The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends by Robert Rankin FVSS Page B
Authors: Robert Rankin FVSS
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asked.
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Because we are going to Hastings.’
I shook my head and asked why once more.
‘To see an old friend,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘To see a very old friend.’
14
etherwood was a run-down boarding house. It was a very long walk from the station. There had been a taxi available, but Mr Bell decided to keep his watch chain.
We trudged up a gravelly drive to the late-Victorian eyesore that was Netherwood. Paint peeled from crumbling timberwork and brown-paper tape had been pasted in crosses over the windowpanes.
Mr Bell had decided not to tell me who we were visiting so that it would be a nice surprise. He tugged upon a bell-pull which came away in his hand, but a distant bell succeeded in drawing the attention of a ragged-looking fellow who smelled very strongly of cheese.
‘A toff and a monkey,’ this fellow said, looking us up and down. ‘It takes all sorts, I suppose.’
Mr Bell presented his card. ‘My name is Cameron Bell,’ said he, ‘and I have come to visit one of your lodgers – Mr Aleister Crowley.’
The ragged individual took my friend's card and slammed the front door shut upon us. I gaped up in horror at Cameron Bell. In horror, because I knew of Aleister Crowley.
‘That man is a monster,’ I said. ‘A black magician. The papers were full of his magical shenanigans. He styled himself the Beast, six-six-six. They say that he sacrificed children.’
Mr Bell laughed somewhat at this. ‘His reputation for wickedness far surpasses the facts in his case. But he was a wicked fellow.’
‘I do not wish him to put a curse upon me ,’ I said.
‘He will not curse you, Darwin,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Just pay attention to what is said and act accordingly.’
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. ‘I am not happy,’ said I.
‘Nor me. But we must learn what we can. I trust it will all make sense when it is explained. Crowley and I were students together at Oxford, you know.’
‘I did not,’ I said. ‘And I care not for it.’ And with that I folded my arms.
The ragged man once more swung wide the door. ‘The master will see you now,’ he said.
He led us along a grimy hall and up a bare-boarded staircase. An unpleasing miasma stifled the air and Mr Bell made coughings.
‘His brand of tobacco remains the same,’ he muttered as he coughed. ‘Perique soaked in rum with a sprinkling of black Moroccan.’
A grubby door was knocked upon, was softly answered, and we were ushered into the bedroom of the Beast himself.
It looked to me the very place for an ancient magician to lurk. An alchemist's den, piled high with books, strange paintings upon its walls. The smell was rank, the air befogged, and a frail figure sat in a candle's gleam.
He was wrapped in an antique dressing gown, a frayed velvet smoking cap perched on his old yellow head. I recalled the press photographs of the sprightly, athletic youngCrowley, a scaler of mountains, a man about town, a rubber of shoulders with the upper-class set. Here was a frail and broken parody. I almost felt sympathy.
‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,’ quoth the elderly mage, in a wheezing tone that spoke of damaged lungs. ‘Is that my old chum Bell I see before me?’
Mr Bell approached the shrunken figure. He extended his hand and a significant handshake was exchanged.
‘Crowley,’ said my friend. ‘The Logos of the Aeon. You would appear to have fallen upon hard times. Have you so far failed to change base metal to gold?’
Aleister Crowley gave a hideous cough, then dabbed at his mouth with a most unsavoury hankie. ‘I am expecting a cheque from America. L. Ron Hubbard, my magical son, will shortly be making a very big name for himself.’
‘Always tomorrow.’ Mr Bell seated himself on a Persian pouffe.
‘And who is this?’ asked Crowley, spying me. ‘Your familiar, is it, Bell?’
‘His name is Darwin,’ said my friend. ‘My travelling
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Because we are going to Hastings.’
I shook my head and asked why once more.
‘To see an old friend,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘To see a very old friend.’
14
etherwood was a run-down boarding house. It was a very long walk from the station. There had been a taxi available, but Mr Bell decided to keep his watch chain.
We trudged up a gravelly drive to the late-Victorian eyesore that was Netherwood. Paint peeled from crumbling timberwork and brown-paper tape had been pasted in crosses over the windowpanes.
Mr Bell had decided not to tell me who we were visiting so that it would be a nice surprise. He tugged upon a bell-pull which came away in his hand, but a distant bell succeeded in drawing the attention of a ragged-looking fellow who smelled very strongly of cheese.
‘A toff and a monkey,’ this fellow said, looking us up and down. ‘It takes all sorts, I suppose.’
Mr Bell presented his card. ‘My name is Cameron Bell,’ said he, ‘and I have come to visit one of your lodgers – Mr Aleister Crowley.’
The ragged individual took my friend's card and slammed the front door shut upon us. I gaped up in horror at Cameron Bell. In horror, because I knew of Aleister Crowley.
‘That man is a monster,’ I said. ‘A black magician. The papers were full of his magical shenanigans. He styled himself the Beast, six-six-six. They say that he sacrificed children.’
Mr Bell laughed somewhat at this. ‘His reputation for wickedness far surpasses the facts in his case. But he was a wicked fellow.’
‘I do not wish him to put a curse upon me ,’ I said.
‘He will not curse you, Darwin,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Just pay attention to what is said and act accordingly.’
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. ‘I am not happy,’ said I.
‘Nor me. But we must learn what we can. I trust it will all make sense when it is explained. Crowley and I were students together at Oxford, you know.’
‘I did not,’ I said. ‘And I care not for it.’ And with that I folded my arms.
The ragged man once more swung wide the door. ‘The master will see you now,’ he said.
He led us along a grimy hall and up a bare-boarded staircase. An unpleasing miasma stifled the air and Mr Bell made coughings.
‘His brand of tobacco remains the same,’ he muttered as he coughed. ‘Perique soaked in rum with a sprinkling of black Moroccan.’
A grubby door was knocked upon, was softly answered, and we were ushered into the bedroom of the Beast himself.
It looked to me the very place for an ancient magician to lurk. An alchemist's den, piled high with books, strange paintings upon its walls. The smell was rank, the air befogged, and a frail figure sat in a candle's gleam.
He was wrapped in an antique dressing gown, a frayed velvet smoking cap perched on his old yellow head. I recalled the press photographs of the sprightly, athletic youngCrowley, a scaler of mountains, a man about town, a rubber of shoulders with the upper-class set. Here was a frail and broken parody. I almost felt sympathy.
‘Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,’ quoth the elderly mage, in a wheezing tone that spoke of damaged lungs. ‘Is that my old chum Bell I see before me?’
Mr Bell approached the shrunken figure. He extended his hand and a significant handshake was exchanged.
‘Crowley,’ said my friend. ‘The Logos of the Aeon. You would appear to have fallen upon hard times. Have you so far failed to change base metal to gold?’
Aleister Crowley gave a hideous cough, then dabbed at his mouth with a most unsavoury hankie. ‘I am expecting a cheque from America. L. Ron Hubbard, my magical son, will shortly be making a very big name for himself.’
‘Always tomorrow.’ Mr Bell seated himself on a Persian pouffe.
‘And who is this?’ asked Crowley, spying me. ‘Your familiar, is it, Bell?’
‘His name is Darwin,’ said my friend. ‘My travelling
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