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In this issue of The Supernatural you will find various interpretations of what the supernatural is: Inside you will find articles about the influence of the supernatural on music; healing & even baking! There’s also some original creative–writing; exploring near-death experience & hauntings. Perhaps you’d agree, that the supernatural is explicable with faith,spirituality & belief. Even when discussing the science behind blackholes the supernatural emerges… Religion & ritual are never far away… Shakespeare’s quote from Hamlet; “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your (our) philosophy.” Sums up The Supernatural. Joannah Vaughan Wyx.
(Editor)
Features: Sacred Dog: Silver Horse Retreat, California. P. 6-9
Sara Fancy
Bowie‘s Blackstar Art or Ritual? P. 11-14
Walker Stalker Con 2016 P.15 Walking Dead Cake P. 23-24
Heavy Metal; a Religious Rite. P. 16-19
Red Mustang by Sara Fancy
SACRED DOG
In the 1500’s, when the Conquistadors sailed to the Americas, they brought horses. Some of these horses escaped, and were able to thrive and multiply in their lush, new environment. The native people had always relied on dogs to help carry their food and shelter, but when they encountered the horse their lives were transformed. They were able to expand their movement, which promoted interaction between neighbouring tribes as well as creating new ways of hunting. The horse became extremely valuable and an integral part of their lifestyle. Because of this, they named it the Sacred Dog. In my outdoor Family Constellation therapeutic practice, my horses and I hold space for clients to reconnect with lost parts of themselves. Horses, with their sophisticated hyper-awareness, are able to discern systemic tension and disorder. Having a sense of where the tension lies, they promote balance through their presence and actions. They help create pathways for emotions, memories and wounds to be met, allowing for movement and positive possibilities. Recently, my Native American boyfriend and I were constructing an overhead shelter for the horses. We talked as we worked, and he expressed his angst at having been verbally attacked in his life. Looking at his posture, voice and rhythm, I could tell he was suffering and I felt compelled to help him.
Photographic Copyright Sara Fancy
I started by having him anchor into his body, to examine the feelings and sensations he was experiencing in reference to his situation. I asked him questions such as ‘How do you feel right now?’ and ‘Where does this feeling inhabit your body?’ We happened to be standing in a coral with three horses. As I was talking the two mares, Ruby and Jackie, walked over. Jackie stood behind him, gently pressing her body against his back, and Ruby stood by his side, her face close to his arms and chest. The mares held their positions while I continued to gently direct his attention to his body. He recalled a time at seven years old. While in his bedroom, he had put his head inside the newly installed heating vent, and he happened to overhear his parents talking in their room. As he eavesdropped on their conversation, he was shocked to hear them speaking about him. They spoke about how he was different from their other children, and that they were at a loss for how to deal with him. He was heartbroken, as he felt his parents didn’t love him, and was also struck by guilt for spying on them. He said he had carried this for more than sixty years
Copyright Sara Fancy As he accessed this memory, there was a sudden movement within the herd. One of the horses knocked into a ladder. Jackie and Ruby, with incredible speed and power, leapt away from us. In unison, the entire herd thundered away from their positions, sending shock waves through my body. It felt as though an intense voltage of energy had been released. A few minutes later, after the two mares had resumed their position, the same sudden movement repeated itself, and again the mares returned to stand with us. Jackie and Ruby held my boyfriend in a space filled with love and affection, and the feeling was palpable. What was happening with us in the coral was mirroring something in my boyfriend's energetic field, and consequently his energy was reorganizing itself.
Afterwards, he shared with me that after years of praying in sweat lodges and participating in native healing ceremonies, he’d never been able to reach and identify this childhood wound. In hindsight, I perceived the mares to be symbolic of his parents, who have long since passed. The love for their son was undeniable. As the mares supported him in finding resonance with his pain, he was able to let it go. When I asked him what was different, he told me a huge weight had been lifted, and he no longer had a painful association with this memory. Photos :Copyright Sara Fancy - Silver Horse Retreat
In my professional practice with horses, I’m constantly reminded of their intuition and innate understanding of what is happening in the moment. Their generosity satiates all those who come into contact with them, and their ability to support our connection to earth and sky brings us into alignment with who we are and our purpose of being. I consider horses sacred in every meaning of the word and continue to promote relations to them in a kind and reverent manner.
Written by Sara Fancy. For further details of upcoming events; (including weekend intensives) see: https://youtu.be/BI3s12bBhhI www.SilverHorse.org www.SilverhoseRetreat.Facebook.com www.SilverhorseRetreat.Instagram.com
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Bowie’s Blackstar Art or Ritual? By Joannah Vaughan Wyx.
I
've read a lot of stuff about the imagery in Bowie’s Blackstar video but no one can explain why Christ is portrayed as a scarecrow: Bowie places Christ in Blackstar (below) in the Wheat & the Tares: (Which is a parable taken from St Matthew’s 13:24-30). The three scarecrows in Bowie’s video distinctly symbolise Christ’s crucifixion at Golgotha; (which is also known as The Place of a Skull) and Calvary.
Blackstar Bowie
The scarecrows or hollow-men in Blackstar are writhing in sexuality; it’s uncomfortable to watch. I've always admired Bowie's music (with some exceptions) & enjoyed his use of semiotics & imagery; however Blackstar seems to defile Christ's last act as a man. In certain cults such as Alistair Crowley’s to defile Christ is highly respected and believed to cascade the blasphemer greater spiritual power (especially when sex is used to abuse Christ’s name). The hidden meaning (occult) is ubiquitous in Blackstar- if you know what you’re looking for and it seems to be about obtaining as much attention as possible. By mocking Christ's ascension there is a belief that great-influence, notoriety and lasting fame will be bestowed.
Maybe Bowie was trying to buy some more time? He sadly appeared to be suffering at the end of his life with liver cancer; and in true Bowie style he diffused it by saying “at least I got my cheekbones back”. Arguably Blackstar seems to be more than a pop video; or an arty film. One could say it involves the viewer in a ritual. (Is Bowie’s Blackstar reminiscent of the ritualistic films of the brazenly-evil Kenneth Anger?)
Kenneth Anger.
Bowie conducts his Blackstar ritual/ dance/drama toward “The Villa of Ormen” (Ormen means serpent in Norwegian); the serpent is repeated throughout Crowleyan Magik; (“Magik” is a form of Crowleyan “magic” that involves sex) – Bowie’s interest in Crowley is well documented.
Perhaps Bowie is artistically inviting us to de-construct codes around us because as some have suggested Bowie was warning us about a coming apocalypse; some have suggested Bowie he had insider knowledge that a hidden planet would collide with earth soon - which echoes Crowley’s “scientific illumination” teachings. Blackstar is brimming with Christian symbology. He throws emblems like darts… After reading Crowley one can confidently suggest that Blackstar’s scarecrows demonstrate the “unforgivable sin” - which is interpreted as defiling the cross or Jesus Christ. In Crowley’s book White Stains; defiling Jesus Christ is seen as the highest form of sin. In my humble opinion Bowie sexualises Christ in Blackstar. I hate to speak ill of the dead but maybe in this case I will make an exception. Perhaps I’ve been deceived/hypnotised for years & Bowie sold his soul years ago: (See/listen to his album Station to Station –it reflects the themes in Blackstar; he also wears the same pyjamas….)
Next Day Bowie
In an interview about his album "Heathen" Bowie said “I hate making videos because it's so boring"; maybe that's what happened with Blackstar- he just didn't care about the imagery. Or perhaps his apparent boredom of making his videos is a way to distance himself from for the imagery, thus dodging responsibility.
As a child Crowley tormented a cat to test if it had nine lives. He killed the cat. You decide… Crowley’s writings are depraved and concentrate on the art of degradation, masochism and blasphemy. This is where art and life blur. Blackstar is arguably more than art it’s a Crowley/Bowie ritual. Bowie is subtle… He is an idol Bowie is famous for his sense of humour; but there appears to be nothing vaguely amusing in Blackstar. On the contrary Blackstar appears deathly serious, well-constructed & created to deconstruct meaning
.
By DIANA NATHALIE ANG
The Walker Stalker Con started in Senoia, GA in the US. It is based on the popular American Zombie Apocalypse series, The Walking Dead. The TV show became so popular that fans want to meet the cast of the show. However, unlike any other TV shows or films, The Walking dead does not have any premiers that allows fans to meet the cast. Two men, James and Eric went on a trip to Senoia, GA and were lucky to see the set of The Walking Dead and meet the actors. From their experience, they had the idea to start a convention to re-create their experience so that other fans can have similar experience and meet the cast as well. They call it the Walker Stalker Con, which is not only a convention, but also a fan meet-up and an opportunity for each guest to leave with an amazing experience and to meet their favourite actors, and experience that zombie fans will not find anywhere else.
The Walker Stalker Con has only been held in various cities and states in America, and this year was the first time that they went outside of America. It was held in London where the European fans can enjoy the experience like the American fans had. I went to the Walker Stalker Con in London; and without knowing much what was going on, apart I was blessed with a press pass. It was very crowded and people were dressed in Cosplay or zombie costumes .fans also had the opportunity to get their face painted. I managed to see David Morrisseyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s panel, who portrayed the Governor in The Walking Dead series. He spoke really well and seemed to enjoy to see his fans. Some managed to ask him questions, like the toughest scene he had to do, as he was the bad guy in the series. He mentioned that it was the killing of the character Hershel Greene, portrayed by Scott Wilson, as they are good friends in real life! I managed to see a few other actors as well, like Jon Bernthal, Christian Serratos, Michael Cudlitz and Josh McDermitt who were busy meeting fans and signing autographs. Overall, I think the Walker Stalker Con was a really good experience and I enjoyed looking at the actors who I see on the screen. It is a good opportunity for die-hard fans to meet the cast and actors of The Walking Dead. Apart from the crowd I enjoyed the convention, and maybe Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be back next year!
Heavy Metal: A Religious Rite By Rory Wills.
Ever since Black Sabbath dropped their self-titled debut album in 1970, the road of metal’s evolution has been a rocky one. Though initially popular among a cult audience, the genre was panned by critics of the time as unsophisticated and without substance. More than that, however, metal attracted criticism from concerned social groups, both religious and secular, who feared its dark lyrics would encourage devil worship and violence. But what is the truth behind metal’s unique place in the world of music? Why do people either love it or hate it? And what does it offer the ‘initiated’ that they can’t get from pop, country or jazz?
Since its origin, heavy metal has drawn on the supernatural for inspiration, both in lyrics and sound. The founding fathers of the genre –
Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin et al – created its sound by drawing from blues rock and psychedelic rock. It’s easy to hear this influence in early records of the sixties and seventies, such as these bands’ self-titled debuts. Those genres themselves are riddled in the supernatural.
Psychedelic rock is all about recreating the experience of being high on LSD. Some would argue that recreational drugs are a means of transcending to a higher state of consciousness, almost like a shaman reaching for the gods. True, heavy metal has since shed most of this initial influence. Judas Priest were arguably the first to discard blues rock in favour of the heavier sound metal is known for today, and Motörhead drew inspiration from punk rock to create a faster, higher-tempo sound. But some things never change. Since Ozzy Osbourne began to sing about angels and demons, musicians after him have sought to emulate this new, darker direction in which he took rock. It’s not surprising that Ozzy chose this as subject matter for Black Sabbath’s lyrics. As hard as it may be to believe given his lifestyle, Ozzy is a devout Christian who would pray before every performance. It’s only natural that this part of Ozzy would linger in the genre he essentially created. Of course, there will always be those who strive to take something as far as it can be taken. Metal has since evolved into a different beast. With subsequent bands taking the sound in new, exciting directions, countless subgenres have
been born. From thrash metal and power metal to the heavier, much darker creature that is death metal, the genre has evolved far beyond what Ozzy envisioned all those years ago. But one thing has remained – metal has always been about the supernatural. Ghosts and demons – both real and inner – have remained the mascots of the genre. By far the most sinister form to emerge in recent times is the Norwegian Black Metal scene, begun in the late eighties and spearheaded by the notorious band Mayhem. The Norwegian scene was all about darkness, evil and the worship of Satan. Musicians dressed in black leather and spikes and wore ‘corpse paint’ to make themselves look as demonic as humanly possible, completing the look with an abundance of inverted crosses. The guitarist for Mayhem – and arguably the leader of the black metal scene – was Øystein Aarseth, renowned for coaxing fellow band member Per Ohlin (better known by his stage name ‘Dead’) into committing suicide, then photographing his corpse and using it as an album cover. But the most notorious act of the black metal musicians and fans was the burning of churches in Norway, some of which were historical landmarks that traced their heritage to the Viking Age. According to Aarseth, Christianity was a plague that he was determined to eradicate. The scene in Norway came to an end with Aarseth’s murder by Mayhem bassist Varg Vikernes, who went on to become an advocate for both Germanic Neopaganism and Neo-Nazism.
With people such as Aarseth tainting the name of metal, it’s easy to see why non-initiates have been so concerned for the genre’s influence on society.
The Norwegian bands pushed it to its limits, but as in any religion there will always be those who take the message too far and use it for evil purposes. Metal has and always will be about the supernatural, but it’s not S’tan and his minions that adherents are obsessed with. Go to any metal concert and you will see mosh pits and walls of death – all based on rituals that have been observed in countless cultures around the world.
These concerts can easily be compared to religious rites, in which adherents observe rituals to the accompaniment of fast, high-tempo music. The musicians themselves, it could be argued, can even be likened to priests who conduct these religious ceremonies. And what is the purpose of moshing? To bring people together, and to help them achieve transcendence. It is almost tribal in nature. Truly, the energy of these concerts is incomparable, and it is hard not to get caught up in the frenzy. So there you have it. Heavy metal, far from being something new, is in fact drawing from such primal desires and rituals that it serves a basic human need – the need for spiritual ascension. Perhaps, therefore, metal is not about escaping humanity, but reconnecting with what many of us have lost – the touch of the gods.
The Shadow of Destiny By Becky Noble
F
or Emily Rose, it was just a normal day with her parents and sister. They were on their way to the beach for their yearly vacation, which Emily hated going on. She was eighteen now, so why she had to go on this stupid vacation anymore she didn't know. Her parents insisted, so
she sat, in traffic, with her dad shouting angrily at the cars in front. There seemed an endless line of it that went nowhere. Emily was getting so annoyed with the traffic; it seemed to never shut up with its consistent honking and shouting. Oh and let's not get started on her annoying little sister, Raven, aged fifteen, who just wouldn't shut up about make-up, boys and other boring things. Emily just wanted everything around her to be silent and give her peace, but it seemed like it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. As Emily was about to give her sister a piece of her mind, there was an explosion... As she and her parents got out of the car she could clearly see a veil of fire shoot up into the sky and swallow it whole. Emily wondered what was happening and was going to take a closer look until she heard a strange noise. She noticed that the cars were disappearing one by one in what looked like ordinary fog. As Emily looked at the fog she felt something deep in her mind that told her that it wasn't normal. It was something much more dangerous. Emily realised that she needed to get as many people away from the fog as she could, because she noticed it was quickly gaining pace and would be where she is in a matter of minutes. “We have to get everyone out of here,” she warned her father. “There must have been a fire close by,” her father said calmly. “I don't know how but that fog is dangerous. We need to get out of here,” Emily shouted, worried. ‘‘Don't be silly. There's nothing to worry about. You’re just in shock from the explosion,” her father said, trying to comfort her. “No, you're not listening. That fog will kill us all if we don't move,” Emily yelled. “Don't be silly.” Emily's dad was interrupted when he saw something that proved what Emily had said. There was a young woman who was trying to get her baby out of the car. The fog suddenly appeared out of nowhere, swallowing her and the car. After the fog disappeared, all that was left was ash on the floor and the smell of burning flesh that hung in the air before it disappeared in a gust of wind. Oh god, it's happening again,’’ her father said, fear coursing through him. Z ‘What are you talking about?” she asked When her father looked at her, she could see the fear shining deeply in his eyes. She knew that she didn’t have time to ask questions. “There no time for an explanation,’’ her father anxiously said. “Just take your sister and get the hell out of here before it's too late.’’
Her father then called her mother and they shared a look. Knowing filled her mother's blue eyes. She walked over to Emily and looked at her with love in her eyes. “I'm so sorry you had to witness this. I never wanted this life for you,” her mother said, regret clearly showing. “But it's too late for regrets. You have to take your sister. Run as fast as you can and don't ever look back.” “Why, mum? What's happening?” “There's no time to explain,” her mother said anxiously. “You have to go before they get you.” “They?” Emily questioned. “There's no time.” As her mother said this, she puts a locket around Emily's neck. “Take this and protect it with your life. It will help you greatly.” Her mother than pushed Raven into Emily's arms and stood beside her husband as the fog fast approached. Emily stood there for a few minutes wondering what was happening, until she realised she had to get out of here. She took her sister's hand and started running back to the city. As Emily ran she got an urge to look behind her, and she did. What she saw would forever haunt her. As she looked behind her she saw a light shine from her parents, before they were swallowed up by the fog. She turned around as a tear fell down her cheek. Her sister looked at her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. As she started to turn around, Emily knelt in front of her and made Raven look at her. “Don't look.” “Where's mum and dad?” Raven asked. “I'm sorry, honey, but they’re gone,” Emily said with tears in her eyes. “What?! No… this isn't happening!” said Raven. “Why them?” She began to sob heavily. Emily pulled her into a hug. “Don't cry. They died protecting us.” As Emily released her, she wiped the tears off Raven's face. “Now we have to get out of here.” She took Raven's hand and they both started running. Suddenly Emily heard a scream, and Raven was ripped out of her hand. As she looked back, she saw Raven as she was consumed by the fog. “No! Why me?” she said, shock in her voice. Emily fell to her knees as she realised she was all alone, her whole family taken from her. She was about to pass out from shock of what she's seen. She was waiting for the fog to catch her, when she fell unconscious. She saw a dark shape run towards her, and it stood in front of her. “Don't you touch her!” was all Emily heard before her world went dark and she lost consciousness. Emily woke up after a few hours. As she looked around the room, she remembered what happened to her family and tears began to fill her eyes. She was about to let the tears fall down her pale, ash covered cheeks when she noticed a man in the dark corner of the room. Emily wiped the offending tears away before she embarrassed herself further in front of this mysterious man. She continued to observe this figure but she couldn't make out his features. However, she could tell that she didn't need to worry about him. She could feel that he wouldn't hurt her. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice full of raw emotions for the family she lost. “The name’s Conor,” he told her. Well where am I Conor?” What happened?” “You were about to get killed by the fog, which was controlled by what we call shadows. After you fell unconscious I took you back to my house. I've been waiting for you to wake up ever since”
“Why did you save me when you don't even know me?” asked Emily. Connor’s piercing blue eyes seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and feeling. The second thing she noticed was how pale he was, like he was carved out of snow. “When I saw this,” he said, picking up the locket from around her neck, “I knew you would be a great help in our fight against the shadows.” “Alright, I believe you, but what happened on the highway?” ‘‘The shadows,” he said, “have tried to destroy the world for centuries now.” He let go of the locket and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘‘They were about to achieve their goal, when the Phoenix Order was created to stop them’ ‘Emily interrupted him and said, “Who are these shadows?” “There are many written works that describe them. Some say they are lost souls of soldiers who died in battle, coming back to make the rest of the world suffer. Others say that they are simply people who have become obsessed with the dark arts and have changed themselves permanently.” Emily sat speechless. “Now you know the truth of what happened to your family and the rest of the people.” he said, sympathetic. Emily could feel tears begin to build up in her eyes, but she quickly cast them away and looked at Conor, waiting for him to carry on. What she most wanted to know was what caused the deaths of her family and other people by the silent, merciless fog. “From what I gathered from unknown sources, the shadows were planning to open a portal to the underworld, but a battle erupted between us and them before they could success. As we were about to crush their defence they brought out a vault made of impenetrable metal. No matter what we did there was no way of seeing what was in it. We couldn't even dent it. However, the worst thing then happened. As we were about to capture this dangerous vault, one of the shadows was able to open it. What came out was a silent, dangerous killer.” Sadness was clearly evident in his voice. “What happened after that thing was let loose?” “It completely obliterated us, I was the only one left out of the six of us. As I was about to get swallowed up by the murderous fog, an explosion erupted from one of the nearby oil plants. It seemed that one of us was able to hide and was trying to blow that thing up, Instead of being destroyed, it ended up sending the fog towards you and those other people. ”Give me time to think,” said Emily. “This has overwhelmed me a bit.” “ You are the only person who can stop the shadows from achieving their goal of mass destruction. ”Chosen one?” “Yes. You’re the only one who has the power to shut down their corrupted dark organisation forever. “He left the room, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.
A few months had passed since the death of her loving family. Emily had trained nonstop. She stuck to a system of eating, sleeping and training. She was strict on herself, otherwise she would never get revenge on those who murdered countless people and her family. “This is the day of judgement,” Emily thought as she looked away from Conor. She clenched her bandaged hands around her swords and took a step towards the portal, it began to open so she launched herself towards it, ready for the fight of her life.
The Walking Dead Cake By DIANA NATHALIE ANG
Didn’t I mention that I was a big Walking Dead fan? It started with my dad, he loves action movies and he came across The Walking Dead once and noticed it was actually series and aired almost every night in Netherlands. He started following them and asked my sister and I if we knew about the series. I said no, but my sister said it sounded familiar. I started watching it with my dad, and I actually like it. I am really excited that Season 5- part 2 is coming out next week, and I decided to bake a Walking Dead themed cake. I did my research and wanted to do something different. I thought of a heart shape initially because I loved the series. It then reminded me of the first few episodes where the characters didn’t know how to kill a walker yet and they punctured the heart (walker didn’t die of course ha-ha). For the ‘bleeding’ part, I wanted to make a surprise inside cake with it, but something different. I ate a lava cake last week and I thought of it partly. The cake is a plain
vanilla cake covered with butter cream and filled with red velvet ganache and topped with a thin layer of heart shaped white chocolate to match the butter cream. The letters ‘Walking Dead’ are made from the left over white chocolate I had from making the heart shape and I added black food colouring in it. I let it curdle because I wanted it to look ‘decayed’ or ‘burnt’ (or how you describe it) with the reference to the walkers in the series. On the word ‘the’ was too small and I wrote it with plain food colouring. I was really pleased with how it turned out, and also the way I cut it, intercepting with the letters nicely. I was really nervous how it would turn out. I only had once chance to it right! Or start again. I didn’t do a tutorial on this cake as I spent quite a bit of time on it and it was quite tedious to keep taking photos. I will post a recipe of my vanilla
cake and red velvet ganache soon on my website. *Note: this cake might look disturbing to some people, but I made it just for fun, a fan-based cake and nothing more than that. I didn’t mean to creep anyone out. Sorry if I did, but it was just my creation.
CANDLES
by Rory Wills.
In the silence of the catacomb, the old man stood alone. He shivered as winter’s chill scratched his face and spine. He lowered his head before an altar carved from the rock, which was draped like a coffin in black cloth. The breeze seemed to grow, biting and stabbing like a demon in the gloom. The old man raised his weary eyes to the candles on the altar’s face. Each one he had lit for one of the fallen on the surface world, and most had now burned down to their roots. Only two still flickered in the darkness, their flames a silent testament to better days. The order was gone, the old man knew. The priests were all dead. The shadow of decay lay over the catacomb, and the old man was chilled to his bones. Just days ago, grey-robed men and women patrolled its dark halls, lanterns in hand, keeping watch over the dead. The old man looked round the crypt. Alcoves in the walls held stone coffins, their sides and faces carved with old runes. Slits in the ceiling allowed faint rays of moonlight to creep into the room, but the old man had to crane his head to make out any shape in the darkness. Skulls lined every sill, bleached and cracked with time. He stared into their black, soulless eyes, and in the dead silence they seemed to stare back into him. Shuddering, the old man turned back to the candles on the altar. He felt the skulls’ hollow gaze on the back of his neck. One of the candles sputtered. In a moment it would go out, leaving just the other alight. The old man shook his head. ‘No more,’ he whispered. He turned and paced silently across the crypt floor. The echoes of his footfalls on the cobbles rang through the room, and vanished away down a corridor. He reached its curved
arch, the blocks of its face scratched with runes, and looked solemnly into the gloom. Darkness stretched away, seemingly without end. Silver rays of moonlight peered through cracks in the tunnel’s ceiling, illuminating dust that floated down to the ground. The old man steeled himself with a slow breath. He smoothed his robe, pulled his hood over his white head, and began to walk forward. Slowly the darkness enveloped him, pulling him into its shadowy embrace with long, creeping fingers. He glanced over his shoulder. Two candles looked back, their flames the last record there would ever be of the grey-robed priests, the nameless keepers of the dead. He watched the flames dance, writhing in the dark like pale demons. He turned his body to face them, fixing his tired eyes on their remains. Gradually their fires dimmed, shrinking in the gloom even as the old man watched. One of the candles went out. A cold shiver wracked the old man’s spine. He turned round, away from the crypt, and walked purposefully forward, going deeper and deeper into the tunnel. Further and further from the crypt and the solitary candle. The old man knew where he would go. The world on the surface offered nothing to him now, only despair and death. A foul plague had gripped the land, killing all whose bodies and minds it touched. The priests had tried to destroy the plague. They used ancient magic long forgotten by even the world’s greatest sorcerers, spells passed down from the order’s founding disciples. But where the plague came, it devoured and destroyed. Nothing could stop or even slow its relentless tide, and men, women and children all died in their homes. It was known that when someone in the villages died, the priests brought their body down into the catacomb. The corpse was preserved and placed in a stone coffin, to rest forever in one of the network’s crypts. When a priest died, their skull was removed and placed on a sill to watch forever over the sleeping dead. However, with so many dead in such a short span of time, there was no one to bring the bodies below the earth. Not far above the old man’s head, a thousand corpses rotted on the open ground. Who will bury them? He wondered. Who will bury me? It was said that with plague came evil, that those it touched were affected in ways
beyond mortal understanding. If that was true, the people of the land above had not escaped its shadow. If legends held any credence, they would become something else. Demons. The word rang hollow in the old manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tattered mind. By the godsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; will or a spot of two-faced luck I am alive, but I escaped one evil only to find another. The catacomb was a labyrinth of tunnels, crypts and secret passages. No one could know every twist and turn and the places they took you to. The old man knew a good few, probably more than most, but there was a lot more to this place that would elude him forever. He knew of one passage, a well-trodden route that would take him to where he was headed. In old times the grey priests included it in their rounds on their unwavering, silent watch of the catacomb. There was a legend that told of weapons forged in ancient days, infused with primal magic that would kill any demon. A host of swords as pale as ghosts, and as cold as ice to the touch. Every priest in the order had known the legend, and most had been to the room where the swords rested. But few believed in the old tales of demons and prophecies. When the plague came, none thought that the swords would be the key to salvation. The priests had relied on their own useless magic while the people succumbed to the plague they could not outrun. Perhaps if he could find these swords, the old man might be able to save the land. There would be no one to inhabit it for years to come, but the plague would be banished, and the land would regrow. In a century or more, life would return. The old man came to a room in total darkness. No torches poured light from the stone walls, nor did any candles glimmer from sills or alcoves. He guessed the room was larger than the crypt he had been in, though the doorway was narrower. Though he could not see what lay within, he knew as well as any priest. A bell twice the size of a man grown, forged from iron and gilded. Like the pale swords, the bell was a thing of legend. Nobody used it, saw it or even touched it. But, by its own accord, it rang when a grey priest was about to die. A single chime, hollow and desolate, and loud enough to be heard throughout the catacomb. But the old man had never heard the chime. He was on the surface when the plague seeped underground and killed the priests. But on that day, in villages far away, it was said the bell rang like a funeral dirge. It was a wonder the old man had survived. The
plague should have killed him, but here he was, weakened yet alive. Whether the gods had been kind or cruel to spare him, he could not tell. The old man shook his head and moved on. The room faded into darkness. The bell is only a legend, he said to himself. Nothing comes of children’s stories. But what if the pale swords were just that? What if he was wasting his time on a quest that could never be fulfilled? Even theoretically, how could a sword destroy a plague? What if there is no way to kill it? The thought was too horrendous to contemplate. All he could do was push on. If there was even a glimmer of hope in a world fallen to shadows and decay, it lay in those swords. Like the candles on the altar, they were a symbol of life where only death could be found. The next room he came to was a crypt. The walls were lined with alcoves, though these held no coffins. Perhaps this room would hold the dead that lay above him, rotting in the moonlight. Without further contemplation he walked on. He did not stop at anymore rooms, but stayed on his path now more determined than ever. The straight walls gave way to a large grey dome. The ceiling stretched high above the old man’s head, a hole at its tallest point to let in the moonlight. A single white beam, sharp as a spear, sliced through the darkness like a celestial road, and illuminated a trapdoor in the centre of the dome. A thin smile crossed the old man’s lips. He knew where the trapdoor led. Those grey priests were clever. The answer is always in the place you least expect. But he knew better. Beneath the trapdoor was a tunnel that led to a small crypt. In the left wall there was an alcove. In that was a cloth bundle. And within that cloth bundle was the host of pale swords. The end of his journey was so close, the old man felt he could already touch the swords. He walked to the trapdoor and, kneeling before it, tugged its brass handle with all the effort he could muster. It would not budge. After straining on the handle for a good moment, the old man released it to catch his breath. He breathed long and deep, drawing in the cold, damp air of the catacomb. It tasted of death, with the faintest creeping touch of rotting flesh. He knelt over the door and tried again. A creak sounded from beneath the dark, ancient wood, but still the door would not move. He wondered if it had been locked, but then discarded the idea. None of the doors in
the catacomb had locks. The priests never needed them, because no one besides them was supposed to know about the place. Something was not right. There were only two explanations the old man could think of. Either the trapdoor was barricaded from below, perhaps in a last effort by a desperate priest to keep the plague from spreading. If that was the case it would make no difference. A demon plague was not stopped by a wooden barrier, and the priest below was long dead. The second option was more disturbing, but also more feasible. The door had been sealed by magic, but not by the priests in their desperation. Their spells could not bind matter together. Only black magic was capable of such an elemental feat. The old man shuddered as the truth dawned on him. There is a demon in the catacomb. As the mere words crossed his mind, the domed room seemed to grow dark. A shadow unlike any other descended on the old man, shrouding him in doubt and fear. He gave one last desperate tug at the brass handle, straining with every muscle in his frail body. To his surprise the trapdoor opened. He knelt down and stuck his legs into the dark hole, feeling with his feet for steps. His left foot caught on something firm â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the rung of a ladder. He heaved himself forward and slid down into the gloom, placing his feet carefully, and began to climb down the ladder. Every time he gripped a beam the rotting wood threatened to crumble in his hand. Many times he almost lost his grip, but he did not slow down as he descended. He glanced up at the light spilling through the open trapdoor. It grew fainter and fainter the further down he went, until it was barely perceptible in the darkness, like a solitary star in a midnight sky. And then suddenly it went out, and the old man was plunged into total darkness. Something had closed the door. His feet hit ground, and he let go of the ancient ladder. When he turned, he found himself facing a small tunnel, barely the size of a drain and too small to walk through. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the tiny space. The stench of decay was rich in the cold, damp air. His grey robe became stained with mud, but he did not bother to care. He only cared for what lay at the end of the tunnel. At last, he emerged into the final crypt. He stood up, smothered his robe and hobbled to the place where the legendary cloth bundle lay in a hidden alcove. He had made it. The pale swords were his. All he had to do
was reach the bundle and unwrap it, and the weapon against the demons and their plague would be unleashed. I, the last grey priest, will bring salvation to the land. The old man came to the alcove. However, instead of the bundle, he was greeted with only an empty space. The swords were not here. His heart sank. All this way, all this effort, and for what? Had the swords been moved? Had his memory failed him and taken him to the wrong place? Or are the legendary swords just that? A legend. He shook his head. No. They are in the catacomb, I know it. No matter, how long it takes me, I will find them. He knew he had to get out of here as quickly as he could. But how could he leave when the trapdoor had closed behind him? Someone, or something, had followed him here. A growl echoed in the darkness. The old man turned and looked back through the low tunnel. In the gloom, a red light began to shine, glistening like a drop of blood on black velvet. His breath caught as the light grew, moving slowly towards him as the growl became louder. He leapt to his feet and backed away towards a wall. No way out. He was struck by the thought of two candles, their flames dancing in an empty, silent crypt, destined to flicker out of existence. With his mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye, he watched the wax drip onto the black altar, and trickle down its cold stone face like a river of blood. I am the last of my order, the old man thought. I am the last grey priest.
Far away, a bell chimed.
The Supernatural ADJECTIVE (Of a manifestation or event) attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature:a supernatural being.
NOUN (the supernatural) Manifestations or events considered to be of supernatural origin, such as ghosts: a frightening manifestation of the supernatural.
Credits: Front Cover: Painting of gargoyle on St Vitus Cathedral, Prague by JeremyVaughan http://www.gullgraphics.co.uk Joannah Vaughan Wyx : Managing Editor/Technical Editor/ Editor/ Art Editor â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Layout , Production & Liaising with Contributors. Personal contributions: Bowie's Blackstar Art or Ritual/ September/ Rory Wills : Copy Editor /Proof reading / Liasing with Managing Editor . Personal Contributions: Heavy Metal A Religious Rite / Candles Diana Nathalie Ang Personal Contributions :Walker Stalker Convention/ Walking Dead Cake. Becky Noble : Personal Contributions: Shadow of Destiny. Many Thanks to our Contributors : JeremyVaughan (Front cover ) www.gullgraphics.co.uk Sara Fancy: (Sacred Dog ) www.silverhorse.org Anda: (This painting) www.behance.net/Ansheen
September (Near death experience)
Here’s why I was heavy in September. September is Sunday night anxiety Back-packed, school stress & wind-swept weeping-willow. “Look, you made the right decision at the time” rings in my Most of the time grown-up mind. Look September, I delight in taking a breath of your sweet fresh-air But on the exhale Heaviness & head - in- hands feelings freeze my nerves. In the distance, I hear my favourite female whisper“Look, a good cry is good for your skin.” But she’s not here anymore To hold my hand To kiss it better To chase the demon away. It’s up to me now. Yes, I might be a grown- up But it’s still exhausting, Coping with this big wide world. Waiting, anticipating and ever-ready for October to shove September out of the way. And then, in a blink- of- an- eye Septembers slammed the door. Like a burden lifted; a violent-past- love alighted My mind celebrates & dances. Yes, my spirit is still praying hard But not September hard. And, you guessed it, I can breathe again… Well, occasionally I have the hiccups, stammer & forget what month it is... Still, I make time to pray, every day, for those kids dealing with it all, And I thank God, I’m getting on… And, that one day my favourite - female will let me cross that line on the horizon So I can see her face again. “It’s not your time yet Joannah, go back to Jeremy. “ She said, last time When I nearly crossed that sacred line. By Joannah Vaughan Wyx