Order of Nine Angles

Order of Nine Angles

The ONA In Contemporary Fiction

“The Order of Nine Angles…”

“They’re dangerous people, Jack”

“I guessed as much…The human sacrifice was the clue.” {1}

As noted in Perspectives on the Order of Nine Angles, “how someone, or some group, is publicly perceived and understood (or misunderstood) by others unconnected to that person and not involved with that group can be interesting, and a rough gage of influence.” Ditto with regard to how such a group is portrayed in fiction.

Over the past decade, the ONA has been mentioned in a few works of fiction – both mainstream and otherwise. For instance, in Alex Unlimited: Split-Second Sight by Dan Jolley – who once worked for DC Comics – a 2007 work published by the US based Magna distributors Tokyopop.

“Order of Nine what?”
“Really aggressive. Not people you want to mess with…”

The ONA also appears in some of that genre named ‘fan fiction’, once confined to small sometimes underground zines {2} but now with its own internet sub-culture. For example, the following, from a story entitled An Unbreakable Bond authored by Ennauethys and part of the Anime/Manga sub-culture:

“Then there’s the order of nine angles which is not something you want to delve into…”

But the most detailed mention, so far, of the Order of Nine Angles in recent (non-O9A) fiction is in the novels of mainstream (and best-selling) author Stephen Leather, a former journalist on newspapers such as The Times (of London) and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. His novels have been translated into more than ten languages and he has written for television shows such as London’s Burning and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series.

The following quotes, about the ONA, are from his 2011 novel Midnight, published by Hodder & Stoughton (ISBN 978144470066).

‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as he held his beer bottle with both hands. ‘The last time we spoke you said that my father was part of a sect that practised human sacrifice.’

‘The Order of Nine Angles, yes.’

‘My father said I should talk to them. They were connected to my sister’s adoption and he said they might be able to help me.’

Wainwright exhaled through pursed lips. ‘They’re dangerous people, Jack.’

‘I guessed as much,’ said Nightingale. ‘The human sacrifice was the clue.’


He says that Fairchild belongs to the Order of Nine Angles. Have you any idea what they do?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘They kill people,’ he said quietly.

In his newer novel, Nightmare, published in 2012 by 47North – ISBN 9781612182315 – the Order of Nine Angles appear to play an even greater role:

Nightingale leaned forward, both hands around his bottle of lager. ‘Let me ask you something, Marcus. Okay?’

‘Go ahead,’ said the lawyer.

‘Are you a member of the Order of Nine Angles?’
Nightingale resisted the urge to smile when he saw the look of surprise that flashed across the lawyer’s face.


‘So you know already. Yes, I am a member of the Order. Have been for years. So let me ask you a question in return, Jack. The Order goes to a lot of trouble to maintain a low profile, so who told you about us?’

‘A friend.’

‘An informant, you mean? I assume that your friend is an outsider. In the entire history of the Order no member has ever divulged any details of who we are or what we do.’


“The Order of Nine Angles? Trust me, there’s nothing charitable about them. Human sacrifice plays a big part in what they do. They call it culling.”


‘I’m serious, Jack. Fairchild is pure evil. Don’t even think about taking him on. He’s got the whole Order of Nine Angles with him. You go up against one and you’ll be facing them all.’

What is interesting is that in contemporary fiction, of whatever genre, the ONA is portrayed as a decidedly evil group. The bad guys. Which is how it should be – culling is a clue – for the ONA admit they are:

(a) practising or disposed to practise evil;
(b) actually or potentially harmful, destructive, disastrous, or pernicious; baleful;
(c) malicious; mischievous, sly;
(d) bad in moral character, disposition
(e) hard, difficult, misleading, deadly, amoral {3}

and that “performing, with a congregation and with cantors trained in esoteric Chant, The Ceremony of Recalling with opfer ending” is one of the three basic tasks a new Initiate is expected to undertake {4}.

However, if one wanted to be accurate/pedantic, the Order of Nine Angles have more bad girls than bad guys, and bad ONA girls would certainly make interesting characters in a novel.

2013 ev


{1} Midnight, a novel by Stephen Leather, published by Hodder & Stoughton (ISBN 978144470066)

{2} In the 1990’s, a printed underground USA publication entitled Factsheet Five used to list many such zines published by a variety of sub-cultures.

{3} Toward Understanding Satanism. See also Praxis and Theory of The Order of Nine Angles.

{4} As noted in many texts including Order of Nine Angles Style, O9A Chic and Pretenders, Frauds, and The Order of Nine Angles, the internet-pretendu-crowd are not part of the ONA. The ONA has consistently stated that in order to advance to the Grade of Internal Adept the candidate must not only have learnt Esoteric Chant and the Star Game, and undertaken Insight Roles, but also culled. Those claiming to be ONA should be asked if they have:

(1) Undertaken a culling?
(2) Undertaken the rite of external adept?
(3) Trained for and achieved the basic physical challenges of our Way?
(4) Undertaken several Insight Rôles?
(5) Undertaken the rite of internal adept or spent at least three months alone in the wilderness?
(6) Indulged in violent, ‘criminal’, and other amoral activities for six months to a year?
(7) Acquired skill in esoteric chant and performed it with a group?
(8) Acquired skill in the advanced form of the star game?
(9) Undertaken rites to invoke the dark gods using a large crystal tetrahedron?
(10) Run a group/nexion/temple of many individuals for a year or two – and so had to deal with their questions, the squabbles, the rivalry?
(11) Had that group/nexion/temple plan and conduct the tests for selecting an opfer and then perform a rite of sacrifice?
(12) Sinisterly manipulated or incited someone, or several, into undertaking a culling and/or an act of terror?
(13) Sinisterly manipulated or incited someone, or several, into a life of violence and/or crime and/or of practical heretical/adversarial activism disruptive of the status quo?

If they have not done all these things – or have only done a few and are not in the process of doing or planning to do the rest – then they are only pretending to be O9A.

Article available for download here o9a-esotericism-deofel-quintet.pdf


The Esotericism of The Deofel Quintet
A Study, By Means of Quotations, Of The Esoteric Mythos
Of The Order of Nine Angles


The fiction of the ONA has been rather neglected by those interested in the Order of Nine Angles. Neglected, because in my view the esoteric insights they contain go deeper than, for example, the ‘basic ONA noviciate interpretation’ suggests in respect of The Deofel Quintet; an interpretation given in the 1992 (e.n.) ONA text, The Magickal Art of The Deofel Quartet and which interpretation therein is only suitable for someone (a novice) first reading the works at the beginning of their quest along The Seven Fold Way.

In this study I shall quote from just two ONA fictional works: The Giving, and the rather more obviously fictional, easily classifiable, Temple of Satan, and which two works form part of the Deofel Quintet.

I concentrate on only two works, and in a brief way, because such a brief treatment of only two works may possibly inspire others to study the quintet (and other ONA fiction) in greater detail and not only relate the esoteric content of these fictional works to the more well-known esoteric content and mythos contained in other, non-fictional, ONA works publicly available, but also (and importantly in my view) enable them to gain some insights into the still mostly unrecorded ONA aural tradition and the way the ONA operates, and has operated, in the real world.

The texts used are the pdf versions given in Order of Nine Angles Classic Texts, Part Two, and I have a corrected a few obvious typos in the quotations I have used.

The Giving

Written – 1990 en

Basic ONA Noviciate Interpretation

The Giving concerns ‘primal Satanism’ and a more subtle magick and manipulation than the previous works. It is a story based on fact – on real life happenings and real people. It reveals a real Satanic Mistress in action – someone quite different from the ‘accepted’ notion of a Satanic Mistress.

Tree of Wyrd Spheres: Third and Forth.Forms: Ecstasy/Vision. Tarot Images 7,12,5,6,14,17. Alchemical (symbiotic) Processes: Coagulation/Putrefaction.


The story of a ‘mistress of earth’, her rural ancestral coven, and their preparations for a pagan rite of sacrifice called The Giving.

Mallam is central to the story:

“He lusted after success, wealth, power and results while she [Lianna] urged him toward the difficult – and for him inaccessible – path of self-discovery.”

As Lianna says of some of his ‘interests’:

“Such activities are not conducive to the self-development which our way wishes to achieve. They are not, in fact, connected with any genuine sinister tradition but are personal proclivities, best avoided if advancement is sought…. True Adepts do not waste time on such trivia. Everyone has to make their own mistakes.”

His character is revealed in such activities; in how easily he is manipulated regarding what he is led to believe is Lianna’s ‘treasure’ and then in his obsession to find it; in his attempted rape and beating of Monica and his trashing of her apartment; and in his later failure to realize, given his lack of real Occult abilities, that the ‘young village woman’ he arrogantly assumed was “stupid and dull”, and whom he thought he could easily control and manipulate, is in fact manipulating him as part of Lianna’s tests and preparations.

Monica is also central to the story, although not in such an obvious manner, for the character of Monica leads the astute student of the Occult to ask many interesting questions. Such as, what, if any, is Lianna’s involvement with her death, and if she somehow used sorcery to contrive the ‘accident’ that caused her death, why? Because of her personal feelings (such as jealousy) or because she had judged Monica ‘rotten’ (and thus a candidate for culling) because of Monica’s continued involvement with Mallam’s ‘rotten’ activities even though she could have or might have or should have – “I knew what was going on,” she says to Thorold at one point – left at any time?

So, is Monica’s death a product of fate, or wyrd, or ‘an accident’, or of Lianna being jealous, or of her calmly, in a sinister way, practising the esoteric art of culling? If a culling, is Lianna correct, justified, or does Monica (as her liaison with Thorold might seems to suggest) begin to show signs of ‘redemption’ and can the rotten deeds of such a past ever be ‘redeemed’?

The character of Thorold also suggests, or seems to suggest, some esoteric riddles. For example,

(a) in respect of his character and why Lianna seems to ‘choose’ him.

(b) in respect of Lianna:

“She did not seem to him to be evil – just exceptionally beautiful, wealthy woman, born to power and used to it. But he could not still his doubts. He heard Sarah’s voice in his head accusing her; remembered Lianna’s lie about having no children; her anger toward Monica. But most of all he remembered Monica’s death and Mallam being borne away by the people of Lianna’s village.”

(c) in respect of personal choice and tests:

[Thorold] “I never really had much choice, did I?” he asked.

[Lianna] “Oh, yes, you had plenty of times to chose.”

A Few Examples of Some Esoteric Themes

1) Tests

a) Before meeting him in person, Lianna arranges for some esoteric MSS to be sold to Thorold to ascertain his interest and commercial honesty. Satisfied, she proceeds to seduce him.

Later, she admits she has been ‘watching him’ [i.e. had him under covert surveillance] for some time and also had someone do a background check on him.

b) She shows Thorold a film of a ‘Mallam ritual’ – involving young girls – which perplexes and upsets him, and she leaves him alone to think about it.

Later when he asks her about the film, she – to test his empathy, his perception, his judgement – asks him: “What do you feel – sense about me?”

2) Manipulation

a) Lianna sending Imlach to Mallam with parchments containing a ‘secret script’. Some time before she had planted a seed into Mallam’s mind about her wealth and its origin, saying: “It is a long story. Involving the Templars. I may tell it some day.”

b) Lianna sending Imlach to Thorold regarding Mallam:

“She does not like your interference.”

“My what?”

“You are to leave a certain gentleman alone. He is her concern, not yours.”

“Is that so?”

“She kindly requests you not bother him – or any members of his group.”

“Oh, really?”

Imlach moved closer to him. “You’d best heed her advice. For your own sake.”

“Tell her from me I’m not playing her games anymore and I’ll do what I like!” He slammed the door shut.

3) Local Myths and Legends

a) Mention of the Templars in Shropshire:

“The parchments told of how Stephan of Stanhurst, preceptor, had in 1311 and prior to his arrest in Salisbury, taken the great treasure stored in the preceptory at Lydley – property of Roger de Alledone, Knight Templar – to a place of safe keeping. It told how the preceptory was founded in 1160 and how, centuries later, the lands granted with it became the subject of dispute and passed gradually into other grasping hands; for Stephen after his arrest was confined within a Priory and refused to reveal where he had hidden the treasure. But, most importantly to Mallam, it told where the treasure had been stored when the foresightful Roger de Alledone realized the Order was about to be suppressed by Pope Clement V and all its properties and treasures seized.”

b) Mention of local legends, as for example:

She drove alone the narrow, twisty lanes southeast of Shrewsbury town to pass the Tree with the House in It, the wood containing Black Dick’s Lake, to take the steep lane up toward Causeway Wood.

“This lane,” she said, breaking their silence, “used to be called the Devil’s Highway. Just there -” and she indicated an overgrown hedge, “was a well called Frog Well where three frogs lived. The largest was, of course, called Satan and the other two were imps of his.”

4) Differing Views about Satanism

a) Conventional Catholic view:

“Joseph de Tonquedec I believe it was, who said something like ‘the Devil’s interventions in the material realm are always particular and are of two kinds, corresponding to miracle and Providence on the divine side. For just as there are divine miracles, so there are diabolical signs and wonders.’

b) From a conversion between Monica and Thorold about Mallam and Lianna:

[Monica] “He approached her about a year ago – wanted to learn about her tradition.”

[Thorold] “Which is what?”

“What she called the seven-fold sinister way – or something similar.”


“Not it the conventional sense. Our friend Mallam,” and she smiled, “takes that route. He showed me a book she had given him.”

“Oh, yes?”

The Black Book of Satan I believe it was called. She believes that each individual can achieve greatness: but that must come through self-insight. There are certain rituals – ceremonies – to bring this.”

“And Mallam?”

“He wants power and pleasure – for himself.”

“And is prepared to do anything to achieve it.”


“But she – Lianna – still uses people.”

“Yes. I think she was using Edgar. But why and for what purpose, I don’t know. In her book I remember reading about members of the sect being given various tests and led into diverse experiences. These were supposed to develop their personality.”

“Doesn’t sound like Satanism to me.”

“Well, some of the experiences involved confronting the dark or shadow aspect: that hidden self which lies in us all. Liberating it through experiences. Then rising above it.”

“And Mallam and his cronies? They wallow in their dark side – without transcending it?”

“Something like that.”

c) Lianna’s view:

[Thorold] “How does the book [the Black Book of Satan] I found fit into all this?”

[Lianna] She smiled, as a schoolmistress might toward an otherwise intelligent pupil. “Satanism, you mean?”

“Yes,” he answered, amazed at her perspicacity.

“It is not the way I follow. My tradition is different – much older.”

5) Ancestral Traditions

“Her family kept alive for generations the old traditions, the old ways – as did the folk of the village.”

“It was an isolated village, surrounded by hills and accessible only by narrow, steep and twisting lanes. To the west of the village lay The Wilderness, Robin’s Tump and the steep hills of Caer Caradoc hill. The lane northward led along Yell Bank, skirted Hoar Edge and the side of Lawley hill to the old Roman road to Wroxeter. To the south, the village was bounded by Stredbow Moor, Nant Valley and Hope Bowdler hill. The area around the small village was, like the village itself, unique. Small farms nestled on the lee of the hills or rested in sinewy valleys hidden from the lanes. Coppice and woods merged into rough grazing land and the few fields of arable crops were small, the size hardly changed in over a century. But it was the sheltered isolation of the area that marked it out, like a time-slip into the past – as if the surrounding hills not only isolated it physically but emotionally as well. Perhaps it was that the hills dispersed the winds and weather in a special way, creating over the area of the village and its surrounding land an idiosyncratic climate; or perhaps it was the almost total lack of motorized transport along the rutted lanes. But whatever the cause, Stredbow was different, and Sidnal Wyke knew it.”

The Temple of Satan

Written 1991 ev

Basic ONA Noviciate Interpretation

While The Temple Of Satan does (like Falcifer) deal with the Dark Gods, it main theme is emotion on the personal level, particularly ‘love’ (of the infatuation and sexual kind) and how a Satanic Initiate of some experience encounters and deals with them. Emotion (‘love’) of the type encountered is a stage, to be experienced and transcended. For a Satanist not yet achieved Adeptship, this feeling/emotion is often a snare, a trap which they can fall into, thus ending their sinister quest.

Thus the work considers feelings and desires which are often still unconscious, and about making these more conscious, controlling them and transcending them. Third sphere on Tree of Wyrd. Magickal form: Ecstasy. Tarot Images: 6,14,17. Alchemical (symbiotic) process: Coagulation.


The story of a young bi-sexual priestess of an avowedly Satanic coven who uses her sexuality to entrap, control, and sometimes mistreat men (occasionally sadistically) but who becomes bored with her life and so plans to undertake the sacrificial ‘Ceremony of Recalling’ after finding and enchanting a suitable naive male as opfer.

“So had she played her games of power and joy, feeling herself the equal of gods. There were few crimes that she had not sanctioned or sent men, in their lust, to commit, few pleasures she had not enjoyed. Yet she was not maddened by either pleasure or power, and kept her empire small, sufficient for her needs, and herself anonymous. Many small firms headed by small men, a brothel or two, a number of temples in the cities beyond – such were the gifts of her Prince and she tended them all, as a wise woman should.”

Her plans are threatened by (a) betrayal by one of her coven, (b) her unexpectedly falling in love, (c) a mysterious, reclusive, old man called Saer, and (d) some urban rather fanatical followers of Crowley:

“They cannot be allowed to break the Current of Aiwaz.”

Jukes, stocky and squat, sincerely believed what he said. For over a year he had run his small Temple in London, helping by his acts of magick to further the Aeon of Ma’at. By day, he worked in an office, but at night, in his basement flat, he became High Priest for his gods. He had read widely on the subject of the Occult, made many contacts during the years of his searching, but he was surprised by the books and manuscripts that Pead possessed. Avarice was a stranger to Jukes, but the rare books and manuscripts introduced them.”

A Few Examples of Some Esoteric Themes

1) Invokation to Baphomet.

Now shall we with feet
Faster than storm’s horses
Seek to bring she who with fire
And cutting sword leaps plunging
Upon her foe while the fates of dread
Unerring gather round…

She detailed her Guardians to carry the body and let them into her secret Temple where they threw it into the pit beneath the plinth that held her crystal. There was laughter and lust among the worshippers when she returned.”

2) Sapphism and Sapphic Sorcery.

She closed and locked the door before sitting beside Claudia on the bed. “You are beautiful,” she said, caressing Claudia’s neck […]

[Afterwards Claudia] lay beside Melanie, embracing her and softly crying, drawing comfort from the strange woman who kissed away the tears, feeling in that moment that all the confusion, doubts and sorrow that her sensitivity had brought her over the years, was no more. Her past, with its broken relationships, its traumas and dreams, was forgotten. Her future was unreal – only the present was meaningful to her. She sensed forces outside the house that wished to harm the woman who kissed her and whose body heat reassured, but she was protected for the moment from those forces as Claudia felt protected. The harmful forces, which were waiting for weakness, drew more emotion from Claudia until she felt a genuine love….

3) The Dark Gods, The Abyss, and The Nature of Satan.

“There was a yearning in Melanie as she stood beside her Priestess and lover. But it was not a yearning for love – only a cold desire to alter the living patterns in the world and so fulfill her Destiny by returning the Dark Gods to Earth. She was suspended between her past with all its charisma and power and the future that might have been possible if she had surrendered to Thurstan’s love. She was aware of herself only through the images of the past and her barely formed feelings for Claudia: detached from the realness of her body and personal emotions. The power being invoked seemed to be drawing her toward the Abyss and the spaces beyond the Abyss where she had never been.

The Abyss was within her, within Claudia, within all those in the Temple and all those outside it. It was primal awe, terror, and intoxication […]

[Then, an answer.] It was an answer without words – a feeling that drew her beyond the cold Abyss to where a new universe waited. She was drifting in this universe, floating among the stars and galaxies of love, sadness, sorrow and joy, and as she consciously drifted, her body tensed and tears came to her eyes. Images and feelings rushed through her as a whirling system of planets and stars forms from chaos and rushes through a galaxy past other stars when time itself is compressed. The images were of her past but the feelings attached to them were not the original feelings. There was sadness instead of exultation, love instead of anger, grief instead of joy.”

3) Ancestral Traditions

“The [human] remains were the work of the sinister woman who had in the weeks of her dying given Melanie the house. ‘I have waited for you,’ she remembered the old woman had said, ‘waited as our Prince said I should. My coven and books and house are yours.’ She never spoke again, but signed her name on her will, and Melanie was left to find the old woman’s secrets from the Black Book of workings she had kept. ‘I, Eulalia, Priestess of the forgotten gods, descended from those who kept the faith, here set forth for she who is to come after me, the dark secrets of my craft.’

The book was Melanie’s most treasured possession, after her crystal and her [amber] beads. It was the crystal that first showed her the house.”

4) A Hidden Quartz Tetrahedron

” [There were] few clothes, furniture or possessions [in the cottage] … It was damp if clean, austere but full of memories. The memories, spectral forms and sounds, seeped out of the walls, the floor, the beams which held the roof, to greet Melanie. Sighs, laughter, the pain of childbirth, an old man dying his bed while his spirit wandered the hills above.

Two centuries of life, struggle, love and death. But however intently she listened, however still she held her gaze, neither sights nor sounds from Thurstan’s past seeped to her through the gates of time, and it was behind the only painting in the cottage that she found her answer. It was a good painting of a pretty woman, curiously hung above the long narrow windows where Melanie had seen Thurstan sitting.  Behind it, totally obscured, was a niche carved from the rough stone that made up the walls. It contained a large quartz crystal. Stored in the crystal was Thurstan’s life, in images only a Mistress of Earth or a Magus could see.”

“The ritual had bored her, and she did not miss the pleasure that she had obtained in the past through having a man grovelling while she whipped his naked flesh. Instead, she thought of Thurstan and his strange life that she had seen in the crystal.”

5) Enter An Old Man

She was about to raise her hand to force his head up so she could see into his eyes when she saw an old man dressed like a peddler walk through the open door of her house.

“He is mine, I believe,” he said as he tapped Jukes on the shoulder to free him from the bonds Melanie had placed around him. “He is no use to you. But if you object…”

“Who are you?” she asked.

He bowed deeply, like a jester. “I am Saer.”


He looked around the hall and peered briefly into the Temple. “You have made great changes, I see.” Then smiling, be bowed again before escorting Jukes away.

5) Satanism.


“The most fundamental principle of Satanism is that we as individuals are gods. The goal of Satanism is simple – to make an individual an Immortal, to produce a new species. To Satanists, magick is a means, a path, to this goal. We walk toward the Abyss and dare to pass through to the cold spaces beyond where CHAOS reigns. There is ecstasy in us – and much that is strange. Vitality, health, laughter and defiance – we challenge everything, and the greatest challenge is ourselves.”


“All of [the books], and the manuscripts bound like books, were about alchemy, magick or the Occult. He could read the Latin of the medieval manuscripts and books, but what they related did not interest him as the later books brought forth no desire to read further. Even the Black Book of Satan, resting on the table, seemed irrelevant to him. They were all compilations of shadow words, appearing to Thurstan to fall short of the aim that the searchers who had written them should have aimed for. His instinctive feeling was to observe in a contemplative way some facet of the cosmos – to stand outside in the dark of the night and listen for the faint music that travelled down to Earth from the stars – rather the enclose himself in the warm womb of a house to read the writings of others. Demons, spells, hidden powers, the changing of base metal to gold, even the promises of power and change for himself, were not important to Thurstan, and he left the library with its stored knowledge and forbidden secrets and lurking gods, to walk in the moonlit garden.

The stars were not singing for him – or he could not hear them above the turmoil of his thought…

He moved, like an old man pained by his limbs, through the cold and sometimes swirling mist along a path that took him toward the Mynd and up, steeply, to its level summit where he stood, high above the mist, to watch the mist-clotted valleys below. The heather was beginning to show the glory of its colour, and he walked
through it northbound along the cracked and stony road stopping often to turn around and wait. But no one and nothing came to him – no voices, song or sigh […] The very Earth itself seemed to be whispering to him the words of this truth. He began to sense, slowly, that there was for him real magick here where moorland fell to form deep hollows home to those daughters of Earth known as springs and streams, and where the Neolithic pathway had heard perhaps ten million stories. No wisps of clouds came to spoil the glory of the sun as it rose over the mottled wavy hills beyond the Stretton valley miles distant and below. No noise to break the almost sacred silence heard. For an instant it seemed as if some divinity, strange but pure, came into the world, and

R. Parker
August 2012 ev

A Note On Sources

From Anton Long’s Introduction to Order of Nine Angles Classic Texts, Part Two:

“The pdf versions here [in Order of Nine Angles Classic Texts, Part Two] of the Deofel Quartet are the ones I corrected in 119 Year of Fayen in order to remove many of the scanning errors and typos which are still prevalent in all other editions, digital or otherwise.

The Deofel Quartet was designed as Instructional Texts for novices beginning the quest along the Left Hand Path according to the traditions of the ONA. As such, they are not – and were not intended to be – great, or even good, works of literature. Their intent was to inform novices – new Initiates – of certain esoteric matters in an entertaining and interesting way, and as such they are particularly suitable for being read aloud in a darkened, candle-lit, room. Indeed, one of their original functions – from the 1970’s to the early 1990’s ce – was to be read out to Temple/Nexion members by the Temple Priest or Priestess […]

The original manuscripts of The Deofel Quartet (as with most early ONA material) were all handwritten, and subsequently typed (by a variety of people) using manual typewriters, with the resultant typewritten MSS photocopied for circulation among ONA members. The typewritten MSS of The Deofel Quartet were first digitally scanned in the 1990’s using an early version of ‘TextBridge’ OCR software and WordPerfect running under Windows95, with the resultant wpd file exported to html in two versions, one with English (GB) spelling and one using American spelling.

When reviewing the MSS in 119yf, I compared the html files either with the original handwritten MSS or with photocopies of a handwritten MS.”

Baphomet According to ONA Tradition by Richard Moult

Baphomet (O9A)

The Occult Fiction of The Order of Nine Angles


The Occult fiction of the Order of Nine Angles comprises the following stories:

(1) Eulalia – Dark  Daughter of Baphomet. (c.2009 CE)

(2) The Deofel Quartet, consisting of the four texts Falcifer, Temple of Satan, The Giving, and The Greyling Owl. (c.1974-1993  CE)

(3) Tales of the Dark Gods, comprising the four short stories In The Sky of Dreaming, Jenyah, Sabirah, and A Dark Trilogy. (c.2008 CE)
(4) Breaking The Silence Down. (c.1985 CE)

(5) The two individual short stories Hangster’s Gate and Copula cum Daemone. (c. 1976 CE)

(6) The short story Gruyllan’s Tale, which forms part of the Balocraft of Baphomet series. (c.2010 CE)

The most recent works include Eulalia, and those included in Tales of the Dark Gods, dating from the past few years, while the others date from the 1970’s (e.n.) and the late 1980’s (e.n.).

Several themes are common to most, if not all, of these stories – and this brief MS will briefly deal with two of the most interesting of these themes, from an Initiated Occult viewpoint. These are what may be called The Mistress of Earth archetype (the powerful, sinister, feminine principle), and the setting of the stories in the English county of Shropshire.

The Sinister Feminine Principle in the Works and Mythos of the ONA:

One of the most noticeable (and neglected) aspects of the ONA mythos is the predominance given to what may be termed the Sinister Feminine Principle, evident, for example, in what the ONA calls the rôle, and Magickal Grade, of Mistress of Earth, and in its depiction of, and homage to, the Dark Goddess Baphomet, whom the ONA describe as one of the most powerful of The Dark Gods.

Thus, in the Occult fiction of the ONA, the main character – the main protagonist, the “hero” – is often a powerful, beautiful, woman, with ordinary men, more often than not, manipulated by, or somehow subservient to, these women who belong to or who identify with some ancient Sinister tradition, or the Left Hand Path, and Satanism, in general. For instance, in The Giving – which is probably the most forthright fictional portrayal, by the ONA, of a genuine Mistress of Earth – the heroine is Lianna: a wealthy, powerful, beautiful and mature woman, who is heiress of a sinister rural pagan tradition which involves human sacrifice. She is seen manipulating both Mallam and Thorold, and the story ends to leave the reader to answer the unanswered question as to whether she really contrived Monica’s death and used her sinister charms to beguile – “to beshrew” – Thorold following that death.

Quite often, in these stories, the Dark Goddess Baphomet is invoked directly – as for example in The Temple of Satan, and In The Sky of Dreaming. In the latter, we are left to speculate as to whether the always un-named alien female shapeshifter who returns to Earth is actually Baphomet herself, and there are several clues, scattered throughout the text, which might be used to answer this question. In other stories – such as Jenyah and Sabirah – we are presented with sinister, vampiric-like, entities who have assumed female form (or who have always had a female form in our causal world) and who have dwelt on Earth for millennia, using the “life-force” of human male victims to sustain themselves, and who can easily be regarded as “dark daughters of Baphomet”. All of these women are mysterious, enchanting – and physically powerful: for instance, the woman described in Sabirah easily overpowers the young men who attempt to molest her, while Eulalia (in Eulalia – Dark Daughter of Baphomet) is a ruthless, though charming, killer of whom it is intimated she might be not only half-human but also the mysterious Falcifer, the power behind the male Vindex figure she has chosen and manipulates.

In general, such depictions – and the mythos of the ONA in general – may be said to empower women; to depict them in a way that has been long neglected, especially in the still male-dominated, materialistic, West. However, this empowerment, it should be noted, is based upon “the sinister”: upon there being hidden esoteric, pagan, depths, abilities and qualities in women who have an important, and indeed vital, rôle to play in our general evolution and in our own lives. Furthermore, it is one of the stated aims of the ONA to develope such character, such qualities, such Occult abilities, in women, and the following of The Seven-Fold Sinister Way is regarded as the means to achieve this.

Furthermore, the ONA’s depiction of such women – its explication of the dark feminine principle – is very interesting because it is a move away from, and indeed in stark contrast to, the “feminine principle” of both the political “feminism” which has become rather prevalent in Western societies, and that particular feminine ethos which many pagan and Wiccan “White-light” and Right Hand Path groups have attempted to manufacture.

This political feminism is basically an attempt to have women imitate the behaviour, the personality, the ethos, of men – which is what the strident calls for “equality” are essentially about, and as such it is often a negation of the character, and of those unique qualities and abilities, germane to women. The pagan and Wiccan type of feminism is most often about some dreamy, pseudo-mystical vision of a once mythical “perfect past” or about goody-goody types “harming none” – in stark contrast to the dark sinister goings-on of the ONA feminine archetype, which most obviously includes using sexual enchantment to manipulate those Homo Hubris type men “who deserve what they get…”

One of the central themes of the ONA’s Breaking The Silence Down is the nature of the dark goddess “manifest in or who can become manifest in women”, and there are many references, in ONA works, to a dark sorceress being one of the essential keys to “opening the nexion that allows The Dark Gods to return to Earth…”

Dark Shropshire Themes:

The still largely rural English county of Shropshire is the setting for many of the Occult stories of the ONA. The Giving, Breaking The Silence Down, Jenyah, Sabirah, Copula cum Daemone, and Hangster’s Gate are all located in Shropshire.

The reason seems obvious, given the ONA’s account of its own history, which is that this area was where its traditions survived into our modern era, handed down by a few mostly reclusive individuals, and where a few small groups of rural followers of that ancient sinister way met to conduct their pagan rites. A glimpse of one such group is given in Hangsters Gate, while Breaking The Silence Down tells of hereditary knowledge passed down from grandmother (or mother) to daughter, and The Giving presents an ancient pagan ritual, The Giving, which perhaps is the original folk form of the ONA’s The Ceremony of Recalling.

Interestingly, Hangster’s Gate and Breaking The Silence Down are set in the same area of Shropshire, a century or more apart, with some phrases of the later echoing some of those of the former, as if to suggest, to intimate, an hereditary link.

It should be noted that both Jenyah and Sabirah – dark stories of ageless female sinister entities (”demons”) – are set in Shropshire, as if to suggest that such entities may still be lurking in such places as they frequent in those stories, if one knows where to look, and has the good fortune (or misfortune, depends on one’s ethos) to encounter them.

Lypehill Nexion
119 Year of Fayen
(Updated 122 yf)

Appendix 1 – A Note Regarding The Deofel Quartet

The Deofel Quintet – the original Deofel Quartet plus Breaking the Silence Down –  were designed as Instructional Texts for novices beginning the quest along the Left Hand Path according to the traditions of the ONA.As such, they are not – and were not intended to be – great, or even good, works of literature. Their intent was to inform novices of certain esoteric matters in an entertaining and interesting way, and as such they are particularly suitable for being read aloud. Indeed, one of their original functions was to be read out to Temple members by the Temple Priest or Priestess.In effect, they are attempts at a new form of “magikal art” – like Tarot images, or esoteric music. As with all Art, magickal or otherwise, they can and should be surpassed by those possessing the abilities. If they have the effect of inspiring some Initiates of the Darker Path to creativity, to surpass them and create something better, then one of their many functions will have been achieved.


Appendix 2 – A Note Regarding ONA Texts
All of the Occult fiction of the ONA is freely available on the Internet, with these versions being derived either from electronically scanned copies of photocopies of the original typescripts circulated (in very limited numbers) by the ONA in the mid-1990’s (e.n.) or the result of some enthusiast having (sometimes using US English) wordprocessed copies of such typescripts or an already available Internet version.

This scanning, copying and recopying of the original typescripts (which themselves contained some typos) has resulted in numerous errors, omissions, and mistakes in the versions available on the Internet, and in the printed and downloadable books based on such Internet versions.

Such errors and mistakes are most obvious, for instance, in the story Copula cum Daemone (Copulating with Demons) – whose Latin phrases and words (deriving from Medieval and Ecclesiastical – not Classical- Latin) are for the most part corrupted through such copying.

Thus, the only genuine ONA versions are those original ONA typescripts (and direct photocopies or direct electronic images of them), which original typescripts were circulated by the ONA.

However, corrected, and revised, versions of various Internet texts have been issued, mostly by Anton Long. To date, corrected versions of all the texts of The Deofel Quartet, the text of Breaking The Silence Down, and of Hangster’s Gate, have been issued (available via the links above).

A notable exception to corrupted texts is Tales of The Dark Gods, which was first issued by the ONA on the Internet, and is available in various formats, including pdf.

Symbol of Baphomet - The Dark Goddess


Balocraft of Baphomet

Gruyllan’s Tale

Although he did not know it then, the prepossessing half-timbered large Edwardian house that he passed – a quarter of the way up Trevor Hill – would be his final destination. But, sweating profusely in the hot mid-June Sun, Gruyllan gave it only a cursory glance, and continued along his way, cursing the lateness of his train and oblivious to the exclusive properties that lined both sides of that steep upward lane which gave splendid views, to the West, of the Stretton valley, of Caer Caradoc, Hazler Hill, and of The Lawley, beyond.

He had been given only an ordnance Survey map reference, and a time, and his assumed lateness and the memory of the beautiful young voluptuous woman combined to make him walk faster until he was almost running.

She had leant toward him, so that he could see down past her cleavage to where her large erected nipples strained against the thin fabric of her low cut evening dress.

“Meet me here,” she had said, and pushed a handwritten piece of paper toward him, making sure her fingers touched his as they sat in the Tempus bar of The Station Hotel in now faraway York.

Even now he seemed still able to smell her scent, and, as he reached almost to the top of that lane he could see his destination ahead: the summit of Haddon Hill beyond the scattered grassy often wind-swept links that formed the highest Golf Course in England.

So he struggled on in the heat of that late afternoon; a young man dressed incongruously in black, seeking Satanic initiation. And when – clammy from sweat, breathless, and pleased – he reached his destination among the sheep-cropped grass and heather of those Shropshire hills, there was no one to greet, to meet, him. Only the breeze, that – warm – did little to cool him, and the westward vista of South Shropshire valley and hills. No beautiful woman, naked, to open her legs enticing as she lay with him to seal his oath by bodily fluids, exchanged. No words of Initiation to echo, Satanically, in his head.

You the nameless are here to give yourself to us:
To seal with blood your oath
To we your new family in this
Our Nexion to Bride-Mother

Instead, only the wordful, wyrdful, wind. Sun, thirst, heat; the exhausted tiredness of disappointment where, under the blue sky, he sat down alone on that hill. Had it all been a dream, or some jape? Hope bade him stay – for half an hour, then more, until – nearly two hours later as the Sun descended, clouds came – he stood to walk, wearily, away. There would be no lips, rouged, to touch, kiss. No tongue to taste and toy with. No breasts to touch, feel; no nipples to lick, suck and chew upon. No moist, warm, furrow to plough; no painted finely manicured nails to clasp his shoulders as seed was sown. No scent to suffuse his senses as bodies meshed with sweat suffusing them.

It was painful, leaving, while her image, her scent, her promise, lingered in memory within his head. But he left, nevertheless, and it did not seem to matter to him that he had memorized their – her book, The Grimoire of Baphomet – given, the day before, in that Bar when first he saw her, enticingly waiting.

There had been e-mails, of course, exchanged – for weeks, beforehand. Questions asked, and answered. No real names given, required, presumed. And then that meeting, arranged. He had spent the days, before, trying not to hope too much, and failing. Hope of a sexual initiation, with a young woman, of course. Hopes of joining a secret elite. Hopes of lust, joy, danger; a new and darker way of life.

There were stories; almost urban legends. Many warnings from Undergraduate friends who shared his Occultic interests, though not his inclination toward Baleful Arts. “The ONA?” they would say, mixing incredulity with censure. “They don’t exist”, one said. “Avoid them; they’re hard-core; dangerous; criminal; immoral; they practise human sacrifice,” said another. “They’re a cult; they have these hard, brutal, tests – if you fail them, you become an opfer for their Black Mass,” opined another. “They’re evil; I mean – really evil; subversive…” said the fourth, and last.

Painful, leaving – but by the time he had arrived back at the small unstaffed Railway Station, to sit on a half-vandalised wooden bench, he was happy, again. Exhausted, hungry, thirsty, but happy. For it was all a test, he knew – or, rather, he assumed it was a test. The first, perhaps, of many. So he would re-apply; and wait, for it was a test, just a test, he kept repeating to himself, and he was still thinking this – idly smiling and idly feeling, knowing now, how stupid, how studently stupid he was to wear black clothes – when the Shrewsbury bound train arrived to disgorge a few motley mundanes.

He rose to move toward a still open train-carriage door. But an elderly women, tweedily-dressed and carrying an umbrella, smiled at him and blocked his way. He tried to deftly swerve around her, as a young athletic man could, but she was too quick, for with a flick of her umbrella she tripped him up.

“How clumsy of me,” and she looked down at him, sprawled on the platform. “Do please forgive me.”

“No, no – it’s perfectly all-right,” he replied, somewhat clumsily rising to his feet where she still stood blocking his way to the train.

“I imagine, ” she said, in her smiling grannyesque way, “you are in a hurry to board the train.” But she made no move to move aside. Instead, she said, “Such a lovely town, this. Do you not agree?”

“What?” And he was about to smile, politely, and turn toward the carriage when he sensed the strangeness of the scene, as if it was some dream of the previous night, half-remembered and still a little haunting. And so he let his train depart.

“There is a quite lovely tea-shop, just around the corner,” she was saying, and so he walked beside her, silent, up the slight incline toward the tree-lined road, until she said: “How very perceptive of you.”

“Have I passed, then?”

“You are quite thirsty, so let us have some tea – and cake – and then talk, a little more.”

The tea-room – atop a cluttered, dusty, antique market – was small, quite stuffy, and quite full, and he sat still and waiting despite his rather nervous anticipation, and he had consumed two pots of tea before she spoke again.

“I imagine I am not what you imagined,” she said. Then, before he could reply: “But yes, you are correct.”

“You’re an empath. So, you would have passed me by had I decided not to re-apply.”

“More tea?” she smiled.

“No thanks.”

“There is another test…”

“Of course.”

“But first – go here, now, where we await you.” And she pushed a handwritten piece of paper toward him, making sure her fingers touched his as they sat in that stuffy tea-room in sunny South Shropshire.

He left then, enwrapped in her – their – scent, to walk through that small town oblivious to everything until he came again to Trevor Hill, snaking upwards as its lane did from, and to the right of, that narrow road that led to Cardingmill Valley.

The house, on the second corner of and set back from the hilly lane, seemed almost to grow out from the ground, its black-painted timbers mirrored in the wooden verandah that surrounded its south side and overlooked the terraced garden with its large century-old tree of Oak. Several stone steps led to the large front door and he was about to tug on the cord to ring the antique brass bell when the door opened.

His memory was there, before him – the beautiful young woman whose crimson lipstick, fulsomely applied, matched the colour of her dress, and she, wordless, led him into the cool if dim interior, along a tiled floor, and up an oak staircase to a spacious high-ceilinged curtainless room of parquet floor whose only furnishings were a chaise-longue and a marble mantel above the Coalbrookedale fireplace, and which held a large clear quartz crystal tetrahedron.

The door closed slowly, silently, behind them and it did not take her long to remove her dress. She was naked beneath it.

“Veni omnipotens aeterne diabolus!” she lisped, to supinely wreathe herself around, upon, the chaise-longue, and he, eagerly stripping away his earthly coverings, obliged to lay upon her and enter her warm moistness as her crimson painted nails sank into the flesh of his shoulders to draw forth fresh blood.

Her sibilation was almost silent but it beat upon the tympanon of his ears –

You the nameless are here to give yourself to us:
To seal with blood your oath
To we your new family in this
Our Nexion to our Bride-Mother

He was soon spent, drained, unused to such female – almost feline – ferocity, and she turned him over to lay upon him to lick his shoulder wounds.

So she whispered to him his appointed task, his test, and waited while he – enwreathed in his sweat and hers – dressed himself before taking him down to the cellar. The tools, the instruments of death and slaughter, were there, in plenty, and he watched while she placed her chosen items, and bundles of money, into some nondescript suitcase. Then – a silver chain with sigil pendant of Baphomet placed around his neck; a kiss, tongue seeking his; her still naked body pressed to his. A promise that he could – should – sow his seed within her again, again, again. And then he was out, dazed, back out into the bright day of light to walk with heavy suitcase down the hill.

There was no train at the Station; no elderly women to block his way when train arrived. Only the journey, the long journey of no doubts.


She was never there when each evening he returned to that cocktail Bar, hoping. Never there, red lips touching Champagne flute; never there to take him to her suite where he would lay upon her.

The money certainly helped – to ease his pain of separation and his preparations, and he worked assiduously, planning, enticing, ensnaring, while maintaining the appearance of a student life. The mundane he selected was eager, willing, as well he might be, given Gruyllan’s weeks of preparation even before that wyrdful meeting, with her.

So Peter The Mundane sat with him in that vulgar bar of Vanbrugh College, anonymous in their student anonymity, while darkness came to the world outside. Thus Gruyllan The Cunning continued to weave his web of lies, and the younger student listened, weakened as he was from netorrhoea spread by specious sites, from abstractions believed, and the money Gruyllan had lavished upon him.

“In every war there are casualties; collateral damage. Anyway, they’ll be plenty of time for the area to be cleared. Just remember, those there in that place on that day are flunkies of the repressive, immoral, State. Waiting is defeat, and the State isn’t simply going to collapse; it’s got to be pushed; the capitalists are vulnerable, and one of their weaknesses is the confidence that the money markets require. Dent that – get them into a state of fear – and you’ve got them ready to topple. Keep them wondering where and when we’re going to strike next…”

So Gruyllan talked, and Peter The Mundane listened. Talked of the struggle; of Bonanno; of the need to inspire others; and when they parted, hours later, each to their own student rooms, Gruyllan knew Peter was primed.

A few days, and they were in a rainy London, with the mundane carrying a large, heavy, rucksack. It was a symbolic target, near the Bank of England, and they shook hands before Gruyllan left, ostensibly to telephone a warning. But the timer, unknown to that mundane, was set for only a few seconds delay so that he had walked only a few paces away before the bomb exploded.

There was bloody carnage. Bodies, buildings, damaged, And around, among, the dead, the dying, waiting demonic shapes gathered, unseen by any mortal mundane eye – shapes feeding on, upon, the pain, the suffering, the deaths; transforming the life-force – leaking, leaving – into new life, Their life, as one more portal opened, allowing other shapes to eagerly egress forth. Agios o Baphomet, Your Balocraft be done, Gruyllan intoned from his well-kept distance, and smiled, knowing a reward awaited.

He was correct about the reward. She was there – when he, hours later, safely arrived – to take him to her spacious high-ceilinged curtainless room of the parquet floor. And when his passion spasmed in its ending, her almost silent sibilation beat upon the tympanon of his ears –

Our being takes form in defiance
Of mundanes.
In you, of you – we are.
Before you – we were.
After you – we and you shall be, again.
Before us – They who humans cannot name.
After us – They who will be, yet again.

There was a feast of welcome, in the Sitting Room below; family to meet, greet. And – most of all – deeds past and future waiting to be toasted, planned, and told. For Vindex will, must, have her baleful day.

Nexion Zero (O9A)
121 Year of Fayen

Symbol of Baphomet - The Dark Goddess


Silently, unseen, They come ashore in various places, there from Their restful lair beneath such offshore sea as hides Them. Come ashore, to especially seek out the young, the vulnerable, whom they entice to suicide, to murder, and to death, and whom they sometimes steal, alive, and breathing, for it is the acausal energy, the very animator of mortal human life, that They, these shapeshifters, need, acquire, at the very moment of human dying when such humans give up such mortal limited causal lives as makes and marks them as but temporary mundane vessels for that acausal energy that is the essence of Their very Cosmos.

Thus did some few of Them for well over a year set forth across the Bristol Channel to come ashore near Ogmore-by-Sea and thus did They entice with Their wiles, Their chants, Their sexual shapeshifting enchantments many young people, male and female, with visions of the real eternal life in the acausal world to come where all would be pleasure and joy and freedom from illness, death, and sadness. Thus did those humans, young and mostly inexperienced and sad with the problems of their lives and of the world, willingly and often almost with gladness give up their own mortal living. And thus were these acausal shapeshifters – that strange and alien race of living-acausal-beings – there at the moment of such human mortal death, stealing, snatching, containing, or imbibing, draining, the acausal life-energy that left those young and human ones in that the last moment of such mortal human causal life as made, and as marked them as, human.

For They – these visiting acausal-beings of unformed chaotic darkness – lurked not in the shadows of our world but in those hidden angles, that nexion, between where our three causal spatial dimensions met and meets our one linear dimension of a so slow and so dreary causal Time. Thus can and thus did They in one instantaneous moment of causal Time reach forth to snatch their prey, unseen, unheard, unsmelt and unfelt, by humans: by all but those few of we, the vessels, who possess that special, peculiar, that magickal, empathy: that esoteric-life which takes our mortal, human, being out away from a safe, tame, mundane and human existence; out away from the conventions of the causal into the very living-being of that limitless eternal acausal Cosmos, unseen, untouched, unvisited, unknown, except to they those few who willed or unwilled – in dreams or through a Dark and Sinister Magick – ventured forth or explored there and who never returned quite the same; if they, those venturesome vessels, ventured to return, at all.

Silent, unseen, Their own Earth-bound place of unwilling dreary rest was beneath the sea near the shore of that westward English town whose long curving sandy beaches – on sunny and not so sunny days – would often be alive and festered with living happy humans. And it was there to their lair where They these shapeshifters returned replete with victims dragged living, dead, or dying.

Thus it was by that shore where she, the strongest most determined of Her kind, was waiting – DeepSpace-dark and almost transparent – as the clear night sky shed light from a waning moon in May. Waiting, there, as the incoming tide covered those mud flats beyond that curving sandy beach and where the sea, flowing, fractured such moonlight as seeped down seaward down and briefly to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below that English tidal shore.

She: waiting, for her much needed food. Waiting, for some human unsuspecting – the younger the better for thus full, replete, with such acausal energies as gave to them those humans such causal life as ambled them along their causal-spaces. She; waiting – for someone unsuspecting to walk alone along that moonlit shore when she would and so swiftly pounce to drag her prey away; back, down, under that sandy-muddied water to where Their lair existed, waited, and where she would feed until satisfied replenished renewed replete, and sated; able thus to change, to live, to shapeshift again in those causal Spaces that had somehow trapped her, and her travelling curious if predatory shapeshifting kind.

And there would be no evidence for meddling, curious, human vessels to find. For the body, the life, of the prey would be gone, leaving no trace, as the sea would leave no trace with its flowing soundful tidal tideful ebbing. No trace, of what few marks she and her kind might have made as one more of those the half-struggling because caught was dragged down to drown where the shallow inshore sea met the deeper sea of that unseen because shapeshifted lair.

No, no evidence; no dismembered corpse to float – bloated and bitten – back at high tide. No bones, brains or flesh. Nothing ever to be returned, leaving perhaps perchance only one more disappearance, unnoticed, or perhaps always unexplained. No, there would be no evidence for those human vessels to find: for she and They would devour or use them all: every ounce of human brain, muscle, organ, flesh; every drop of plasma, fluid, blood; every inch of marrow, sinew, bone. Needed, required, as They needed the very acausal life-force that seeped out from such vessels as and while they, those humans, cried, spluttered, gurgled, and died: food, energy, to maintain such forms as formed Them, there as They schemed, plotted, lived – and dreamed as They dreamed – of how to find a way back to the home that was Their home: there, where the acausal dimensions kept them replete with Life and ageless amid that Time that was Their time.


The nearby town, the sandy shore, the coast, even the sea, was not, of course, Their choice. But it would do – for now, as it had done, for nearly a decade after They, these travellers, had somehow in some way become sealed, trapped. Thus had they lived, but only less than half-alive, there on that water margin that somehow marked one meeting of such so different worlds; there, beneath the water where the lowest of low tides gave way Westwards to deeper sea as the mud-flats at its edge gave way, East, to that curving sandy beach, play-thing for many of that modern causal species, Homo Hubris.

Once, perhaps two hundred years or more ago, the town itself might have had much to commend it: a small fishing village of mostly small cottages built from locally quarried stone, rising above one rocky and one sandy cove. And even when the railways brought prosperity and building – with houses spreading steadily down and beachward from the rocky northern sea-front beneath that Iron Age fortified hill – there was a Victorian attractiveness, of sorts, two Piers, and a visiting still discerning almost always impeccably dressed clientèle.

But now: now as the tide of causal Time had marked and passed a new century, the town, easily accessible by hubrismobile from both motorway and road, had grown eastward and southwards to attract an entirely different cast of human vessels. Commuters, to work in the nearby larger towns and that city to the North; and young, mostly playful, things who could be found in the early evening or the night, often in large gaggling groups, thronging to and from the many Bars, Clubs, foodful places, and those dealers in drugs, which had grown, arrived, to serve then need them. And come the light of morning, some such young playful thing might be found beach-or-bench-a-sleeping – while jabbering querrelesome Gulls jabbered and jibbered – there where the mile-long promenade rose above that sandy shore. Humans, vessels, lost but found: surrounded, perhaps, as such young mortal causal beings often were, by discarded bottles, hypodermic needles, or squashed empty cans of beer. No wonder, then, that fights, and stabbings, became such a regular occurrence, so that as Dusk descended or another wearisome working day ended, regular Police patrols, a pair on foot, or cased within cars, egressed forth: pride in a stabproof vest; egressed, much as throbbing music seeping unslyly out from buildings when freshly falling night came to only half-cloak them, those vessels, for Homo Hubris, clubbing, favoured bright street-light.

But it was not only warmful night of Spring, Summer or Autumnal seasons that brought and caught them. For even the typical bleak dreary windy rainy Winter did not deter as it settled down there upon that modern haven made for Homo Hubris.

Synchronicity, or not, it was one such bleak dreary English Winter day that brought Elena and her two friendful-lovers to the town. For there had been a dream, one night, to both startle and awake her while her two lovers slept. A dream of such a mysterious, such a sensual, such a voluptuous woman as made her – there on that sandy moon-hewn beach – strain to reach out to touch and kiss her. Then she was running, after her, down toward where the flowing sea fractured such moonlight as seeped down briefly to each wave to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below where that night of the highest of high tides only a small strip of sand was left exposed. Then she was in the water, kissing this not-quite-human woman of such beautiful beauty. Kissing, kissing, touching, fondling, entered and being entered, naked body to not-quite-human-body, fingers lips hand to moist cleft: until her lungs, her whole body, her very being, became filled with life – a stellar supra-personal un-dimensional life – and they two became, were becoming, one, there, where she became so briefly joyfully transported to that new beauteous formless living that awaits. But it was then and there as joy overcame her that the strange not-quite-human but warmful soft woman left, came out, from within around her, and a deeping sadness arrived to enter her – an uneerie, wordless, crying shrieking sadness that in its inner silence seeped in then out from her own new now strangely watery flowing fracturing body to become a part of her own weightful human feelings. A sadness so bleak – desperate – that she cried, and cried, and could not cease her crying until suddenly she awoke to lie rigid, unmoving, lest the love, the sensation, the beauty, the life, of that woman left her. And it was there as the sweat of the dream dried in the cooling breeze from her bedroom window that she sensed, knew, felt, touched and tasted the wordless straining silent longing of her new if strangeful lover: that longing to return to that wyrdful haunting acausal beauty that was her – now their – home: light-less, timeless, space-less, endless, and totally bereft of any and all denseful causal form.

Thus, and slowly, very slowly, she gently awoke the two that, with her, formed the empath that they were, so that they – her male and her female lover – would, without a need for words, see, smell, touch, feel and be what she had seen, smelt, touched, felt and been in those so fleeting moments of her just past dreaming and joyful joining. And afterwards, as they lay supine, entwined, and almost exhausted, each one of those three knew exactly what it was that they must do.

O9A (AoB)
120 Year of Fayen