closing spaces, it sets points of concentration and therefore of orientation in space; it determines directions, it frames outlooks. And all this for people visiting or dwelling there. That means that the way people feel in rooms and spaces, how they move around, how they can follow bodies and lines of buildings is the main point of interest.

The situation is comparable in the art of design. Here a shift of considera- tion took place, which again is determined by the perspective of the customer. Whereas in traditional theory of design one was talking about the shape and the properties of things, it is now about “ecstasies.” I use the Greek word ecstasies to indicate the way things are radiating into space and thus con- tributing to the formation of an atmosphere. Ecstatics is the way things make a certain impression on us and thus modifying our mood, the way we feel ourselves.

In the fields of architecture and design the turn is from the form or shape of things to their contribution of tuning the space of our bodily presence.

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6 Introduction

Art

The impact of the aesthetic theory of atmospheres to art is primarily a shift in perception aesthetics. It is well known that since Kant and in particular follow- ing Hegel aesthetics became a theory of judgment – judgment on and about works of art. This meant that aesthetics primarily was useful for the educated elite and for art critics. The consequence was that guidance in art exhibitions means information about the artist, his technique, his time – but on the other side the guided visitor has no real chance to make observations and experi- ences of his own. This is the more regrettable because the interest in art has widened far beyond the educated elite. Now, the theory of atmospheres opens a quite different approach to works of art, i.e. an approach which is not guided by art history, iconography, and semantics. The main goal of visiting an exhibition is not learning or information but having experiences. Guidance no longer means information but assistance in approaching the work of art

12

met by a certain development in art itself. There are quite a few paintings which have no meaning, in particular monochromic painting, but the whole movement of abstract expressionism may be mentioned here. More explicit as to the requirement to have experiences – and the means of being bodily present at the place where the work of art is – is land-art and the art of sound installations. These types of artwork are on the one hand explicitly related to

13

The detection of atmospheres was a great step forward for philosophy: dedicated to the clear and distinct – at least since Descartes – philosophy for the first time came to conceive of and to talk about a vague and rather subjective phenomenon. The phenomenological analysis of atmospheres was very fruitful and prepared the ground for the theory to be applied in many fields. The most important – and successful – application was within aesthetics. The material background of this success may be seen in the ubiquitous aestheticization of our lifeworld or – taking it more from the side of production – of staging of everything, every event and performance.

The theory of atmospheres becoming an aesthetic theory thus turned out to be a critical theory of our contemporary civilization. It reveals the theatrical,

14

and in preparation of one’s own experiences.

This turn from meaning to experience in the perception of works of art is

their place and on the other they are ephemeral.

order to adequately appreciate what these works of art are requires exposing oneself to the atmosphere they are radiating.

Conclusion

not to say manipulative character of politics, commerce, of the event-society. This for the critical power of the theory. But taking it as a positive theory of certain phenomena it opened up a lot of new perspectives for architecture, design, and art. It made the spatial and the experience of space and places a main subject and hence rehabilitated the ephemeral in arts. Taking the

The consequence is that in

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Introduction 7

numerous impacts in many fields together it initiated a new humanism: the individual as a living person and his or her perspective being taken seriously in architecture and design; and it fosters the ongoing democratization of culture, in particular the possibility for everybody being able to participate in art and its works.

Notes

1 Gernot Böhme, Für eine ökologische Naturästhetik, Frankfurt/M., Suhrkamp, 3rd edn, 1999 [1989].

2 Gernot Böhme and Engelbert Schramm (eds.), Soziale Naturwissenschaft. Wege zur Erweiterung der Ökologie, Frankfurt/M., Fischer, 1985.

3 Hubertus Tellenbach, Geschmack und Atmosphäre. Medien menschlichen Elementarkontaktes. Salzburg, Otto Müller Verlag, 1968.

4 Hermann Schmitz, System der Philosophie. Bonn, Bouvier, 1964, Bd. III.1 Die Wahrnehmung.

5 Rudolf Otto, Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen. Breslau, Trewendt & Granier, 1917; Nachdruck, München, Beck, 2004.

6 C. C. L. Hirschfeld, Theorie der Gartenkunst, Leipzig, 5 Bde., 1779–85.

7 Aristotle says that Sophocles already practiced skenographia, Poetics, 1449a18.

8 Wolfgang Fritz Haug, Kritik der Warenästhetik, Frankfurt/M., Suhrkamp, 1971.

9 See my article “Fortschritte der Warenästhetik. Passagen an den Rändern der

Kulturwissenschaft,” in N. Adamowsky, P. Matussek (Hrsg.) Auslassungen. Leer- stellen als Movens der Kulturwissenschaft. Würzburg, Königshausen & Neumann, 2004, S. 31–8.

10 JeanBaudrillard,ForaCritiqueofthePoliticalEconomyoftheSign,trans.C.Levin, St Louis, Telos Press, 1981 [1972].

11 Gernot Böhme, “Contribution to the Critique of Aesthetic Economy,” Thesis Eleven, 73, May 2003, 71–82. Reprinted in this book, as Chapter 7.

12 One of the most gifted art guides in this sense was Michael Bockemühl. See his Die Wirklichkeit des Bildes. Bildrezeption als Bildproduktion – Rothko, Newman, Rembrandt, Raphael [Habilitationsschrift], Urachhaus Verlag, Stuttgart, 1985; and J. M. W. Turner, 1775–1851 – The World of Light and Colour, Cologne, 2000.

13 See Gernot Böhme, Die sanfte Kunst des Ephemeren. Essen, Verlag der fadbk, 2008, in M. Fliescher, F. Goppelsröder, and D. Mersch (Hrsg.), Sichtbarkeiten I. Erscheinen. Zur Praxis des Präsentiven. Berlin, Diaphanes, 2013, 87–108.

14 See Gerhard Schulze, Die Erlebnisgesellschaft: Kultursoziologie der Gegenwart. Frankfurt/M., Campus, 1992.

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Böhme, G. (2017). The aesthetics of atmospheres. [electronic resource]: London : Routledge, 2017.

Introduction

The aesthetic theory of atmospheres

Historical background

As to me, I first introduced the concept of atmosphere in my German book 1

Towards an Ecological Aesthetics. The point of the book was a critique of scientific ecology and a plea to introduce the human factor into the science of environment. Our main interest, I argued, was not in the natural inter- relatedness of nature as such, but in our own environment, i.e. in human

2

If you do not feel well in an environment, the reason might not be a toxic agent in the air but aesthetic impressions.

For example: again and again the population of my home town, the city of Darmstadt, complained saying “There is a bad smell in the air.” The origin supposed was the production site of Merck, a big chemical and pharmaceutical company. Well, the scientists of Merck made an investigation the outcome of which was: no toxic substances in the air. No toxins, no problem. But there was a problem: the inhabitants of Darmstadt “did not feel well.”

This “feeling well or not” in a certain environment clearly is an indicator of the aesthetic qualities of it. This is the point where aesthetics come into ecology. The elements of the environment are not only causal factors which affect human beings as organisms but they produce an impression on their feeling (Befindlichkeit). And what mediates objective factors of the environment with aesthetic feelings of a human being is what we call atmosphere.

The atmosphere of a certain environment is responsible for the way we feel about ourselves in that environment.

Atmosphere is what relates objective factors and constellations of the environment with my bodily feeling in that environment. This means: atmo- sphere is what is in between, what mediates the two sides. Two main traits of the theory of atmospheres arise from this. Namely, first, that atmosphere is

beings. This interest on the general scope must lead to a social–natural science. But the main concern of the book was to introduce the aesthetic perspective into the science of ecology: what affects human beings in their environment are not only just natural factors but also aesthetic ones.

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2 Introduction

something in between subject and object and can therefore be approached in two different ways: either from a perception aesthetics or a production aesthetics viewpoint. Atmospheres are quasi-objective, namely they are out there; you can enter an atmosphere and you can be surprisingly caught by an atmo- sphere. But on the other hand atmospheres are not beings like things; they are nothing without a subject feeling them. They are subjective facts in the sense of Hermann Schmitz: to talk about atmospheres, you must characterize them by the way they affect you. They tend to bring you into a certain mood, and the way you name them is by the character of that mood. The atmosphere of a room may be oppressive, the atmosphere of a valley may be joyful. But on the other side you can argue about atmospheres and you even can agree with others about what sort of atmosphere is present in a certain room or landscape. Thus atmospheres are quasi-objective or something existent intersubjectively.

But, as mentioned, you can approach the phenomenon of atmospheres not only from the side of perception aesthetics but also from that of productions aesthetics. This is why stage design is a kind of a paradigm for the whole theory and practice of atmospheres: you can learn from a stage designer what means are necessary in order to produce a certain climate or atmosphere on the stage: what the sound should be like, how the stage is illuminated, what materials, colors, objects, signs should be used, and in what way should the space of the stage itself be arranged. The art of stage setting again proves that atmospheres are something quasi-objective. Namely, if each member of the audience were to perceive the climate of the stage in a different way, the whole endeavor of stage setting would be useless.

The origin of the term atmosphere and its original use as a concept in science and humanities

The term atmosphere was originally used within meteorological contexts. Here it designated the upper part of the air mantling the earth. But since the eighteenth century atmosphere was used as metaphor describing a certain mood hanging in the air. The mediating link obviously is the weather: the weather is affecting my mood – a rising thunderstorm may frighten me, bright weather may raise my spirits.

Today atmosphere may be defined briefly as tuned space, i.e. a space with a certain mood. From here two more traits of the theory of atmospheres can be advanced: atmospheres are always something spatial, and atmospheres are always something emotional.

We talk about atmospheres by naming their characteristics. These are their tendencies to modify my own mood. The serious atmosphere of a gathering may make me serious; the melancholic atmosphere of garden scenery may make me melancholic.

The first scientific use of the term atmosphere in this sense is to be found in 3

Hubert Tellenbach’s book Geschmack und Atmosphäre. This book, which actually deals with the sphere of the oral, uses the term in particular for the

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Introduction 3

smell of the nest: atmosphere is what makes you feel at home. This book is of lasting value for the theory of atmospheres because it links the natural with the cultural realm. Atmosphere is something which affects us deeply, that means on the level of bodily feeling.

Later the concept of atmosphere was elaborated by the so-called new pheno-

4

menology, in particular by its founder Hermann Schmitz. He conceives of

atmospheres as being overwhelming emotional powers, or – as he sees it – quasi-objective feelings. He was influenced by the research on the numinous

5

Applications of the concept of atmospheres

Scenography

We mentioned already the art of stage setting could be used as a paradigm for the theory of atmosphere. Here, long before anybody thought of atmospheres, a practice of soliciting atmospheres was developed: stage setters knew how to produce a certain mood, or – as they call it – a certain climate on the stage. So, what can to be learned from the tradition of stage setting is:

Atmospheres can be produced.

Atmospheres are something out there, quasi-objective.

Atmospheres are produced by certain agents or factors, in particular by

sound and illumination, but also by the geometry of a room, by signs, pictures, etc.

But the art of stage setting is sort of tacit knowledge; you would be hard

pressed to find a book telling you how and by what means a certain atmo-

sphere can be to produced. This is why a book seemingly from a quite different

This leads us to an extension of the field: stage design might be a useful paradigm of producing atmospheres, but today it is much better to talk of scenography. Under this very old term7 a new discipline is developing, the job of which is staging of everything: this might be political, sportive, or cultural events. The point is that these human practices are no longer performed, as such, but must be set in scene, performed in a certain frame, celebrated in a way. Politics before the camera, sportive competitions as a festival; and the presentation of artworks must take place within a certain setting, a certain

as carried out by Rudolf Otto.

strand must be mentioned, namely C. C. L. Hirschfield’s theory of English 6

gardening. This book obviously is inspired by the world of the theater. Thus Hirschfield talks about natural scenery and of the emotional character of it – what we would refer to as its atmosphere. But what is important is that he gives detailed instruction as to what sort of trees and other plants a certain mood may produce, how the light falling through the leaf must be, how the murmur of the brooks, whether the sight must be open or closed; in short, he talks about atmospheres like an artisan who knows to make them.

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4 Introduction

arrangement and illumination. One of the earliest fields of this type of extended scenography is the staging of commodities. The origin of this was located by Walter Benjamin within the arcades of nineteenth-century Paris. Today it is not only the single commodity what is on stage, but the brand must be staged, if possible presented as a whole world. The Nike-World is an example of this endeavor, but other brands like Joop or Dior might be even more extended, covering a strand of commodities far beyond the original.

Commodity aesthetics

8

The most impressive example of the first is Volkswagen’s production of the Phaeton automobile in Dresden. In a corner of the Great Baroque Garden they built the so-called Gläserne Manufaktur – this may be translated as “production site in the shop window display.”9 In this huge glass building visitors can watch how the Phaeton is finished in the assembly line. The whole process is celebrated in a glamorous environment like a church ceremony.

The other field of extended commodity aesthetics is consumption. Whereas in Haug’s book the aesthetics of the commodity is its packaging, which is soon discarded, now we notice that the aesthetic outfit of the commodity has a function in the realm of consumption. The first step in this direction was noticed by Jean Baudrillard:10 the commodity got a function as a status symbol. Today many commodities are not really used in a literal sense but they get their use-value merely as ingredients of a certain lifestyle of the user.

This development was the reason why I began talking about an aesthetic

11

Advertising

This new use of commodities, namely as a means to produce an atmosphere, caused a shift in advertising. Whereas traditional advertising, say, from the nineteenth century up to the first half of the twentieth century represented commodities as well made and useful, contemporary advertising does not present the commodities as such but rather a scene within which they have a certain function, namely contributing to an atmosphere. So you might notice a bottle of Beck’s beer in the hand of a member of a sailing crew, or a Vuitton

The concept of commodity aesthetics was introduced by Wolfgang Fritz Haug. But his book concentrated particularly on the packaging of commodities, how they were presented in the marketplace. Since his time, we have seen an extension of commodity aesthetics into the fields of production and consumption.

economy.

merely satisfy basic needs; for their staging-value, they are valued to the extent that they help individuals or groups to stage their lifestyles. Here commodities have their use-value; a means of producing a certain atmosphere. This gives us a reason to talk about a new type of commodity value besides the Marxian use-value and exchange-value, namely to attribute the new type of stage-value to commodities.

Commodities are valued in the aesthetic economy where they now

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Introduction 5

bag in an outdoor picnic scene. The appeal of advertising is not to a customer who wants to make use of a commodity but to somebody who wants to be embedded into a certain atmosphere of life. This also means customers want to belong to a certain group; they want to distinguish themselves from the crowd by association with a certain lifestyle. Thus the aesthetics of atmospheres in advertising means that commodities are not presented as things which are useful within a certain practice but as signs which help to produce a certain atmosphere in life.

Architecture and design

One of the main applications of the aesthetic theory of atmospheres is archi- tecture and design. Architecture and design have always produced atmospheres, but the thinking about architecture mainly concentrated on buildings and their visual representation; and thinking about design concentrated on the form or shape of things. This type of thinking came to its peak with Bauhaus modernity and found adequate expression in the slogan “form follows function.” But since the turn to postmodernity we have a new humanism in both fields and that means that the way we experience buildings and the surroundings, how we feel as visitors or people who live there, comes to the fore. In the theory of design, the situation is comparable: it is not only the function or, say, the use-value of things which is at stake, but what sort of impression the objects make. It is necessary to observe that this turn has something to do with the transformation of capitalism into an aesthetic economy.

But what interests us here is the shift in thinking both in architecture and design as a consequence of the theory of atmospheres. We said: atmospheres are something spatial and at the same time something emotional. If you are explicitly considering atmospheres in architecture and city planning the main topic of your considerations is space. Architecture is not just about buildings but essentially about spaces. Architecture is opening and closing spaces, it sets points of concentration and therefore of orientation in space; it determines directions, it frames outlooks. And all this for people visiting or dwelling there. That means that the way people feel in rooms and spaces, how they move around, how they can follow bodies and lines of buildings is the main point of interest.

The situation is comparable in the art of design. Here a shift of considera- tion took place, which again is determined by the perspective of the customer. Whereas in traditional theory of design one was talking about the shape and the properties of things, it is now about “ecstasies.” I use the Greek word ecstasies to indicate the way things are radiating into space and thus con- tributing to the formation of an atmosphere. Ecstatics is the way things make a certain impression on us and thus modifying our mood, the way we feel ourselves.

In the fields of architecture and design the turn is from the form or shape of things to their contribution of tuning the space of our bodily presence.

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6 Introduction

Art

The impact of the aesthetic theory of atmospheres to art is primarily a shift in perception aesthetics. It is well known that since Kant and in particular follow- ing Hegel aesthetics became a theory of judgment – judgment on and about works of art. This meant that aesthetics primarily was useful for the educated elite and for art critics. The consequence was that guidance in art exhibitions means information about the artist, his technique, his time – but on the other side the guided visitor has no real chance to make observations and experi- ences of his own. This is the more regrettable because the interest in art has widened far beyond the educated elite. Now, the theory of atmospheres opens a quite different approach to works of art, i.e. an approach which is not guided by art history, iconography, and semantics. The main goal of visiting an exhibition is not learning or information but having experiences. Guidance no longer means information but assistance in approaching the work of art

12

met by a certain development in art itself. There are quite a few paintings which have no meaning, in particular monochromic painting, but the whole movement of abstract expressionism may be mentioned here. More explicit as to the requirement to have experiences – and the means of being bodily present at the place where the work of art is – is land-art and the art of sound installations. These types of artwork are on the one hand explicitly related to

13

The detection of atmospheres was a great step forward for philosophy: dedicated to the clear and distinct – at least since Descartes – philosophy for the first time came to conceive of and to talk about a vague and rather subjective phenomenon. The phenomenological analysis of atmospheres was very fruitful and prepared the ground for the theory to be applied in many fields. The most important – and successful – application was within aesthetics. The material background of this success may be seen in the ubiquitous aestheticization of our lifeworld or – taking it more from the side of production – of staging of everything, every event and performance.

The theory of atmospheres becoming an aesthetic theory thus turned out to be a critical theory of our contemporary civilization. It reveals the theatrical,

14

and in preparation of one’s own experiences.

This turn from meaning to experience in the perception of works of art is

their place and on the other they are ephemeral.

order to adequately appreciate what these works of art are requires exposing oneself to the atmosphere they are radiating.

Conclusion

not to say manipulative character of politics, commerce, of the event-society. This for the critical power of the theory. But taking it as a positive theory of certain phenomena it opened up a lot of new perspectives for architecture, design, and art. It made the spatial and the experience of space and places a main subject and hence rehabilitated the ephemeral in arts. Taking the

The consequence is that in

Copyright © ${Date}. ${Publisher}. All rights reserved.

Introduction 7

numerous impacts in many fields together it initiated a new humanism: the individual as a living person and his or her perspective being taken seriously in architecture and design; and it fosters the ongoing democratization of culture, in particular the possibility for everybody being able to participate in art and its works.

Notes

1 Gernot Böhme, Für eine ökologische Naturästhetik, Frankfurt/M., Suhrkamp, 3rd edn, 1999 [1989].

2 Gernot Böhme and Engelbert Schramm (eds.), Soziale Naturwissenschaft. Wege zur Erweiterung der Ökologie, Frankfurt/M., Fischer, 1985.

3 Hubertus Tellenbach, Geschmack und Atmosphäre. Medien menschlichen Elementarkontaktes. Salzburg, Otto Müller Verlag, 1968.

4 Hermann Schmitz, System der Philosophie. Bonn, Bouvier, 1964, Bd. III.1 Die Wahrnehmung.

5 Rudolf Otto, Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen. Breslau, Trewendt & Granier, 1917; Nachdruck, München, Beck, 2004.

6 C. C. L. Hirschfeld, Theorie der Gartenkunst, Leipzig, 5 Bde., 1779–85.

7 Aristotle says that Sophocles already practiced skenographia, Poetics, 1449a18.

8 Wolfgang Fritz Haug, Kritik der Warenästhetik, Frankfurt/M., Suhrkamp, 1971.

9 See my article “Fortschritte der Warenästhetik. Passagen an den Rändern der

Kulturwissenschaft,” in N. Adamowsky, P. Matussek (Hrsg.) Auslassungen. Leer- stellen als Movens der Kulturwissenschaft. Würzburg, Königshausen & Neumann, 2004, S. 31–8.

10 JeanBaudrillard,ForaCritiqueofthePoliticalEconomyoftheSign,trans.C.Levin, St Louis, Telos Press, 1981 [1972].

11 Gernot Böhme, “Contribution to the Critique of Aesthetic Economy,” Thesis Eleven, 73, May 2003, 71–82. Reprinted in this book, as Chapter 7.

12 One of the most gifted art guides in this sense was Michael Bockemühl. See his Die Wirklichkeit des Bildes. Bildrezeption als Bildproduktion – Rothko, Newman, Rembrandt, Raphael [Habilitationsschrift], Urachhaus Verlag, Stuttgart, 1985; and J. M. W. Turner, 1775–1851 – The World of Light and Colour, Cologne, 2000.

13 See Gernot Böhme, Die sanfte Kunst des Ephemeren. Essen, Verlag der fadbk, 2008, in M. Fliescher, F. Goppelsröder, and D. Mersch (Hrsg.), Sichtbarkeiten I. Erscheinen. Zur Praxis des Präsentiven. Berlin, Diaphanes, 2013, 87–108.

14 See Gerhard Schulze, Die Erlebnisgesellschaft: Kultursoziologie der Gegenwart. Frankfurt/M., Campus, 1992.

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[raddinosaurzombie]

Aleister Crowley (& the Aeon of Horus)

by Michael Tsarion

I have been accused of being a ‘black magician.’ No more foolish statement was ever made about me. I despise the thing to such an extent that I can hardly believe in the existence of people so debased and idiotic as to practice it - Aleister Crowley (The Sunday Dispatch, 1933)

The twentieth card of the Tarot’s Major Arcana - Judgment or The Aeon - corresponds with Aries, the sign which opens the solar zodiac. Astrologically, Aries is associated with new birth and masculine creative energy. The planet-archetypes assigned to The Aeon are the Sun and Pluto. In astrological parlance the card’s meaning is analogous to Pluto in Aries or a conjunction between Mars, Sun and Pluto. Conventionally, Pluto is associated with the sign of Scorpio. However, psychologically it connotes the "Shadow" and corresponds with gods such as Thanatos, Hades and Shiva. It is associated with the so-called underworld journey and spiritual resurrection.

Historically, the discovery of the planet Pluto coincided with major upheavals and new paradigms of thought and communication. After its discovery, in 1930, the atom was split, the Great Depression occurred in America, Adolf Hitler rose to power in Europe, and World War II broke out. The planet-archetype certainly represents painful catharsis and difficult psychological transformation; new life emerging from the ashes of the old and outworn.

In the Rider-Waite deck we see three naked figures rising from graves with arms outstretched in the shape of Latin word Lux, meaning “light.” Above them is Archangel Gabriel with his trumpet.

The Rider-Waite version

The design intentionally represents the supernal triangle on the Kabalistic Tree of Life, that is, the three highest Sephiroth known as Kether, Chokmah and Binah.

The youth in the center represents the sphere of Tiphareth, esoterically associated with Horus. Although Horus is traditionally considered a solar deity, he is - in his aspect of avenger - closely associated with Pluto. He was the rival and conqueror of Set, his father's evil brother and arch-enemy. He is the prototype for mythological avengers Hercules, St. George, St. Michael, and so on.

The Aeon’s imagery also relates to the precessional movement of the sun, moon and planets through the zodiac. This cycle of 25,920 years is referred to as the Great or Platonic Year. The Aeon pictorializes an important mythographic event in the celestial revolution - the resurrection of sun god Ra-Hoor-Khuit, Harpocrates or Horus the Younger.

In the Gnostic tradition Horus is Io (pronounced Aho). In the Thoth deck we see him with forefinger pressed to his lips. This pose indicates the Hermetic mysteries of which he is keeper. The letters I and O connote the Phi ratio or geometric harmony of the universe.

Crowley's Thoth Tarot version

The esoteric letter of The Aeon is shin (pronounced shayeen), closely related to the English word shine. Although the previous card depicts the physical sun, The Aeon connotes the heart or spirit of the phenomenal sun which, though not visible to the senses, is discerned once subtle modes of insight and understanding awaken. The Aeon represents the unseen light or power behind the world of matter. It represents the energy behind perceivable, quantifiable bioenergy; the numinous Implicate or enfolded power emanating from the center of every atom, cell, corpuscle, emotion and idea.

Dr. George W. Crile, of the Cleveland Laboratories...announced that he had discovered at the heart of every living organism a tiny nucleus of energy, all aglow, with temperatures ranging from 3000 to 6000 degrees of heat, which he called "radiogens" or "hot points" precisely akin to the radiant energy of solar matter. He affirmed that a tiny particle of the sun's power and radiance was lodged within the heart of every organic unit! - Alvin Boyd Kuhn (The Great Myth of the Sun Gods)

...our individual consciousnesses could be derived from a higher...consciousness through an interface created in the brain by endogenous light. It is hypothesized that photons emitted from cells in the brain are guided to the surfaces of the brain's fluid-filled ventricular spaces, where they interact with cilia lining those ventricles and are guided by the timed beating of the cilia so that the photons form interference patterns within the ventricular spaces, creating an interface through which a tiny portion of the "light of God" is able to animate the corpus. Some of the necessary mechanisms such as light emissions from cells are known; others are hypothetical - Karl Simanonok PhD (The Divine Light of Consciousness)

The "light" seen emanating from the card represents the spiritual intelligence or Universal Order which is negentropic in nature and not created by human beings. Indeed, humans are themselves emanations and embodiments of this Order or Logos. Coming into conscious attunement with the Logos constitutes a truly holy act, and is the goal of the Magnum Opus or Great Work. Arriving at this state of attunement requires mental, emotional and physical purification. It entails a quietening of the chatter of the Left Brain (ego-consciousness).

To emphasize the idiosyncratic qualities of Arcanum 20, occultist Aleister Crowley, of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and Ordo Templi Orientis, decided to change its imagery and title. To comprehend why his changes are significant and why he wanted the Arcanum to stand out, we have to know something about his life, times, circle and occult ideas.

.

No matter to what depth I plumb, I always end with my wings beating steadily toward the sun - AC

Edward Alexander Aleister Crowley was born under the sign of Libra on October 12 1875, the year the Theosophical Society was founded. Born to a family of fundamentalist Plymouth Brethren, he attended Cambridge University and read his first "occult" tract The Cloud Upon the Sanctuary by Karl von Eckharthausen at age twenty two. On November 18 1898, he was initiated into Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, an occult fraternity founded in England by Dr. Wynn Westcott, William Robert Woodman and Samuel Liddell (also known as MacGregor Mathers). The Order’s members included A. E. Waite, Dion Fortune, Arthur Conan Doyle and W. B. Yeats. Crowley studied Tarot and Hermeticism assiduously under Mathers and mystic Alan Bennett. After studying Book T  by Mathers, he realized he had a destiny with the Tarot or Grimoire of Thoth.

Both Mathers and Crowley knew that prior to the advent of their Hermetic Order, Tarot interpretation and usage were exoteric and mundane. Mathers was perplexed that he was chosen to restore the esoteric secrets of the seventy eight Arcana. With characteristic hubris he wrote of the matter:

Do you imagine that where such men as Court de Gebelin, Etteila, Christian and Levi failed in their endeavor to discover the Tarot attributions that I would be able of my own power and intelligence alone to lift the veil which has baffled them?

Crowley clearly knew the time had come for a restoration of Tarot, the authentic “Emerald Tablets of Hermes” or “Book of Life.” He wrote that he had:

...deplored the absence of any authentic Text on Tarot. The medieval packs are hopelessly corrupt or otherwise far from presenting the Ancient Truth of the Book in a coherent system or shape of lucid beauty - (Preface: The Book of Thoth)

The result of his education during his time with the Golden Dawn was his Thoth Deck. The cards were painted by Golden Dawn member and Freemason Lady Frieda Harris. She worked with Crowley to formulate their deck’s appearance and occult properties. Through her persuasion, Crowley invested five years of concentrated work honing his esoteric knowledge of magic, divination and symbolism.

She devoted her genius to the Work...with inexhaustible patience...often painting the same card as many as eight times...May the passionate "love under will" which she has stored in this Treasury of Truth and Beauty flow forth from the Splendour and Strength of her work to enlighten the world; may this Tarot serve as a chart for the bold seamen of the New Aeon, to guide them across the Great Sea of Understanding to the City of the Pyramids - Aleister Crowley (on Lady Harris)

Crowley with Lady Frieda Harris, the artist

who painted the enigmatic Thoth Deck.

Their vision finally came into being, and competent critics and adepts agree that along with the Rider-Waite deck, Crowley's Thoth Tarot is one of the most precious endowments to humanity.

Each card is, in a sense, a living being and its relation with its neighbors are what one might call diplomatic. It is for the student to build these living stones into his living temple - A. C. (The Book of Thoth)

Although he was born in the late Victorian Age, there was little that was "Old World" about the bohemian gentleman perpetually slandered as "mad, bad and dangerous to know." As his unofficial biographers are only too keen to remind us, Victorian society considered Crowley something of an enfant terrible. However, it is reprehensible that they should have ridiculed him as much as they did and for as long. After all, was he not a child of the same histrionic age that produced Swinburne, Shelley, Rimbaud and Baudelaire? And through previous centuries had he no equivalents? From the Classical Period through the Medieval, to the Renaissance and beyond, we find iconoclasts, transgressives, libertines and heretics now remembered as paragons of wisdom. As Crowley knew, he was secure in the tradition of savants such as Socrates, Plotinus, Erasmus, Bohme, Bruno, Apollonius, Valentinus, Christian Rosencrantz, Blavatsky and Steiner, etc. He is also in the tradition of academic philosophers such as Kierkegaard, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and Heidegger, with his work being distinctly more accessible.

Alas, due to disinformation disseminated by gutter journalists, we find Crowley’s name indexed not with the enlighteners and geniuses but with scoundrels and sociopaths. To read the many vitriolic diatribes against him and labels he was given - Anti-Christ, King of Depravity, Cannibal at Large, Wickedest Man in the World, Man We'd Like to Hang, Great Beast, etc - one may be excused for thinking him related to Vlad the Impaler or Jack the Ripper. He has been labeled everything from England's most perfidious seducer, to the Devil's own high priest. Fortunately his detractors are mostly forgotten and today his admirers provide more enlightening commentary on his reputation and significance:

All the little mystics have reason to be terrified of him and his "exposures" of their camouflages. These groups, quite numerous and socially powerful...are mainly responsible...for the legend that he is a devil-worshiper and a practitioner of "black magic" - Israel Regardie (secretary to Crowley)

It is our opinion that to defend Crowley within the Christian-Judaic system not only does him a disservice but makes us weak slaves of the past. We believe that those who judge and defend Crowley within this system are attempting to remove his influence or demonstrate that he had no influence at all - Christopher Hyatt (Head of the New Thelemic Order of the Golden Dawn)

Crowley is most emphatically a part of the spiritual history of this century, and as such it behooves us to reckon with him both sensibly and sensitively - Lawrence Sutin (Do What Thou Wilt)

Crowley emphasized that in any age man’s most pressing need is total freedom of thought, action and belief. The term he employed to describe total emancipation was "Will" (from the Greek Thelema). He noted that in esoteric numerology the Greek words for "Love" and "Will" have the same sum. For occultists this means the words express the same principle. In a similar vein as his predecessor William Blake, Crowley proclaimed that freedom, on all levels, was attainable once we dispense with external authority. For Blake and Crowley, man’s will is subverted early in life by authoritarian parents and peers. Minds and hearts are dominated by the will of mothers, fathers, relatives, school teachers, friends, priests and politicians.

The spirit within is also violated when we prostitute ourselves by overly relying on external guidance, asking each and every stranger for answers, direction and support. For Crowley, Blake, and other true mystics, on our spiritual journey the advice and experiences of other people are relatively meaningless.

In other words, men do not think with their own minds or feel with their own hearts. On the contrary, their consciousness is colonized. The process of consciousness-control occurs gradually over generations and less gradually during the years of a single lifetime. The conditioned, acculturated man, more often than not becomes an oppressor of those who fall under his power. Indeed, most humans accept the “mind-forged manacles” imposed on them, and many quickly move to impose them on others. What is often referred to as "community" and "family," amounts to little more than enslavement to the will of others.

Crowley believed that during the twentieth century men would finally get a real chance to cast off their chains and overthrow the corrupt institutions that imposed their will on humanity. Like a caring father he dedicated his time and energy to the creation of the manifestos of freedom to guide the New Aeon's unchained but unguided children. Of these works the Thoth Tarot is his supreme accomplishment. This is especially so given that it employs images rather than words.

Although Crowley was certainly anti-Christian, he was not anti-Christ. Jesus as rebel and hero appealed to his own heroic character. Like many scholars Crowley simply recognized that religious organizations and paradigms do not prevail forever in pristine form, particularly if they fail to evolve and morph as man himself does. Through the ages the institutions of Christianity had become impossibly dogmatic, paternal and antihuman. Therefore they need to be replaced by sane modern ideologies for modern times. Those who see in Crowley nothing but a blustering iconoclast do well to remember that his penchant for deconstruction was balanced with a ability to conceive brilliant solutions to the problems bred by fundamentalist doctrines:

Crowley desired nothing less than the creation of a full-fledged successor religion - complete with a guiding Logos that would endure for millennia, as had the teachings of Jesus - Lawrence Sutin

The turning point in Crowley's life occurred in 1904, while he was in his twenties. He received, by way of his wife, channeled instructions concerning his role on the planet. After an initial series of visions, the Crowleys returned to their home in Bolskine, Scotland, where he entered into direct communion with a praetor-human intelligence. This incorporeal agency transmitted prophetic visions about the coming age in which humans struggled to free themselves from the psychological and spiritual chains imposed by religious and political institutions of previous ages. As a result of his strange mystical experience, and while in trance, Crowley penned the strange and infamous tome Liber Al vel Legis or Book of the Law. Although it has been denounced and ridiculed, many regard the book as a sacred testament of the coming age.

The imagery of Arcanum 20 (in the Thoth Tarot) is based on the essence of what Crowley received from his guide. Following in the footsteps of Christian mystic Joachim of Fiore, he wrote of how history had a trinitarian structure. Specifically, there are three great epochs corresponding to three periods of the so-called "Platonic Cycle" of 25,920 years. (This cycle is traditionally divided into twelve divisions making the famous signs of the zodiac.) The first epoch, which Crowley named the Aeon of Isis, was a period of Matriarchies which allegedly terminated around 255 BC. During this age societies were predominately eccentric, egalitarian and pantheistic. The superseding period was the Aeon of Osiris; an age of Patriarchal communities which maintained dominion until approximately 1900 AD. The present Aeon of Horus is, therefore, the period of the sovereign individual, the Son or Child of Creation; and as with any period of birth, the age has seen several traumatic events. Like Blake, Tennyson and Nietzsche before him, Crowley predicted the world wars and tribulations he believed were unfortunately necessary for the true Spirit of Freedom to rise from the ashes of corrupt, outworn old world systems. As Christopher Hyatt puts it, the Aeon of Osiris was “an age of terrible darkness, of deplorable ignorance, and of abominable superstition.”

In each age, say Theosophists and Thelemites, the spirit of Horus the Liberator returns. Once every 2,160 years the archetype manifests to destroy the "dark Satanic mills." In other words, the spirit of Horus is the Spirit of Rebellion that takes birth in certain iconoclastic men and women, who as society’s artists, poets, musicians, writers, and activists, actively push for reform and justice. The Spirit of Rebellion shakes traditional paradigms and brings radical change to individuals and countries. It also brings change to religious ideas and beliefs. According to occultist Frater Achad (Charles Stansfeld Jones), the archetype of Horus ”is within each of us as the true urge of our Being.”

In Horus, Isis and Osiris in the Q. B. L., Frater Achad wrote on the purpose of the New Aeon and coming of Horus:

Thus at his Coming in 1904, he found the Race in a state of definite retrogression. "Civilization" met him as he advanced in triumph, and millions fell, without understanding what was happening. He still drives ahead in His Chariot, and millions more will feel his force and fire, until the Race recognizes that it must about-face, and cheer the Conquering Hero on. Then we shall have peace and rejoicing, and the Stern Warrior will seem as the Gentlest Child.

In Magick in Theory and Practice, Crowley wrote of the turbulent birth of the coming Aeon:

There is a Magical Operation of maximum importance: the initiation of a New Aeon. When it becomes necessary to utter a Word, the whole planet will be drenched in blood. Before man is ready to accept the Law of Thelema, the Great War must be fought. This Bloody Sacrifice is the critical point of the World-Ceremony of the Proclamation of Horus, the Crowned and Conquering Child, the Lord of the Aeon.

When men attune with the Plutonic power of Horus the Liberator, and inherit the freedom dreamt of, they do not become debauched and immoral. On the contrary, as Crowley emphasized, they require greater discipline and order. It is not an easy task to both obey and command one's Will. This attunement with one's True Will, this communion, is true Holy Work, requiring no churches or chapels, no oppressive hierarchies and moral codes. The standards of a malignant oppressive society inevitably condition human beings to become self-evasive and repressive. This form of cruelty against oneself was central to Crowley's insights into the human psyche and condition, and his revisioning of humanity. The unrepressed man alone is truly free. Only he has the ability and the right to free others.

When a person represses certain of his thoughts, feelings, or memories, he does so because he regards them as threatening to him in some way. When, specifically, a person represses certain of his emotions or desires, he does so because he regards them as wrong, as unworthy of him, or inappropriate, or immoral, or unrealistic, or indicative of some irrationality on his part—and as dangerous, because of the actions to which they might impel him - Nathaniel Branden (The Psychology of Self-Esteem)

The Willful man avoids repression and dissociation because he is strong enough not to censor his thoughts and emotions, especially those which might cause him emotional pain or moral unease. He refuses to censor himself, and allows his thoughts and feelings to express themselves completely. This is the true definition of freedom as Crowley, Blake, and other sages meant it.

The trouble comes from society which often shapes one's personality in aberrant ways The unrepressed Willful individual doesn't allow this to continue. He avoids being negatively influenced and won't follow society's lead. He is, therefore, bound to be cast as a rebel by his fellows and his society. Nevertheless, his existence is not overcast by the inner shame and anxiety that plagues those who contravene natural and human law to get ahead in the malignant society made in their image. The spiritual man’s goals are not achieved by way of other humans. Others are not used and abused on the Siddhartha Road. What others think, say and do doesn't have a lot of impact for a man on the mystical path. The mystic isn't interested in being accompanied on his journey by sickly repressed types living their lives in denial, denial of denial and perpetual anxiety, relying on brief, sordid, ultimately brief unsatisfactory escapes from it.

Furthermore, Crowley understood that the greatest violence that exists is committed by a man toward his own being. External manifestations of violence and injustice are merely symptoms of self-sadism. To end the cycle of dysfunction, the adept become hygienic emotionally, mentally and morally. Although he may not conform to rules and regulations imposed by states, governments or peers, he is not without ethics and conscience. The adept is not a drop-out, malingerer, anarchist or felon. On the contrary, he has the courage to make his own rules and live by them without the promise of rewards from an infantile society. He wants nothing from his fellows, not their approval or their disapproval. He is, as Ayn Rand advised, a man free from men.

In the magickal tradition, Horus is the Magus presiding over the process of psychic sanitization. He presides over the marriage of Heaven and Hell, the nucleation of psychic and physical energy. He is what the adept becomes when his personal will is attuned to the cosmic Will, Animus or Logos.

Every man and woman is a star...that is to say, every human being is intrinsically an independent individual with his own proper character and proper motion - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

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Crowley's polemics reached their peak when he penned the slogan of the New Aeon - “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” This misunderstood and flagrantly misrepresented adage - bandied by hippies, anarchists, neo-pagans and pop icons - has nothing to do with political revolt and sexual license. It was not meant as a slogan for reactionaries bent on secular revolution, but for Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve dedicated to cleansing the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual doors of perception.

Crowley appropriated the term from the great fifteenth century monk and humanist Francois Rabelais. But, crucially, Rabelais coined the term because in his estimation man does not need to submit to imposed rules and regulations for the simple reason that he is born good. All he requires is the freedom to act according to his true nature, without impositions and restrictions. Crowley was in accord with this doctrine, and did not believe that man was little more than a civilized beast. Like William Blake, Rabelais and Crowley both understood that man is repressed and warped by imposed draconian rules and prohibitions. Of course, we see from this how spurious and scurrilous are the critiques levied against Crowley in this regard. How they fall dead when we see that his view of man's underlying nature was wholesome, noble and heroic.

"Do What Thou Wilt" does not mean "do what you please" though this degree of emancipation is implied...we can no longer say a priori that any course of action is "wrong." Every man and woman has an absolute right to do his or her own true will - A. C. (Secret Conference)

"Do What Thou Wilt"...is the apotheosis of Freedom; but it is also the strictest possible bond - A. C.

Francois Rabelais (1483-1553) was one of Crowley's foremost influences. He coined the controversial term "Do What Thou Wilt," which means nothing more than "Obey Thyself," the edict of ancient Stoics and latter day sages such as Nietzsche, Kierkegaard and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Following the will of any other person or agency is irrational and foolish, and will never lead to enlightenment.

Yes, attunement with the Guardian Angel or Higher Self does indeed involve the strongest possible bond. Detractors rightly understand that Crowley was critical of impositions upon the Self from external tyrannies - government, school teachers, priests, parents, and so on. However, he was aware that punitive instruction from authorities is obsessively relied upon by the majority of the world’s men and women who go from one day to the next devoid of inner strength and fortitude. The hedonic, episodic person constantly seeks for someone’s feet to kiss and someone to give him enlightenment. He is constantly searching for someone or something to enslave him, and lives in a state of perpetual neurotic anxiety when his sado-masochistic desires go unfulfilled. Unlike the adept, the morally inferior man waits for the stimuli of the world to turn him on. He is simply incapable of bringing meaning from within himself. He neither commands nor obeys his True Will.

Whoever cannot find a temple in his heart, the same can never find his heart in any temple - Mikhail Naimy

The motto “Do What Thou Wilt” implies attunement between the Microprosopus and Macroprosopus, or in plain language the ego and Imperial Self; which cannot be achieved until the pseudo-self undergoes deconstruction. This deconstruction cannot occur until man separates himself from collective factors responsible for creating and perpetuating the pseudo-self. This separation cannot occur until man has developed sufficient psychic strength - or Will - to break free and devise his own path, one he must walk alone.

Aloneness is usually wanting until a man's character is deepened by suffering, which is less likely in a conformist society that suppresses legitimate expressions of emotion and dissuades individuals from addressing the darker sides of life. Therefore, instead of attunement with the Imperial Self we have immersion in the Collective. As Crowley knew, the so-called “I” is not necessarily identical with the Imperial Self. The “self” or “I” of a spiritually inferior man is merely a pastiche of everyone’s attitudes and beliefs, the product of a pathogenic society. To such a creature the ideas of independence, aloneness and psychic sovereignty are contemplated with dread, and men who embody these states are despised and ridiculed on sight.

Whatever your sexual predilections may be, you are free, by the Law of Thelema, to be the star you are, to go your own way rejoicing. It is not indicated here in this text, though it is elsewhere implied, that only one symptom warns that you have mistaken your True Will, and that is, if you should imagine that in pursuing your way you interfere with that of another star. It may, therefore, be considered improper, as a general rule, for your sexual gratification to destroy, deform, or displease any other star. Mutual consent to the act is the condition thereof - A. C. (The Law Is For All)

“Do What Thou Wilt” sounds reprehensible only to those conditioned by the dogma of the bygone patriarchal Aeon of Osiris, and those who wish to enslave the hearts and minds of humans by externally imposed, socially-endorsed standards and values. For such as these, Crowley will always be a veritable “Anti-Christ.” Certainly he was mischievous, irreverent, audacious and self-absorbed. Certainly he was capable of ridicule and hyperbole. Nevertheless, he was certainly of superior character, insight and intention to recent think-tank-funded "people's champions" and media celebs who encourage psychic regression and enslavement with chic pop-culture platitudes such as "turn on, tune in, drop out!" His message is an anathema to the hippy and "New-Ager" as much as it is to the buttoned-down Evangelist and Wall Street slicker.

...Crowley was a prophet of the New Aeon of Horus which in essence reverses all the old systems and ways of Christian-Judaic thinking - Christopher Hyatt

Aleister Crowley was an eminent Magician of many talents, dedicated to establishing on earth the Law of Thelema, so that all men and women might be free to do their own true wills in accordance with their own true natures. He was not...the most evil man in the world, devoted to the vile practices of Black Magic. He was, on the contrary, a devotee of love and will who sought to enlighten humanity - ibid

We see then, that we can never affect anything outside ourselves save only as it is also within us. Whatever I do to another, I also do to myself. If I kill a man, I destroy my own life at the same time...Every vibration awakens all others of its particular pitch - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

Pamela Coleman Smith, the designer and painter of the

Rider-Waite deck. She died in poverty and obscurity.

As Frater Achad emphasized, during the Aeon of Horus men learn the principles for the "right rulership" the themselves. What most bandwagon apostles of "Crowleyanity" forget is that true freedom ultimately involves considerable personal responsibility. No masters above, certainly, but no slaves below. This is why Crowley was not advocating a dionysian "Hippydom." That is not what his Aeon was about.

To attune with the Natural Order and bring one’s being to harmony requires discipline and rectitude. Crowley himself was certainly capable of immense self-control and mental concentration. Among his many accomplishments, he was an expert mathematician and yogi. He was a master of Patanjali, Pranayama and other yogas which he studied in the Orient for many years.

The state of attunement - referred to as arete, meaning Virtue or Justice, by ancient Athenian philosophers, and Thelema or Will by later occultists - is actualized when no single capacity of consciousness - intellect, emotion, sensation or intuition - develops while others remain arrested or repressed. When one psychic hemisphere inflates and dominates consciousness, it automatically occludes and represses the tendencies of other hemispheres, causing mental and moral disequilibrium. The imbalanced individual is bound to imbalance the world in which he lives and acts. As far as Crowley was concerned, religious fundamentalists and practitioners of conventional science are, for the most part, chronically imbalanced and toxic. Long before the time of R. D. Laing, Erich Fromm, Arno Gruen, and other social critics, Crowley warned about the insanity of normality and taught that psychically deranged people are products of a deranged society bent on preventing them from attaining psychological hygiene and harmony.

The end of all is the power to live according to your own nature, without danger that one part may develop to the detriment of the whole - A. C. (The Equinox Vol III, Nu 10)

In simple language, this means that attunement with the True Will allows us to attain a state of being in which we are able to objectively and dispassionately grasp and argue the opposite point of view to that which we hold and favor. We do not need a Devil's Advocate, because we are profoundly aware of every counter-argument and counter-position to those we cherish and adhere to, an ability only a handful of people on earth possess or desire to inculcate. In this state we are embodiments of the Magickal Will, and are attitudinally androgynous. We are Philosopher Kings.

Justice or Adjustment is the eleventh card of the Major Arcana. It represents the Magical Will, or in simple terms the cultivation of the ability to embody the opposing view to one's own favored beliefs, opinions and arguments. It represents the Aperion of pre-Socratic philosopher Anaximander, as well as the Taoist sage who "fulfills his will without action, and utters his word without speech." (

Here

for more...)

The adept who attunes with the Magickal Will (Higher Self) becomes the Eudaimon of the Athenian philosophers. He becomes the supremely happy man. He is his own servant and master, needing no gods or religions, panaceas or bromides, rewards or salvation. He has lived fully and completely in the now and not restricted or repressed his vital energy by excessive masochism, altruism and guilt, or the complexes and syndromes which his repressed, dissociated, conformist fellows fall prey to.

To deny the Law of Thelema is a restriction in oneself, affirming conflict in the Universe as necessary. It is a blasphemy against the Self, assuming that its Will is not a necessary (and therefore noble) part of the Whole - A. C.

Anyone who is forced from his own course, either through not understanding himself, or through external imposition, comes into conflict with the order of the Universe, and suffers accordingly - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

The attuned man needs no gods of religion because as Virgil was to Dante, his Imperial Self (True Will) is a constant guardian and instructor.

...The True Will must be consciously grasped by the Mind, and this Work is akin to that called the attainment of the knowledge and conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel - A. C. (Heart of the Master)

In the knowledge and conversation of his Holy Guardian Angel, the adept is possessed of all he can possibly need. To consult any other is to insult one's Angel - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

The single supreme ritual is the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is the raising of the complete mass in a vertical straight line. Any deviation from this line tends to become black magic. Any other operation is black magic - ibid

Mystical Alchemy is a personal science, a sublime and effective system of Self-Initiation. Only you, as a single individual, can calculate and follow your way up the Great Mountain of Hermetic Attainment...All essential guidance is within you, in the inmost centre of your heart where your own Holy Guardian Angel, or Inner Self, resides. To depend upon any other thing than your own Holy Guardian Angel to accomplish the Great Work is to insult your Angel who is with you to instruct and guide you. All essential wisdom by which to achieve the Great Work is to be ascertained only within you; nowhere else will you find the Truth - David Cherubim (The Order of the Thelemic Golden Dawn)

Another of Crowley's antinomian phrases was “Love Under Will.” This motto has also caused consternation among the orthodox who believe it exalts bestial proclivities. However, they forget that whatever stands beneath a thing holds it up. Crowley's Love is not a subservient quality. Rather, it undergirds and supports an adept's Will. To be attuned to one’s Will first entails the development of Self-Love.

To Crowley, and Blake before him, it was obvious that the doctrines of Judeo-Christianity breed guilt, shame and self-hate, and must therefore be utterly rejected. Both men understood that Western and Eastern religious doctrines foster and depend on masochism. The average Christian is paranoid, intolerant, forbidding and oppressive toward those around him because he is suspicious, anxious and repressive toward himself. Indeed, he is expertly taught to be so. Although he superficially believes he loves Jesus and God, he is completely unaware of the psychic violence he commits to himself on an hourly basis.

The God that holds you over the pit of Hell, much as we hold a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath toward you burns like fire - John Edwards (New England Preacher)

As innocent as children seem to us, if they are out of Christ, they are not so in God’s sight, but are young vipers and are infinitely more hateful than vipers and are in a most miserable condition - ibid

When my heart is cold and I cannot pray as I should I scourge myself with the thought of the impiety and ingratitude of my enemies, the Pope and his accomplices and vermin…so that my heart swells with righteousness and hatred and I can say with warmth and vehemence: “Holy be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done!” And the hotter I grow the more ardent do my prayers become - Martin Luther

Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied, and my concubine being torn from my side as a hindrance to my marriage, my heart which clave unto her was torn and wounded and bleeding…To Thee be praise, glory to Thee, Fountain of Mercies. I was becoming more miserable and Thou nearer - St. Augustine

Self-Love - which must not be confused with narcissism - cannot be awakened until its opposite is vanquished. However, self-hate cannot be overcome until it is first correctly observed, which is impossible while we remain distracted by the nonsense of the world. It is impossible to see oneself truly while seeking guidance from the misguided and approval from those as empty and toxic as oneself.

A man likes to believe that he is the master of his soul. But as long as he is unable to control his moods and emotions, or to be conscious of the myriad secret ways in which unconscious factors insinuate themselves into his arrangements and decisions, he is certainly not his own master - Carl Jung (Approaching the Unconscious)

Furthermore, Self-Love is impossible to experience while we crave "love" from people spiritually and emotionally paralyzed by their own subconscious self-hate. It will never blossom within the man who lowers his self-value in order to be approved of and admired. To place a single human being above oneself is to commit an act of violence toward the Imperial Self. As Crowley stated, it is a slap in the face of one's Guardian Angel, a crime that arrests the healthy development of individuals and civilizations.

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Aleister Crowley may or may not have been the high priest of a New Aeon. In any case we cannot doubt that our world would be the poorer without his contributions to the magickal canon. His Thoth Tarot stands out as one of the most marvelous creations of any master at any time in history. In fact, it may take decades before its geometrical, numerical, symbolic, sabean and theosophical secrets are fathomed.

According to Crowley the divination arts are:

A language fitted to describe certain classes of phenomena and to express certain classes of ideas which escape regular phraseology - A. C. (Liber 777)

On the connections between the Tarot and Kabala, he wrote:

It is beyond doubt a deliberate attempt to represent, in pictorial form, the doctrines of the Qabalah - (Book of Thoth)

Crowley was a man of science who chose to work with magicians and magic. But he was also a magician who knew more about physical and abstract science than the reprobates genuflecting before the altar of Positivism. His findings anticipated those of later Quantum Theorists who still struggle to accept what he considered obvious:

We use instruments of science to inform us of the nature of the various objects which we wish to study but our observations never reveal the thing as it is in itself. They only enable us to compare unfamiliar with familiar expressions - A. C. (Liber 777)

The question of Magick is a question of discovering and employing hitherto unknown forces in nature - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

The universe is a projection of ourselves, an image as unreal as that of our faces in a mirror, yet, like that face, the necessary form of expression thereof, not to be altered save as we alter ourselves - ibid

Just as his commitment to the physical and psychic freedom of man anticipated Freud, Jung, Gruen, Laing and Reich, and others, so, along with Godel, Schrodinger, Bohr, Rutherford and Heisenberg, Crowley knew mathematical certainty was nonexistent. He knew reason was incapable of cracking the secrets of existence.

It will soon be admitted on all hands that the study of the nature of things in themselves is a work for which the human reason is incompetent - A. C. (Liber 777)

Men will then be lead to the development of a faculty, superior to reason, whose apprehension is independent of the hieroglyphic representations of which reason so vainly makes use - ibid

The cultivation of this higher or deeper, purer sensibility requires the direction of the Magical Will. It requires great sensitivity so the counsel of one's Guardian Angel (or Daemon) is heard and obeyed correctly.

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Magick is the Science of understanding oneself and one's condition. It is the Art of applying that understanding in action - A. C. (Magick in Theory and Practice)

The message of Arcanum 20 is the message of Horus - the Imperial Self. He asks “Will you bid me enter? Will you embrace me beneath the ancient stars and lie with me in the secret place? Will you hearken to my Voice when I declare myself to be the Sword to sever your bonds, the Sphinx to dissolve your questions, the Lion to defend against the adversary? Know that I am your Self-Love returned...here at last...to lay my lips upon yours, for your fear has been loved by me, your loneliness and sorrow also. Let us go forth together and bury them gently in the heart of Hathor the Earth, for they serve us no longer. Together we slay the evil Set, and likewise slay the Father who, through his folly, gave his rival birth. For when the mirror of understanding is still you will see that, age after age, one has begotten the other in the dark womb of their separateness. So my Will declares that those who cannot live together must perish together. My Sword vanquishes both and frees the kingdom...

...Egypt is united, the Scales at rest. I silence the storms which deafened you to my Holy Word and Will. In that Silence is our beginning and end. And when the time of the Sword is past, we shall bring forth the Cup of healing and rejoicing. For behold, we are Horus! We are Pan!...Let us drink, dance and play!”

Thou who art I, beyond all I am

Who hast no nature, and no name

Who art, when all but thou are gone

Thou, centre and secret of the Sun

Thou, hidden spring of all things known

And unknown, Thou aloof, alone,

Thou, the true fire within the reed

Brooding and breeding, source and seed

Of life, love, liberty, and light

Thou beyond speech and beyond sight

Thee I invoke, my faint fresh fire

Kindling as mine intents aspire

Thee I invoke, abiding one,

Thee, centre, and secret of the Sun

And that most holy mystery

Of which the vehicle am I

Appear, most awful and most mild

As it is lawful, in thy child

[ciathyzareposts]

Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers

Fair warning: spoilers for Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers are to be found herein!

In 1989, a twenty-something professional computer programmer and frustrated horror novelist named Jane Jensen had a close encounter with King’s Quest IV that changed her life. She was so inspired by the experience of playing her first adventure game that she decided to apply for a job with Sierra Online, the company that had made it. In fact, she badgered them relentlessly until they finally hired her as a jack-of-all-trades writer in 1990.

Two and a half years later, after working her way up from writing manuals and incidental in-game dialog to co-designing the first EcoQuest game with Gano Haine and the sixth King’s Quest game with Roberta Williams, she had proved herself sufficiently in the eyes of her managers to be given a glorious opportunity: the chance to make her very own game on her own terms. It really was a once-in-a-lifetime proposition; she was to be given carte blanche by the biggest adventure developer in the industry at the height of the genre’s popularity to make exactly the game she wanted to make. Small wonder that she would so often look back upon it wistfully in later years, after the glory days of adventures games had become a distant memory.

For her big chance, Jensen proposed making a Gothic horror game unlike anything Sierra had attempted before, with a brooding and psychologically complex hero, a detailed real-world setting, and a complicated plot dripping with the lore of the occult. Interestingly, Jensen remembers her superiors being less than thrilled with the new direction. She says that Ken Williams in particular was highly skeptical of the project’s commercial viability: “Okay, I’ll let you do it, but I wish you’d come up with something happier!”

But even if Jensen’s recollections are correct, we can safely say that Sierra’s opinion changed over the year it took to make Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers. By the time it shipped on November 24, 1993, it fit in very well with a new direction being trumpeted by Ken Williams in his editorials for the company’s newsletter: a concerted focus on more “adult,” sophisticated fictions, as exemplified not only by Sins of the Fathers but by a “gritty” new Police Quest game and another, more lurid horror game which Roberta Williams had in the works. Although the older, more lighthearted and ramshackle [this, that, and the other] Quest series which had made Sierra’s name in adventure games would continue to appear for a while longer, Williams clearly saw these newer concepts as the key to a mass market he was desperately trying to unlock. Games like these were, theoretically anyway, able to appeal to demographics outside the industry’s traditional customers — to appeal to the sort of people who had hitherto preferred an evening in front of a television to one spent in front of a monitor.

Thus Sierra put a lot of resources into Sins of the Fathers‘s presentation and promotion. For example, the box became one of the last standout packages in an industry moving inexorably toward standardization on that front; in lieu of anything so dull as a rectangle, it took the shape of two mismatched but somehow conjoined triangles. Sierra even went so far as to hire Tim Curry of Rocky Horror Picture Show fame, Mark Hamill of Star Wars, and Michael Dorn of Star Trek: The Next Generation for the CD-ROM version’s voice-acting cast.

Jane Jensen with the first Gabriel Knight project’s producer and soundtrack composer Bob Holmes, who would later become her husband, and the actor Tim Curry, who provided the voice of Gabriel using a thick faux-New Orleans accent which some players judge hammy, others charming.

In the long run, the much-discussed union of Silicon Valley and Hollywood that led studios like Sierra to cast such high-profile names at considerable expense would never come to pass. In the meantime, though, the game arrived at a more modestly propitious cultural moment. Anne Rice’s Gothic vampire novels, whose tonal similarities to Sins of the Fathers were hard to miss even before Jensen began to cite them as an inspiration in interviews, were all over the bestseller lists, and Tom Cruise was soon to star in a major motion picture drawn from the first of them. Even in the broader world of games around Sierra, the influence of Rice and Gothic horror more generally was starting to make itself felt. On the tabletop, White Wolf’s Vampire: The Masquerade was exploding in popularity just as Dungeons & Dragons was falling on comparatively hard times; the early 1990s would go down in tabletop history as the only time when a rival system seriously challenged Dungeons & Dragons‘s absolute supremacy. And then there was the world of music, where dark and slinky albums from bands like the Cure and Massive Attack were selling in the millions.

Suffice to say, then, that “goth” culture in general was having a moment, and Sins of the Fathers was perfectly poised to capitalize on it. The times were certainly a far cry from just half a decade before, when Amy Briggs had proposed an Anne Rice-like horror game to her bosses at Infocom, only to be greeted with complete incomprehension.

Catching the zeitgeist paid off: Sins of the Fathers proved, if not quite the bridge to the Hollywood mainstream Ken Williams might have been longing for, one of Sierra’s most popular adventures games of its time. An unusual number of its fans were female, a demographic oddity it had in common with all of the other Gothic pop culture I’ve just mentioned. These female fans in particular seemed to get something from the game’s brooding bad-boy hero that they perhaps hadn’t realized they’d been missing. While games that used sex as a selling point were hardly unheard of in 1993, Sins of the Fathers stood out in a sea of Leisure Suit Larry and Spellcasting games for its orientation toward the female rather than the male gaze. In this respect as well, its arrival was perfectly timed, coming just as relatively more women and girls were beginning to use computers, thanks to the hype over multimedia computing that was fueling a boom in their sales.

But there was more to Sins of the Father‘s success than its arrival at an opportune moment. On the contrary: the game’s popularity has proved remarkably enduring over the decades since its release. It spawned two sequels later in the 1990s that are almost as adored as the first game, and still places regularly at or near the top of lists of “best adventure games of all time.” Then, too, it’s received an unusual amount of academic attention for a point-and-click graphic adventure in the traditional style (a genre which, lacking both the literary bona fides of textual interactive fiction and the innate ludological interest of more process-intensive genres, normally tends to get short shrift in such circles). You don’t have to search long in the academic literature to find painfully earnest grad-student essays contrasting the “numinous woman” Roberta Williams with the “millennium woman” Jane Jensen, or “exploring Gabriel as a particular instance of the Hero archetype.”

So, as a hit in its day and a hit still today with both the fans and the academics, Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers must be a pretty amazing game, right? Well… sure, in the eyes of some. For my own part, I see a lot of incongruities, not only in the game itself but in the ways it’s been received over the years. It strikes me as having been given the benefit of an awful lot of doubts, perhaps simply because there have been so very few games like it. Sins of the Fathers unquestionably represents a noble effort to stretch its medium. But is it truly a great game? And does its story really, as Sierra’s breathless press release put it back in the day, “rival the best film scripts?” Those are more complicated questions.

But before I begin to address them, we should have a look at what the game is all about, for those of you who haven’t yet had the pleasure of Gabriel Knights’s acquaintance.

Our titular hero, then, is a love-em-and-leave-em bachelor who looks a bit like James Dean and comes complete with a motorcycle, a leather jacket, and the requisite sensitive side concealed underneath his rough exterior. He lives in the backroom of the bookshop he owns in New Orleans, from which he churns out pulpy horror novels to supplement his paltry income. Grace Nakamura, a pert university student on her summer holidays, works at the bookshop as well, and also serves as Gabriel’s research assistant and verbal sparring partner, a role which comes complete with oodles of sexual tension.

Gabriel’s bedroom. What woman wouldn’t be excited to be brought back here?

Over the course of the game, Gabriel stumbles unto a centuries-old voodoo cult which has a special motivation to make him their latest human sacrifice. While he’s at it, he also falls into bed with the comely Malia, the somewhat reluctant leader of the cult. He learns amidst it all that not just voodoo spirits but many other things that go bump in the night — werewolves, vampires, etc. — are in fact real. And he learns that he’s inherited the mantle of Schattenjäger — “Shadow Hunter” — from his forefathers, and that his family’s legacy as battlers of evil stretches back to Medieval Germany. (The symbolism of his name is, as Jensen herself admits, not terribly subtle: “Gabriel” was the angel who battled Lucifer in Paradise Lost, while “Knight” means that he’s, well, a knight, at least in the metaphorical sense.) After ten days jam-packed with activity, which take him not only all around New Orleans but to Germany and Benin as well — Sins of the Fathers is a very generous game indeed in terms of length — Gabriel must choose between his love for Malia and his new role of Schattenjäger. Grace is around throughout: to serve as the good-girl contrast to the sultry Malia (again, the symbolism of her name isn’t subtle), to provide banter and research, and to pull Gabriel’s ass bodily out of the fire at least once. If Gabriel makes the right choice at the end of the game, the two forge a tentative partnership to continue the struggle against darkness even as they also continue to deny their true feelings for one another.

As we delve into what the game does well and poorly amidst all this, it strikes me as useful to break the whole edifice down along the classic divide of its interactivity versus its fiction. (If you’re feeling academic, you can refer to this dichotomy as its ludological versus its narratological components; if you’re feeling folksy, you can call it its crossword versus its narrative.) Even many of the game’s biggest fans will admit that the first item in the pairing has its problematic aspects. So, perhaps we should start there rather than diving straight into some really controversial areas. That said, be warned that the two things are hard to entirely separate from one another; Sins of the Fathers works best when the two are in harmony, while many of its problems come to the fore when the two begin to clash.

Let’s begin, though, with the things Sins of the Fathers gets right in terms of design. While I don’t know that it is, strictly speaking, impossible to lock yourself out of victory while still being able to play on, you certainly would have to be either quite negligent or quite determined to manage it at any stage before the endgame. This alone shows welcome progress for Sierra — shows that the design revolution wrought by LucasArts’s The Secret of Monkey Island was finally penetrating even this most stalwart redoubt of the old, bad way of making adventure games.

Snarking aside, we shouldn’t dismiss Jensen’s achievement here; it’s not easy to make such an intricately plot-driven game so forgiving. The best weapon in her arsenal is the use of an event-driven rather than a clock-driven timetable for advancing the plot. Each of the ten days has a set of tasks you must accomplish before the day ends, although you aren’t explicitly told what they are. You have an infinite amount of clock time to accomplish these things at your own pace. When you eventually do so — and even sometimes when you accomplish intermediate things inside each day — the plot machinery lurches forward another step or two via an expository cut scene and the interactive world around you changes to reflect it. Sins of the Fathers was by no means the first game to employ such a system; as far as I know, that honor should go to Infocom’s 1986 text adventure Ballyhoo. Yet this game uses it to better effect than just about any game that came before it. In fact, the game as a whole is really made tenable only by this technique of making the plot respond to the player’s actions rather than forcing the player to race along at the plot’s pace; the latter would be an unimaginable nightmare to grapple with in a story with this many moving parts. When it works well, which is a fair amount of the time, the plot progression feels natural and organic, like you truly are in the grip of a naturally unfolding story.

The individual puzzles that live within this framework work best when they’re in harmony with the plot and free of typical adventure-game goofiness. A good example is the multi-layered puzzle involving the Haitian rada drummers whom you keep seeing around New Orleans. Eventually, a victim of the voodoo cult tells you just before he breathes his last that the drummers are the cult’s means of communicating with one another across the city. So, you ask Grace to research the topic of rada drums. Next day, she produces a book on the subject filled with sequences encoding various words and phrases. When you “use” this book on one of the drummers, it brings up a sort of worksheet which you can use to figure out what he’s transmitting. Get it right, and you learn that a conclave is to be held that very night in a swamp outside the city.

Working out a rada-drum message.

This is an ideal puzzle: complicated but not insurmountable, immensely satisfying to solve. Best of all, solving it really does make you feel like Gabriel Knight, on the trail of a mystery which you must unravel using your own wits and whatever information you can dig up from the resources at your disposal.

Unfortunately, not all or even most of the puzzles live up to that standard. A handful are simply bad puzzles, full stop, testimonies both to the fact that every puzzle is always harder than its designer thinks it is and to Sierra’s disinterest in seeking substantive feedback on its games from actual players before releasing them. For instance, there’s the clock/lock that expects you to intuit the correct combination of rotating face and hands from a few scattered, tangential references elsewhere in the game to the number three and to dragons.

Even the rather brilliant rada-drums bit goes badly off the rails at the end of the game, when you’re suddenly expected to use a handy set of the drums to send a message of your own. This requires that you first read Jane Jensen’s mind to figure out what general message out of the dozens of possibilities she wants you to send, then read her mind again to figure out the exact grammar she wants you to use. When you get it wrong, as you inevitably will many times, the game gives you no feedback whatsoever. Are you doing the wrong thing entirely? Do you have the right idea but are sending the wrong message? Or do you just need to change up your grammar a bit? The game isn’t telling; it’s too busy killing you on every third failed attempt.

Other annoyances are the product not so much of poor puzzle as poor interface design. In contrast to contemporaneous efforts from competitors like LucasArts and Legend Entertainment, Sierra games made during this period still don’t show hot spots ripe for interaction when you mouse over a scene. So, you’re forced to click on everything indiscriminately, which most of the time leads only to the narrator intoning the same general room description over and over in her languid Caribbean patois. The scenes themselves are well-drawn, but their muted colors, combined with their relatively low resolution and the lack of a hot-spot finder, constitute something of a perfect storm for that greatest bane of the graphic adventure, the pixel hunt. One particularly egregious example of the syndrome, a snake scale you need to find at a crime scene on a beach next to Lake Pontchartrain, has become notorious as an impediment that stops absolutely every player in her tracks. It reveals the dark flip side of the game’s approach to plot chronology: that sinking feeling when the day just won’t end and you don’t know why. In this case, it’s because you missed a handful of slightly discolored pixels surrounded by a mass of similar hues — or, even if you did notice them, because you failed to click on them exactly.

You have to click right where the cursor is to learn from the narrator that “the grass has a matted appearance there.” Break out the magnifying glass!

But failings like these aren’t ultimately the most interesting to talk about, just because they were so typical and so correctable, had Sierra just instituted a set of commonsense practices that would have allowed them to make better games. Much more interesting are the places that the interactivity of Sins of the Fathers clashes jarringly with the premise of its fiction. For it’s here, we might speculate, that the game is running into more intractable problems — perhaps even running headlong into the formal limitation of the traditional graphic adventure as a storytelling medium.

Take, for example, the point early in the game when Gabriel wants to pay a visit to Malia at her palatial mansion, but, as a mere civilian, can’t get past the butler. Luckily, he happens to have a pal at the police department — in fact, his best friend in the whole world, an old college buddy named Mosley. Does he explain his dilemma to Mosley and ask for help? Of course not! This is, after all, an adventure game. He decides instead to steal Mosley’s badge. When he pays the poor fellow a visit at his office, he sees that Mosley’s badge is pinned, as usual, to his jacket. So, Gabriel sneaks over to turn up the thermostat in the office, which causes Mosley to remove the jacket and hang it over the back of his chair. Then Gabriel asks him to fetch a cup of coffee, and completes the theft while he’s out of the room. With friends like that…

Gabriel is turned away from Malia’s door…

…but no worries, he can just figure out how to steal a badge from his best friend and get inside that way.

In strictly mechanical terms, this is actually a clever puzzle, but it illustrates the tonal and thematic inconsistencies that dog the game as a whole. Sadly, puzzles like the one involving the rada drums are the exception rather than the rule. Most of the time, you’re dealing instead with arbitrary roadblocks like this one that have nothing whatsoever to do with the mystery you’re trying to solve. It becomes painfully obvious that Jensen wrote out a static story outline suitable for a movie or novel, then went back to devise the disconnected puzzles that would make a game out of it.

But puzzles like this are not only irrelevant: they’re deeply, comprehensively silly, and this silliness flies in the face of Sins of the Fathers‘s billing as a more serious, character-driven sort of experience than anything Sierra had done to date. Really, how can anyone take a character who goes around doing stuff like this seriously? You can do so, I would submit, only by mentally bifurcating the Gabriel you control in the interactive sequences from the Gabriel of the cut scenes and conversations. That may work for some — it must, given the love that’s lavished on this game by so many adventure fans — but the end result nevertheless remains creatively compromised, two halves of a work of art actively pulling against one another.

Gabriel sneaks into the backroom of a church and starts stealing from the priests. That’s normal behavior for any moodily romantic protagonist, right? Right?

It’s at points of tension like these that Sins of the Fathers raises the most interesting and perhaps troubling questions about the graphic adventure as a genre. Many of its puzzles are, as I already noted, not bad puzzles in themselves; they’re only problematic when placed in this fictional context. If Sins of the Fathers was a comedy, they’d be a perfectly natural fit. This is what I mean when I say, as I have repeatedly in the past, that comedy exerts a strong centrifugal pull on any traditional puzzle-solving adventure game. And this is why most of Sierra’s games prior to Sins of the Fathers were more or less interactive cartoons, why LucasArts strayed afield from that comfortable approach even less often than Sierra, and, indeed, why comedies have been so dominant in the annals of adventure games in general.

The question must be, then, whether the pull of comedy can be resisted — whether compromised hybrids like this one are the necessary end result of trying to make a serious graphic adventure. In short, is the path of least resistance the only viable path for an adventure designer?

For my part, I believe the genre’s tendency to collapse into comedy can be resisted, if the designer is both knowing and careful. The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes, released the year before Sins of the Fathers, is a less heralded game than the one I write about today, but one which works better as a whole in my opinion, largely because it sticks to its guns and remains the type of fiction it advertises itself to be, eschewing goofy roadblock puzzles in favor of letting you solve the mystery at its heart. By contrast, you don’t really solve the mystery for yourself at all in Sins of the Fathers; it solves the mystery for you while you’re jumping Gabriel through all the irrelevant hoops it sets in his path.

But let’s try to set those issues aside now and engage with Sins of the Fathers strictly in terms of the fiction that lives outside the lines of its interactivity. As many of you doubtless know, I’m normally somewhat loathe to do that; it verges on a tautology to say that interactivity is the defining feature of games, and thus it seems to me that any given game’s interactivity has to work, without any qualifiers, as a necessary precondition to its being a good game. Still, if any game might be able to sneak around that rule, it ought to be this one, so often heralded as a foremost exemplar of sophisticated storytelling in a ludic context. And, indeed, it does fare better on this front in my eyes — not quite as well as some of its biggest fans claim, but better.

The first real scene of Sins of the Fathers tells us we’re in for an unusual adventure-game experience, with unusual ambitions in terms of character and plot development alike. We meet Gabriel and Grace in medias res, as the former stumbles out of his backroom bedroom to meet the latter already at her post behind the cash register in the bookstore. Over the next couple of minutes, we learn much about them as people through their banter — and, tellingly, pretty much nothing about what the real plot of the game will come to entail. This is Bilbo holding his long-expected party, Wart going out to make hay; Jane Jensen is settling in to work the long game.

https://www.filfre.net/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/GK.mp4

As Jensen slowly pulls back the curtain on what the game is really all about over the hours that follow, she takes Gabriel through that greatest rarity in interactive storytelling, a genuine internal character arc. The Gabriel at the end of the game, in other words, is not the one we met at the beginning, and for once the difference isn’t down to his hit points or armor class. If we can complain that we’re mostly relegated to solving goofy puzzles while said character arc plays out in the cut scenes, we can also acknowledge how remarkable it is for existing at all.

Jensen is a talented writer with a particular affinity for just the sort of snappy but revealing dialog that marks that first scene of the game. If anything, she’s better at writing these sorts of low-key “hang-out” moments than the scenes of epic confrontation. It’s refreshing to see a game with such a sense of ease about its smaller moments, given that the talents and interests of most game writers tend to run in just the opposite direction.

Then, too, Jensen has an intuitive understanding of the rhythm of effective horror. As any master of the form from Stephen King to the Duffer Brothers will happily tell you if you ask them, you can’t assault your audience with wall-to-wall terror. Good horror is rather about tension and release — the horrific crescendos fading into moments of calm and even levity, during which the audience has a chance to catch its collective breath and the knots in their stomachs have a chance to un-clench. Certainly we have to learn to know and like a story’s characters before we can feel vicarious horror at their being placed in harm’s way. Jensen understands all these things, as do the people working with her.

Indeed, the production values of Sins of the Fathers are uniformly excellent in the context of its times. The moody art perfectly complements the story Jensen has scripted, and the voice-acting cast — both the big names who head it and the smaller ones who fill out the rest of the roles — are, with only one or two exceptions, solid. The music, which was provided by the project’s producer Robert Holmes — he began dating Jensen while the game was in production, and later became her husband and constant creative partner — is catchy, memorable, and very good at setting the mood, if perhaps not hugely New Orleans in flavor. (More on that issue momentarily.)

Still, there are some significant issues with Sins of the Fathers even when it’s being judged purely as we might a work of static fiction. Many of these become apparent only gradually over time — this is definitely a game that puts its best foot forward first — but at least one of them is front and center from the very first scene. To say that much of Gabriel’s treatment of Grace hasn’t aged well hardly begins to state the case. Their scenes together often play like a public-service video from the #MeToo movement, as Gabriel sexually harasses his employee like Donald Trump with a fresh bottle of Viagra in his back pocket. Of course, Jensen really intends for Gabriel to be another instance of the archetypal charming rogue — see Solo, Han, and Jones, Indiana — and sometimes she manages to pull it off. At far too many others, though, the writing gets a little sideways, and the charming rogue veers into straight-up jerk territory. The fact that Grace is written as a smart, tough-minded young woman who can give as good as she gets doesn’t make him seem like any less of a sleazy creep, more Leisure Suit Larry than James Dean.

I’m puzzled and just a little bemused that so many academic writers who’ve taken it upon themselves to analyze the game from an explicitly feminist perspective can ignore this aspect of it entirely. I can’t help but suspect that, were Sins of the Fathers the product of a male designer, the critical dialog that surrounds it would be markedly different in some respects. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether this double standard is justified or not in light of our culture’s long history of gender inequality.

As the game continues, the writing starts to wear thin in other ways. Gabriel’s supposed torrid love affair with Malia is, to say the least, unconvincing, with none of the naturalism that marks the best of his interactions with Grace. Instead it’s in the lazy mold of too many formulaic mass-media fictions, where two attractive people fall madly in love for no discernible reason that we can identify. The writer simply tells us that they do so, by way of justifying an obligatory sex scene or two. Here, though, we don’t even get the sex scene.

Pacing also starts to become a significant problem as the game wears on. Admittedly, this is not always so much because the writer in Jane Jensen isn’t aware of its importance to effective horror as because pacing in general is just so darn difficult to control in any interactive work, especially one filled with road-blocking puzzles like this one. Even if we cut Jensen some slack on this front, however, sequences like Gabriel’s visit to Tulane University, where he’s subjected to a long non-interactive lecture that might as well be entitled “Everything Jane Jensen Learned about Voodoo but Can’t Shoehorn in Anywhere Else,” are evidence of a still fairly inexperienced writer who doesn’t have a complete handle on this essential element of storytelling and doesn’t have anyone looking over her shoulder to edit her work. She’s done her research, but hasn’t mastered the Zen-like art of letting it subtly inform her story and setting. Instead she infodumps it all over us in about the most unimaginative way you can conceive: in the form of a literal classroom lecture.

Gabriel with Professor Infodump.

The game’s depiction of New Orleans itself reveals some of the same weaknesses. Yes, Jensen gets the landmarks and the basic geography right. But I have to say, speaking as someone who loves the city dearly and has spent a fair amount of time there over the years, that the setting of the game never really feels like New Orleans. What’s missing most of all, I think, is any affinity for the music that so informs daily life in the city, giving the streets a (literal) rhythm unlike anywhere else on earth. (Robert Holmes’s soundtrack is fine and evocative in its own right; it’s just not a New Orleans soundtrack.) I was thus unsurprised to learn that Jensen never actually visited New Orleans before writing and publishing a game set there. Tellingly, her depiction has more to do with the idiosyncratic, Gothic New Orleans found in Anne Rice novels than it does with the city I know.

The plotting too gets more wobbly as time goes on. A linchpin moment comes right at the mid-point of the ten days, when Gabriel makes an ill-advised visit to one of the cult’s conclaves — in fact, the one he located via the afore-described rada-drums puzzle — and nearly gets himself killed. Somehow Grace, of all people, swoops in to rescue him; I still have no idea precisely what is supposed to have happened here, and neither, judging at least from the fan sites I’ve consulted, does anyone else. I suspect that something got cut here out of budget concerns, so perhaps it’s unfair to place this massive non sequitur at the heart of the game squarely on Jensen’s shoulders.

But other problems with the plotting aren’t as easy to find excuses for. There is, for example, the way that Gabriel can fly from New Orleans to Munich and still have hours of daylight at his disposal when he arrives on the same day. (I could dismiss this as a mere hole in Jensen’s research, the product of an American designer unfamiliar with international travel, if she hadn’t spent almost a year living in Germany prior to coming to Sierra.) In fact, the entirety of Gabriel’s whirlwind trip from the United States to Germany to Benin and back home again feels incomplete and a little half-baked, from its cartoonish German castle, which resembles a piece of discarded art from a King’s Quest game, to its tedious maze inside an uninteresting African burial mound that likewise could have been found in any of a thousand other adventure games. Jensen would have done better to keep the action in New Orleans rather than suddenly trying to turn the game into a globetrotting adventure at the eleventh hour, destroying its narrative cohesion in the process.

Suddenly we’re in… Africa? How the hell did that happen?

As in a lot of fictions of this nature, the mysteries at the heart of Sins of the Fathers are also most enticing in the game’s earlier stages than they have become by its end. To her credit, Jensen knows exactly what truths lie behind all of the mysteries and deceptions, and she’s willing to show them to us; Sins of the Fathers does have a payoff. Nevertheless, it’s all starting to feel a little banal by the time we arrive at the big climax inside the voodoo cult’s antiseptic high-tech headquarters. It’s easier to be scared of shadowy spirits of evil from the distant past than it is of voodoo bureaucrats flashing their key cards in a complex that smacks of a Bond villain’s secret hideaway.

The tribal art on the wall lets you know this is a voodoo cult’s headquarters. Somehow I never expected elevators and florescent lighting in such a place…

Many of you — especially those of you who count yourselves big fans of Sins of the Fathers — are doubtless saying by now that I’m being much, much too hard on it. And you have a point; I am holding this game’s fiction to a higher standard than I do that of most adventure games. In a sense, though, the game’s very conception of itself makes it hard for a critic to avoid doing so. It so clearly wants to be a more subtle, more narratively and thematically rich, more “adult” adventure game that I feel forced to take it at its word and hold it to that higher standard. One could say, then, that the game becomes a victim of its own towering ambitions. Certainly all my niggling criticisms shouldn’t obscure the fact that, for all that its reach does often exceed its grasp, it’s brave of the game to stretch itself so far at all.

That said, I can’t help but continue to see Sins of the Fathers more as a noble failure than a masterpiece, and I can’t keep myself from placing much of the blame at the feet of Sierra rather than Jane Jensen per se. I played it most recently with my wife, as I do many of the games I write about here. She brings a valuable perspective because she’s much, much smarter than I am but couldn’t care less about where, when, or whom the games we play came from; they’re strictly entertainments for her. At some point in the midst of playing Sins of the Fathers, she turned to me and remarked, “This would probably have been a really good game if it had been made by that other company.”

I could tell I was going to have to dig a bit to ferret out her meaning: “What other company?”

“You know, the one that made that time-travel game we played with the really nerdy guy and that twitchy girl, and the one about the dog and the bunny. I think they would have made sure everything just… worked better. You know, fixed all of the really irritating stuff, and made sure we didn’t have to look at a walkthrough all the time.”

That “other company” was, of course, LucasArts.

One part of Sins of the Fathers in particular reminds me of the differences between the two companies. There comes a point where Gabriel has to disguise himself as a priest, using a frock stolen from St. Louis Cathedral and some hair gel from his own boudoir, in order to bilk an old woman out of her knowledge of voodoo. This is, needless to say, another example of the dissonance between the game’s serious plot and goofy puzzles, but we’ve covered that ground already. What’s more relevant right now is the game’s implementation of the sequence. Every time you visit the old woman — which will likely be several times if you aren’t playing from a walkthrough — you have to laboriously prepare Gabriel’s disguise all over again. It’s tedium that exists for no good reason; you’ve solved the puzzle once, and the game ought to know you’ve solved it, so why can’t you just get on with things? I can’t imagine a LucasArts game subjecting me to this. In fact, I know it wouldn’t: there’s a similar situation in Day of the Tentacle, where, sure enough, the game whips through the necessary steps for you every time after the first.

Father Gabriel. (Sins of the fathers indeed, eh?)

This may seem a small, perhaps even petty example, but, multiplied by a hundred or a thousand, it describes why Sierra adventures — even their better, more thoughtful efforts like this one — so often wound up more grating than fun. Sins of the Fathers isn’t a bad adventure game, but it could have been so much better if Jensen had had a team around her armed with the development methodologies and testing processes that could have eliminated its pixel hunts, cleaned up its unfair and/or ill-fitting puzzles, told her when Gabriel was starting to sound more like a sexual predator than a laid-back lady’s man, and smoothed out the rough patches in its plot. None of the criticisms I’ve made of the game should be taken as a slam against Jensen, a writer with special gifts in exactly those areas where other games tend to disappoint. She just didn’t get the support she needed to reach her full potential here.

The bitter irony of it all is that LucasArts, a company that could have made Sins of the Fathers truly great, lacked the ambition to try anything like it in lieu of the cartoon comedies which they knew worked for them; meanwhile Sierra, a company with ambition in spades, lacked the necessary commitment to detail and quality. I really don’t believe, in other words, that Sins of the Father represents some limit case for the point-and-click adventure as a storytelling medium. I think merely that it represents, like all games, a grab bag of design choices, some of them more felicitous than others.

Still, if what we ended up with is the very definition of a mixed bag, it’s nevertheless one of the most interesting and important such in the history of adventure games, a game whose influence on what came later, both inside and outside of its genre, has been undeniable. I know that when I made The King of Shreds and Patches, my own attempt at a lengthy horror adventure with a serious plot, Sins of the Fathers was my most important single ludic influence, providing a bevy of useful examples both of what to do and what not to do. (For instance, I copied its trigger-driven approach to plot chronology — but I made sure to include a journal to tell the player what issues she should be working on at any given time, thereby to keep her from wandering endlessly looking for the random whatsit that would advance the time.) I know that many other designers of much more prominent games than mine have also taken much away from Sins of the Fathers.

So, should you play Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers? Absolutely. It’s a fascinating example of storytelling ambition in games, and, both in where it works and where it fails, an instructive study in design as well. A recent remake helmed by Jane Jensen herself even fixes some of the worst design flaws, although not without considerable trade-offs: the all-star cast of the original game has been replaced with less distinctive voice acting, and the new graphics, while cleaner and sharper, don’t have quite the same moody character as the old. Plague or cholera; that does seem to be the way with adventure games much of the time, doesn’t it? With this game, one might say, even more so than most of them.

The big climax. Yes, it does look a little ridiculous — but hey, they were trying.

(Sources: the book Influential Game Designers: Jane Jensen by Anastasia Salter; Sierra’s newsletter InterAction of Spring 1992, Summer 1993, and Holiday 1993; Computer Gaming World of November 1993 and March 1994. Online sources include “The Making of… The Gabriel Knight Trilogy” from Edge Online; an interview with Jane Jensen done by the old webzine The Inventory, now archived at The Gabriel Knight Pages; “Happy Birthday, Gabriel Knight“ from USgamer; Jane Jensen’s “Ask Me Anything” on Reddit. Academic pieces include “Revisiting Gabriel Knight” by Connie Veugen from The Heidelberg Journal of Religions on the Internet Volume 7; Jane Jensen’s Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers: The Numinous Woman and the Millennium Woman” by Roberta Sabbath from The Journal of Popular Culture Volume 31 Issue 1. And, last but not least, press releases, annual reports, and other internal and external documents from the Sierra archive at the Strong Museum of Play.

Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers is available for purchase both in its original version and as an enhanced modern remake.)

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