Ravensgate PBEM

Ravensgate PBEM

Issue #22, “A Catholic, A Muslim And A Jew Walk Into A Bar . . .”

PBEM

In a flashback, the meeting called by Tabula Rasa breaks up. Vic and Francois are deep in conversation as they leave, Namor and Jason say something about Jason’s new Xbox, Dani and Max retreat to the lab, and Jack disappears. Joshua stops Oscar as he heads toward the elevator.
“You will need to be careful when verifying your information.”
“I know,” says Oscar. “I’ll drop in on Odette, hopefully when Top Hat and Too Tall aren’t hanging around.”
“Have you thought about the school’s religion and mysticism round-table?”
“Those three guys? I doubt I’d want them in the same room together.”
Joshua smiles, puts his hand on Oscar’s shoulder and says, “Oscar, it’s been years since you took that course. The years have made them good friends. I’d seek them out for advice.”

In the present, Oscar and Francois enter Purloined Letters Bookstore on West Campbell. They veer to the left, through the magazine rack and best sellers, and into the coffeehouse. They survey the room.

“There they are,” says Oscar, gesturing toward a corner next to the unlit fireplace.

Kebir Bulent is a Mediterranean-looking man in his mid-forties and appears to be the oldest of the three. He is wearing Levi's 501s, sandals, a white dress-casual shirt and a woven multi-colored skullcap covering down to the hairline and ears. Seated on the couch next to him is Costas Gregorič, who is wearing the white collar and black shirt with jeans and running shoes. He has nasty burn scars on his hands and neck, and his graying blond hair, long in the back, hides much of the scarring around the neck. Across from them in a cozy chair is Enrico Benezra, a copper-haired and vaguely Latin-looking man with a receding hairline who is dressed almost identically to Bulent, except without the skullcap. He apparently left his yarmulke at home.

A waitress arrives with a tray of bowl-sized latte mugs. Benezra says, "Excuse me, miss. I ordered the large." Bulent chuckles, Gregorič rolls his eyes, and the waitress groans as she departs. She leaves two more mugs on the end table next to one of the other unoccupied cozy chairs.

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Maximillian Morell sips his coffee as he surveys the sculpted shrubbery on the grounds of the Locksley estate. Many of them are in the form of ravens, alternately standing sentry over the ocean, the city and the acres of land on Arch Cape Hill overlooking Throckmorton Estates Park. Salome is standing elsewhere on the green, conferring with a group of aides that includes Jason. He breathes in some warm ocean air and lets out a long sigh.

Danielle’s voice snaps him out of his reverie.
“Jason gave me a strand of hair to analyze,” she whispers. “Female metahuman with abnormally strong pheromones, accelerated healing and a high probability of psychic suggestion.”
“Salome?”
”Yes. Howard confirmed it a minute ago.”
“How?” says Max, pointing to his ear. “I didn’t hear anything over—-.”
“I thought it best not to be caught talking to my own earlobe in this place. Look down.”
Max looks down at his polished black wing-tips. On the grass in front of his feet, a formation of ants spell out HI MAX and then retreat into a crevice in the soil.
“Oh.”
A huge brown hand slaps Max on the back as another grasps and pumps his right hand in a vigorous and very painful handshake. He looks up to find the six-foot-eight Theo Watkins beaming down at him. Standing next to the thirtyish Watkins is a five-foot-seven, dark-blonde, tanned Mediterranean-looking woman somewhere between Dani’s and Max’s ages.
“Congratulations, Max.”
“For what?”
“For winning the mayor’s heart. There’s a whole group of us—-Allan, Mose, Stephen, myself—who’ve been in love with her since kindergarten but she ran from us. Max, Dani, I’d like you to meet Yosefa Adad. She and I have been working together on a DDWL water-reclamation project in Rehovoth, Israel.”
“So that’s where you’ve been all this time?” says Dani.
“Well, there and Dubai. Emirs wanted me to engineer a—-.”
A nautical bell interrupts all the side conversations on the green and sends the non-chlorophyll birds scattering. Ancient Lemuel Throckmorton Jr. looks up from his wheelchair at Allan Locksley with murderous disdain.
“Friends, colleagues,” announces Locksley as he tethers the bell's clapper, “I have gathered you here today for a more relaxed and festive Throckmorton Group shareholders’ meeting. Despite the recession and local unrest, we enjoy greater success than ever. It is my pleasure to introduce . . .”

“Francois Champeaux,” says Oscar, “ is a—-.”
“A skeptic,” says a smiling Father Gregorič as he reaches to shake Francois’ hand, but the latter instead bows. “I can tell by your body language. Don’t worry, Francois, I won’t hold it against you.”
“I do share some of Oscar’s interest in local history and the supernatural.”
Mullah Bulent leans back, one leg tucked under and the other bent inwards with the knee on the armrest, and quips, "Of course, you know the two subjects are not mutually exclusive."
"Oh, no, far from it," interjects Rabbi Benezra.
"Josias Poe Throckmorton, the eldest, was a by-product of the Victorian and Edwardian eras," adds Gregorič. "His kind believed God was an Englishman—-"
"Or an American," retorts Bulent. Benezra, the only American-accented member of the trio, shifts uneasily in his chair.
"—-or an American, and that an Englishman or American was better able than any Arab to interpret sacred Islamic texts, than any Jew to interpret the Torah, or any Indian to interpret the Bhagavad-Gita. His was, and is, a very dangerous conceit."
"The Victorian and Edwardian Eras created many mystical charlatans," adds Benezra, "and much of the New Age movement continues that tradition. A lot of shams and misinformation have been taken as canon and perpetuated, and this has resulted in the worship of false gods." Bulent and Gregorič nod in agreement as Benezra continues: "Too many people are playing with forces they only think they understand."
"The three of us agree on one thing," says Bulent, "and that is a verse in Ezekiel warning against sorcery. I believe it’s Ezekiel 13:8, is that right?" Gregorič and Benezra nod, the latter adding in, “And 13:9 completes the thought.”
"The verse loses much of its meaning in English," says Gregorič. "It distinguishes between the magic of divine creation and the unnatural mystical forces."
"Or the perversion of the magic for other means," says Bulent. Benezra nods in agreement.
Oscar and Francois, amazed at the speed with which the conversation is whizzing around them, exchange glances.
"Enrico and I can give you a prime example," Gregorič muses.
"The Kabbalah is a prime example," says Benezra. "It's essentially a treatise on the nature of divine power, and its resemblance to string theory in quantum physics is utterly awe-inspiring. It is a major force in Judaism, yet much of it has been appropriated and misinterpreted by Gentile amateur mystics who think it's a game."
"If a Kabbalah text spells the word with a Q or a C, or even correctly with a K," adds Gregorič, "it's likely to be a misinterpretation or misappropriation dating back to Victorian or Edwardian England, or to Renaissance Europe."
"In short, kid, ask the authority," says Benezra, pointing to himself. "Too much out there is just plain bunk. More than likely it's idle British or American aristocrats from The Lost Generation," says Benezra. "We had Pong and Naked Twister, they had seances and witchcraft. And people think antiquity was a more innocent time!"
“As innocent as this?” interjects Oscar, handing Bulent a piece of paper.
As each cleric examines the piece of paper, his expression changes. Gregorič examines it the longest, then hands it off to Benezra, who whistles and immediately hands it back to Oscar.

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On a green-spectrum video feed from light-enhancing cameras, Namor and Jack can be seen walking down a subterranean corridor. Patria Morii purses her lips, looks at a map displaying camera locations, and looks up at her two assistants. They are identical to the anime fangirls The Foundry encountered at RavenCon.

“Sneaky little bastards, aren’t they?” comments the brunette.
“Sneaky, yes,” responds Morii. “Little, no. The one with the goggles is short, but his partner over there is one hundred and ninety centimeters tall.”
“Shall we extract them?” asks the redhead.
“Only if they notice our sensors,” says Morii. “Unless that happens, we do nothing. What concerns me is how many checkpoints they passed before we noticed them.”
“Then maybe we do need to extract them,” says the redhead.
“Not yet, my dear,” says Morii as she stands up from her monitor console, “but I do have some of their associates in mind for a special task. Maybe they can help me power this machine.”
Morii checks the readouts on the tanks full of a bluish fluid and containing four merfolk and a clone of Emil Kergillian. She smiles and looks over at another bank of monitors.

Banks of monitors in a darkened room at the Locksley Estate display the shareholders’ gathering from about three hundred different camera angles. About a dozen of them capture the argument in which Danielle Devereaux and her great-grandfather, Lemuel Throckmorton Jr., are engaged.
“Joshua has been putting too many half-baked New Age ideas into that pretty little head of yours, young miss!! Petroleum is organic!! It’s biodegradable, and it’s never hurt anybody!!”
“Tell that to the wildlife and fishermen in Prince William Sound, Alaska.”
“Fishermen, my ass!! Don’t blame me for the plight of monosyllabic menial laborers who chose an economically volatile profession!!”
“You’re straying from the topic, Poppy!! TTI Energy R&D has no business re-entering petroleum and nuclear fusion research!! The ozone layer experienced its slight regeneration in the past decade only because the world’s governments banned chlorofluorocarbons!! We won’t experience that type of environmental regeneration on that timetable with the waste products from failed fusion attempts!!”
“Miss, the ozone layer regenerated because the rate of logging accelerated!! Have you any idea how much of a health hazard trees are!! You have to cut ‘em all down before they fall over and pollute!!”
Most of the audience, including Joshua Caine and Jason Garsea, stares at “Poppy Lem” in stunned silence at his pretzel logic.
“Poppy, that thousand-mile-long, six-mile-high smog cloud traveling through Asia right now is a petroleum by-product. Only one-sixth of it came from forest fires and volcanoes, the rest is urban pollution related to petroleum and coal combustion.”
“Poppycock!! Young lady, you’d better wake up and smell the coffee!! You cost this city jobs because of some trendy hippy tree-hugger idea, and you won’t have half the mall money you do now!! Maybe you should go door-to-door and thank a quarter-million households for paying their cable bills, because that’s twenty-seven thousand dollars a month in your pocket!!”
“Maybe I should, Poppy, if you accompany me!! I’m certain a fair number of those households contain the monosyllabic menial laborers of which you’re so fond!! Those monosyllabic menial laborers will be a strain on the local economy if they fall ill from whatever environmental damage we and other industries inflict, consciously or otherwise!! Think of our potential liability—-and our liability-insurance premiums!!”
Salome turns to Max, bites his left ear, and says, “Debates like these are why I prefer chairing the Assembly over attending shareholder meetings. And to think I almost dissuaded Dani from attending!”
“Dani is right. Think of the expenses TTI would incur in pollution-prevention measures.”
“Preaching to the choir, love. I went to Salem as a teen-ager lobbying for the Omnibus Toxics Use Reduction Act of 1989.”
“But that failed, even when it went before the voters in ’90.”
Salome giggles: “No, silly, that was the recyclable-packaging initiative.” Max’s face registers a confused look, but Salome continues. “OTURA passed the legislature with bi-partisan support. Its economic incentives encourage recycling of toxic chemicals necessary to production. You recycle, you pay less toxic tax than producers that don’t, you have less overhead.”
“Does TTI comply?” asks Max.
Salome kisses Max on the cheek and says, “Yes.”
“Then why is Junior so mad at Dani?”
“Old grudge. When your girl-genius schoolmate was just six years old, she single-handedly shot down city funding of Nehalem Plastic’s proposed styrofoam-recycling plant. Her six-o’-clock-news sound bite was priceless.”
“Sound bite?” says Max as Salome bites his ear again. Jason Garsea and Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine both watch the act in rapt silence.
“Mm-hmm. Politics is a game of perception and indelible images.”

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"What is this?" Bulent asks, pointing to the piece of paper in Oscar’s hand.
"It's the seal of the al-Amarjan Temple lodge," says Gregorič. "Very pseudo-Masonic. They're not affiliated with the Masons or Shriners, but they've been trying for a hundred years. Masons don’t want them."
"Is that bad?" asks Benezra.
"The Masons and Shriners? No. Their rituals aren't that secret—they're in the Library of Congress because they have to be copyrighted--and they have their roots in either the secret societies that opposed some of our worst anti-popes, or in the Knights Templar. The al-Amarjans, on the other hand, are more related to the Order of the Golden Dawn than to the Masons."
"Aleister Crowley was the most famous, or infamous, member of the Golden Dawn," says Benezra. "Some conspiracists believe he was Jack the Ripper or an accomplice, despite being only 12 or 13 at the time of the Whitechapel murders. His order blended cabalistic—with a C—magic with amateur Egyptology and was part of a movement alternately called 'theosophy,' 'esotericism,' and 'scientific illuminism.' Crowley himself was a hard-core anti-Semite."
"I've heard of Crowley," says Bulent. "The Church of Satan in the Bay Area cites him as a major influence."
"Yes, and I think Enrico noticed something," says Gregorič. "What caused you to whistle like that?"
"Three things," Benezra fires back. "First, the six stars in that crescent match the six Inner Canal sectors. The sides of the crescent match the MLK and Crescent Channels."
"Yes, odd that Josias would call that one the 'Crescent,'" Bulent interjects.
"Second, those two lower stars represent something, possibly landmarks Downtown. Third, the numbers and their punctuation speak volumes."
"I think they're Tarot references," says Gregorič.

"You're right, they are," says Benezra. "The twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana correspond to the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Makes sense, considering that the universe was created with a word. The Hebrew alphabet also has numerical significance."
"Every alphabet does," interjects Gregorič, "but most languages—-like English—-now use a Roman alphabet with Arabic numerals."
"As do most Tarot decks," says Benezra. "A side-effect of the Crusades. One corruption in the Tarot is that the Major Arcana are numbered from 0 to 21, not 1 to 22, possibly because the vowel punctuation makes the letter aleph seem to be a cipher. Crowley's Book of Thoth deck had three Magician or Magus cards instead of one, and I think the bullets between the numbers signify this."
"Do you know which cards are identified by the numbers?"
"Zero is always The Fool, one is almost always The Magician, and sixteen is The Tower," says Benezra. "Not counting the crescent, since it may be a geographical significator, there are thirteen items of power in that insignia. Just like Crowley's thirteen-card divination spread, which the Throckmortons used."
“How do you know this?” asks Oscar.
“Three of the family’s peripheral relatives are psychics and card readers,” says Benezra. “Two in Portland, another in Lincoln City.”
"I read into that emblem something else," says Gregorič. "The three numbers could represent the three major Masonic lodge officers, while the two punctuation marks indicate sergeants-at-arms or the two minor officers who sit at either side of the grandmaster. Also, the three major lodge officers usually sit at north, east and south, leaving the west open. Yes, it’s odd for a Catholic priest to go on about Freemasonry, but look at that crescent as if it's a map of this city. The crescent covers north, east and south."

"The map of the city also resembles a Plains Indian dreamcatcher," says Oscar, to which Gregorič and Bulent nod in agreement. “Just look at the canals. And Ravensgate Island resembles a severed raven’s wing.”
“Yes,” says Gregorič, “and Ravensgate is a popular name in witchcraft circles. Not that I'm condemning witchcraft out of hand, mind you--I have Wiccan friends--but my church is explicit on the subject.”
"Well, maybe all of these interpretations are correct. After all, the esotericists wanted to be all things to all people," observes Bulent. "And the more sources of mystical power they can appropriate . . . ." He trails off, but Benezra and Gregorič nod in assent before he adds, "This certainly deepens the mystery."
"Now, if you want to study mysticism," says Gregorič, "you need to consider the source of the information and its intent."
"Tikkun olam," says Benezra. "Heal the earth. Tall order, yes, but not if you follow our reading list."
Gregorič sets down his mug and looks at Oscar: "We may have done all the talking here, but you have taught us quite a bit just by showing us that insignia. Gentlemen, shall we reconvene at Kahuna's?"

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“Mmmm, this is one mighty tasty burger!!” exclaims Captain Wilton “Frank” Franklin from Homicide and Special Intelligence, his mouth full of a Double-Meat Flatline™ from Cardiac Burger. Detective Wiseguy is combing his slicked-back hair and looking at his own reflection in the one-way mirror. Detective Brim is in one corner, taking practice swings with a phone book. Former Detective Durden, his face swollen and bruised, is handcuffed to the interrogation-room table.
“Can the movie-star act, Franklin. I know my rights, you know I know my rights, I know you know that I know I know my rights, so call Erik Gudne and put me in an isolaton cell.”
On the other side of the one-way mirror, Tabula Rasa leans against the opposite wall and checks his watch. Inspector Matt Shinmen turns away from the sight of the greaseball burger and takes a swig from his bottle of wheatgrass juice. Lieutenant Alia Shabazz closes the door behind her as she enters.
“I’m going up to my office,” deadpans Shinmen, “and I’m coming back down with my aluminum baseball bat.”
“Think that’ll make him talk?” says Shabazz.
“I don’t care if he talks,” snaps Shinmen. “That piece of $#*^ planted guns in my home—-within reach of my children. Any word from ballistics?”
“It’s the Smithson gun,” says Shabazz. “We can book him for capital.”
Tabula Rasa stares at the man on the other side of the glass and compares him to the assassins on Smithson’s boat. All of them were of the wrong build and height. The one who spoke seemed to know English as a second language, but the accent wasn’t one Tabula Rasa had ever heard before.
“He didn’t do it,” rolls out of Tabula Rasa’s unseen mouth in such a soft tone, but it stops dead the other conversation in the room.
“And what makes you say that?” Shinmen and Shabazz ask in unison as, on the other side of the glass, Brim hands the phone book to Franklin.
“He’s too exposed,” Tabula Rasa fires back. “Think about it. He—-.”
“He makes nightly pay-phone calls at the same location,” Shinmen interrupts, “because he’s being dangled out in the open to spread disinformation.”

“And send you a message if the frame didn’t fit,” says TR. “Payback for Rust City. You own a black 1968 Mercury Park Lane Brougham, Oregon license BK EM DNO?”

“Yes.”
“And your wife—-.”
“Companion. Mother of my children.”
“And the ‘mother of your children’ drives a 1999 royal blue Land Rover, license—-.”
“I know what she drives. Get to the point.”
“—-to and from the Dr. Noh Gallery, the Box of Rain, the Nehalem Ki Society and Wayne Morse Middle School?” Tabula Rasa asks, extracting an itinerary in a plastic bag from inside his jacket and handing it to Shinmen. “It was in the glove compartment of the van.”
“You were withholding evidence,” says Shinmen.
“No. The question was never whether to release it to the authorities, but when and to whom. You have the video of the citizen’s arrest, so you know my colleague and I didn’t fabricate this piece of evidence.”
“And your point?”
“My point is that the stupid sack of $#*^ memorizing the phone book in there”—-the phone book slams against the side of Durden’s head—-“is a prime example of the old joke, How many Ravensgaters does it take to change a light bulb?”
“I know that, T—can I call you T?” says Shinmen. “My problem is figuring out what I’m going to do about it, and/or if we can make him talk.”
“I have an idea,” Tabula Rasa replies. “Got a hundred-dollar bill on you?”

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At T.B. Kahuna's on Giffen Street, Oscar and Francois accompany Gregorič to a table for five. Benezra and, of all people, Bulent go up to the bar. They return with a tray full of shot glasses. Father Gregorič does a double-take: "Uh, Kebir, aren't you worried about getting in trouble with the boss?"
"Allah understands I'm human," Bulent intones. "Besides, after our discussion at the bookstore, I need this."
"Choose your poison, gentlemen," says Benezra, pointing to different rows of shots. "We've got Ouzo and seven-star Metaxa from Greece, Sabra from Israel, Maker's Mark from Kentucky, Irish Mist, Royale Montaine cognac . . . ."
Bulent goes for the Ouzo, Gregorič the Metaxa and Benezra the Sabra. Bulent coughs and slams his empty shot glass down on the table.
"Mr. Washington," he rasps, "you've deepened the mystery for us. But we won't leave you in the dark . . . ."
At that moment, the bartender makes a loud noise pouring water into a mixed drink. For some reason, Oscar feels that water holds some significance, especially considering the diversion and use of water in Ravensgate. Then a patron at the bar switches the TV between channels, momentarily landing on a Discovery Channel documentary: " . . . and the tribe's use of cannibalism was for spiritual as well as pragmatic purposes. Consuming dead enemies gained the warriors and shamen their spirit, strength, and . . . ."
"And that's it!" exclaims Oscar, cutting off whatever Benezra was saying.
"What is 'it'?" says Gregorič.
"Cannibalism. The al-Amarjans are appropriating—cannibalizing—other spiritual paths to gain their strength. Think about it! They're mixing at least two Native American mythologies with Egyptology, a corrupted version of Hebraic mysticism, and who knows how many other spiritual paths!"
"I told you," said Gregorič. "You had all the pieces of the puzzle, you just needed a sounding board."
"But how can I fight this? Would I have to use a fetish or cards?"
"Not if it strays into blasphemy or idolatry," says Benezra. "Just use your belief in what's pure. The soul of a man is a miniature universe unto itself. Draw upon that."

As the shareholders break up into small groups and head for the banquet table, Allan Locksley intercepts Dani before she can rejoin Max and Salome.
“Impressive way to stand up to the old man,” says the Executive VP of Devereaux d’Aubaine Watkins & Locksley.
“Thank you, Allan. He needs to read Paul Hawken. And understand him. The old paradigms don’t work anymore.”
“I’ve read Hawken, too. He’s right: We need to find a better way to measure and capitalize upon prevented costs,” says Locksley, who then pauses. “Theo and I would like to show you around another source of your income. And discuss some of your ideas.”
“Name the time and place. I can always shop some other time.”

The door to the interrogation room flies open, surprising Brim and Wiseguy. Franklin doesn’t even flinch or look back as he says, “Come on in, Matt.”
“Thought you’d never ask, Frank.”
Durden looks toward the door and loses his composure: “H-h-hey!! HEYY!! HEYY!! He can’t come in here!! He CAN’T come in here!! Conflict of interest!! I WANT MY $#%@^&**&*(&!! LAWYER!!”
Shinmen remains in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, as Tabula Rasa cuts around him, enters the room, and slams a $100 bill down on the table in front of Durden. The former detective, now shaking, registers a look of utter confusion as Tabula Rasa grabs him by the hair and lifts him upward.
“I don’t know what game you and your bosses are playing,” hisses Tabula Rasa, “but we’ll find out. And speaking of games, I’m betting you a C-note that our friend over there”—-Tabula Rasa points to Shinmen—-“can make you piss yourself without ever touching you. If you don’t believe me, watch the news tomorrow. Loser.”
Tabula Rasa throws Durden back into his chair and storms out of the room. Shinmen follows Tabula Rasa, slamming the door behind them.
“T, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

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