Alan Edward the Fire-Worshiper © 1993 by The Acolyte Press Printed in The Netherlands by Krips Repro, Meppel First Edition published January, 1994 All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Cover design and painting by Huibert Krolis The Acolyte Press P. O. Box 12731 1100 AS Amsterdam The Netherlands CIP-GEGEVENS KONINKLIJKE BIBLIOTHEEK, DEN HAAG Edward, Alan The Fire-Worshipper / Alan Edward. - Amsterdam: The Acolyte Press ISBN 90-6971-050-1 Trefw.: homoseksualiteit ; mannen / romans ; oorspronkelijk - Engels. As if the evil Loki himself were at his heels, the boy raced through the old town's tangle of narrow lanes and down its tumble of steep alleys, his sandals pounding the uneven cobbles, the icy air hurting in his chest, his breath coming in rapid, painful gulps. Already the twelve bells of the Fane had ceased pealing, and Great Edwyn swung alone, making the air, the houses, and even the ground shake with his thunder. The boy quickened his pace; snow-feathers were beginning to tumble all around him again, and last night's fall was already hard-packed on the pavements, making the boy skid sometimes on corners, making him whirl his arms extravagantly to keep balance. In the town square he slowed, drawing long, deeper breaths. His cloak was of lined brown cotton in double thickness and tightly belted, but now the icy air struck sharply on his bare legs; he paused by a workmen's brazier, going as close as he dared, until his skin burned and tingled. Bending, rubbing, he lifted each foot in turn, wiggling his toes in the shimmering heat from the coals as sensation gradually returned. He couldn't run any more. And, anyway, he still had several minutes. He walked now, slowly, looking through the windows of the shops and houses. Most shop windows were richly decorated with holly, mistletoe and candles, and in the houses he could see cards, paper-chains, lanterns and, always, the tree in the corner hung with lights, colored balls, ribbons and tinsel. Some people were at supper, some playing games, many clustered round their TV's watching the comedy or variety shows popular at this time of the year. Tinny, canned music and laughter penetrated a hundred windows. He lingered for a moment, moving off again reluctantly into a darker part of the town, scuffling his feet along the dried snow by the side of the pavement. But soon he could glimpse the vast bulk of the Fane's triple towers, the oldest and tallest towers in the land, their uppermost pinnacles now beginning to vanish into the darkness and the thickening snow. He crossed the close, tonight hung everywhere with colored lamps, to the South Door. He could see other Songboys arriving. Some came by bike, some were driven by their parents, some walked or, more usually, ran. The boy caught up with his friend Chad, thirteen years old like himself, head bent over a pocket video-game. Chad looked up. "Oh hi, Alric. See what I got! I can get to Level Three now – almost." Alric looked over the other boy's shoulder; Chad held the game, with its flickering screen, half-way inside his cloak as protection from the whirling snowflakes. "You got to kill that big Norn with the club," said Alric. "It's not easy, but there's a trick. Sit beside me when we go in? Geirrod won't notice." "Yes, but Otte will." Chad pressed a few buttons, the machine squawked, and he sighed. "Lost it." "Don't worry about Otte," said Alric airily. "Segundos don't count. Now come on, slow-joe!" The pair scampered through the vast archway and down the stone steps to the crypt; there, with the other Song-boys, they changed rapidly for the service. Leaving off their outdoor clothes, they wriggled into white ankle-length albs, each with a short scarlet cape at the shoulders and a linen rope at the waist. The boys chattered excitedly. It was just over a month now to Lupercalia, when there would be games, competitions and an enormous feast – roast ox, venison, frumenty cakes and ale, as much as they could eat and drink. What was more – they, the Songboys of Durnovaria, had again been chosen to sing and dance at the revels, and they would be very well paid, especially Ran, who was to dance the solo. Ran had worked out, he said, that he would have enough to buy three new games for his Masterdrive. "Which games you going to get?" asked Ori. "Dunno. The new Sonic, maybe." "No, get Demon Biker – it's crazy, man. They come at you all ways, and you gotta punch and kick to knock them off their bikes – thump...wham!" "Ori!" The boy fell silent under the sharp eye of Geirrod the Songmaster. A bell rang softly, and the boys lined up in pairs, then went as quietly as they could up the long stairway to the back of the vast nave. Today it was lit with a thousand candles in honor of the season, and hung from end to end with holly, sycamore and myrtle; the leading Songboys each carried a spray of mistletoe affixed to an upright wand of ash. Organ music billowed down the aisle, the cymbals clashed, and the people stood as one while the choir made its way to the sanctuary. Alric was pleased to find himself almost hidden behind the tall and magnificently decorated tree; careful maneuvering before the procession had enabled him to slide in beside Chad, the latter with the game slid carefully into his alb's large pocket. There was a hymn, then the censers were lit and were swung continuously as the priest stood at prayer, after which followed the choir's Yule anthems. These went splendidly, but Alric didn't like the looks that Geirrod was giving him throughout. As if he guessed they were up to something; he was, unfortunately, of a suspicious turn of mind. Chad and Alric kept the game out of sight for a while, pretending deep attention while Highfather Mauric mounted the pulpit and began the discourse he always gave at this time of the year. Some of the Songboys groaned and fidgeted, others punched and scuffled amiably under the cover of their oak stalls. "On this holy day," said Highfather Mauric, "We celebrate our deliverance from ignorance, from fear, and from the powers of darkness." He began, as was his invariable custom, with the warring Arab tribes of thousands of years ago, and then, as ever, came back to the one tribe that was ten times more wicked and cunning than any of the others, and the terrible god they had invented called Jahweh, whom they said was chief over all the other gods, even those of sky, earth and water. This was, of course, an evil device to commit whatever foul deeds they wanted on the pretense that Jahweh had told them to; in no time they had spread terror among all the other tribes of the region, ultimately setting in train the worst program of genocide the world had ever seen, slaughtering men, women and children in their greed, in their wicked desire to seize the best land, herds and seaports. Also, of course, continued the Highfather, they had spread foul slander about our beloved Pagan faith, murdering both priests and people wholesale. Yet the cause of these "Ishmaelites" was ultimately a false one, and they knew it. Why? Chad looked sideways at Alric, and whispered, "Ah, look around you, my dear friends..." "Ah, look around you, my dear friends," said the Highfather, holding up both arms. "Look at the beauty of the world, at the gentle rhythms of nature, at the many delights and the multiple provision that our own kind deities have created for us to enjoy, which they sustain for us, into which they daily breathe warmth, life and color. How then can we, who worship life rather than death, ever believe the tales about such a one as Jahweh, or that such a one is 'lord over all'?" Geirrod's eyes were closed, and he was possibly dozing. Alric nudged his friend and nodded towards Geirrod, and they carefully took out their game. From its integral clock they calculated that, on his usual form, the Highfather was about halfway through. Chad brought his hero to Level Two and passed the game to Alric, who pushed buttons and whispered, though at the same time keeping half an eye on Geirrod. He had no wish to feel the Songmaster's rod on his bottom again; it was an experience he had already undergone too often. But there was no end, continued the Highfather, to the devisings of these Arabs. Almost two thousand years ago, they had perpetrated their greatest deception of all. Some members of the tribe had pretended that Jahweh (here the priest's tone grew ironic) had changed, that he had become nicer. A new prophet, one Jeshua, had proclaimed that, after all, the faith of Jahweh was one of peace and love. Naturally, though some of the old faith had been resistant, the new cult had won wide acceptance; its members had taken over many of the old festivals – both those of the Pagans and those of Jahweh – as their own, and its devotees had traveled widely, proselytizing throughout Europe.