The Devil's Hour

A sacrifice of twins, at the devil’s hour, on the night of a second moon, an incantation in ancient Samarian, in a demonic dialect unuttered since the time of the flood—the ingredients for a most dangerous spell. He had used a discernment spell to discover its meaning—the curse of death and fire. He, High Wizard of the Western Coven, would dispense with that meddler in the person of the Carpenter and the chapel he had consecrated across the street from the unholy temple of the coven, the clinic.

When last had the ancient words been uttered? He had only a rubbing from the tablet of stone. No scroll survived the ancient cataclysm that ended the time of the giants and the Nephilim. The demon he had conjured spoke the words and warned they must be pronounced precisely. He little feared failing on that score. His record was nearly perfect. Only one spell had failed, and that, not because of a misutterance, but a matter of timing. He blamed the meddler and his band of bead warriors for that one. What other explanation could there be? But they would not be there at the devil’s hour, not a three in the morning, they wouldn’t.

The coven would need to assist. Would anyone notice the gathering after-hours at the clinic? It wouldn’t matter. The breeder was ready and willing—a natural conception of twins with no assistance of drugs, potions, or spells, fetuses conceived willingly in an orgy, so the father was not known, conceived for the purpose of demonic sacrifice and for no other purpose, perfectly legal with no parties to raise a dispute.

There would be no legal consequence. The laws of men had long favored such procedures. Women demanded their legality as a right, with few restrictions—certainly no restrictions regarding using the products of conception as ingredients in a magic spell. What politician would think to put such an exception into law? Few acknowledged the possibility of such activity and of those who knew of it, most had benefited from it. The laws would present no obstacle.

Twins, an auspicious sign, timed perfectly with the coming of the second moon, as if the universe beckoned him to complete this masterwork of magic. Of course, he knew all magic was an illusion, whether sleight of hand by the magician or what appeared to be true magic—an illusion of demons working their will unseen.

But there were rules, and he knew them well. There was a price for a demon’s service. He had been warned of the dangers of spells for his personal benefit. But this one, as much as he desired revenge against the meddler, would benefit the entire coven, not just him. The alternative would require they flee to another location, which would only invite more flight, as word spread, chased onward by the servants of the Carpenter. And that show of weakness would be his end. The coven would not follow a coward. They would never understand the need to flee from the Carpenter’s bit of bread and the fools kneeling in adoration. And to recognize that danger would be to admit they were subject to the authority of Him who they would never serve. The man in the Carpenter’s person could not possibly survive this most powerful of spells, this spell from the time before His time on earth. Certainly, he could not.

He had been warned of the power of the Carpenter and His followers, however. The demons, themselves, had warned him. They referred to him as the Carpenter and refused to utter his name, so much did they fear his power. But, so far, the Carpenter’s followers had posed little threat and were easily corrupted. The enticements of the flesh had trapped so many. It was almost a joke. Many of the Carpenter’s ordained had desecrated His altars in black Masses featuring sex magic and perversions with members of the coven. In older times, women seduced them, but now, teenage boys, the fatherless ones so easily recruited, most often ensnared the ordained.

But his coven had failed in their attempts to corrupt this meddler. He had escaped every attempt at seduction. Neither the boys nor the women had succeeded, not even with the invoking of demons to their aid. This spell, from a time before the flood, when the Word was just the Word, before the Carpenter’s incarnation in the flesh, before His great sacrifice on the cross that upended the old order, was the answer.

The High Wizard thrilled with the anticipation of it, to wield this power, to command this ancient demon. Even the danger of it thrilled him. And there was a danger. These servants of the Carpenter had authority over demons, his mentor had warned him. But there were few exorcists these days, and many of the bishops, whose office granted them powers of exorcism, were among the corrupted. They did not use the authority they had. Surely the meddler prayed for the souls of the women and children at the clinic, but did he know of the coven and its sacrifices? Would he be prepared for what was coming? And even if he were, would he be able to thwart the attack and banish this ancient demon?

Maybe he shouldn’t attempt it? The thought nagged him, like a flicker of light in the darkness of his soul that he could not see yet knew was there. Buried deep within his soul, under the great burden of sin, was there yet a flicker of hope? A chance for redemption? Certainly not. The coven owned his soul, a contract sealed in blood, held in a safe with some forgotten combination. He had sold his soul for this, to be the High Wizard, unexcelled in the dark arts. Surely, he had gotten the better of the bargain. For what is a soul, after all? But if there were meddlers like this, and there were demons, there must be angels as well. Why had that thought not occurred to him in his long years of tasting sin?

There was so little thrill left in sin. He had delighted in so many, but now, they bored him. He had progressed through perversions, in the end, indulging in the most disgusting and vile of them, until little was left to sample. What commandment was there left to break? But now, there was this spell, more powerful, unattempted for uncounted millennia, discovered only recently in a hidden cave, indecipherable without the aid of demons. Death and fire, this he would deliver, and there was no better target than that meddling priest.

He set the clock for one. He wished plenty of time to make sure all was in order. He would be well-rested and ready. He could not afford the slightest mistake. There was no telling what the cost might be for failure in so powerful a spell.

He dreamed of the meddler and his bead warriors. Praying outside the clinic, counting prayers on the beads, invoking the aid of the Woman, the one the demons feared most, the Carpenter’s Mother.

The breeder in the stirrups, the doctor prepared her. As High Wizard, he wore his regalia, the black top hat, pants, vest, white shirt, and his white make up, and leaned on his cane as he waited. He laid aside his cane and picked up the scalpel, recalling his training, how a fetus’ skull was not much more resistant to the blade than were the grapefruits his mentor had given him to practice on. The doctor nodded, and he began the spell.

“Forsaken ones, rulers of the earth and of hell, come to our aid. Accept the sacrifice of this life and deliver us power and dominion over our enemies. Grant success to our client, Jacob Casper, who seeks the office of Senator. In the name of the unholy one, we beseech thy aid.”

He gripped the scalpel. The time had come. He heard the baby’s cry and awoke to the screeching of the alarm clock. A bad omen. His one great failure. Once the infant was born alive, the spell could not be completed. Jacob Casper would not be senator and his million dollars would be returned, a great loss to the coven. He blamed the meddler and his bead counters.

He went to the bathroom and applied the white makeup to his face and hands. He would be in full regalia for this, his greatest spell. Death and fire, from the days before the Carpenter walked the earth, before His establishment of the sacrament of the Bread and Wine, His Body and Blood. He would have his revenge on the meddler and his tabernacle.

The clinic beckoned him, under the light of the full moon. He admired his shadow on the walk, the silhouette of his top hat, and cane. How the moonlight must have glinted off his makeup, like dry bones of the long dead, resurrected for the task of this night, the night of his revenge, his victory. His eyes moved and fell on his target, the chapel where the meddler worshipped his Bread, an ordinary ranch house converted for this purpose, a place of prayer, where they adored the Carpenter’s Body in the monstrance. Was that a light peeking through the stained glass, like that small, hidden light he imagined still attempting to reach through the darkness to his soul? A light of hope? The hope of redemption? Impossible. He shuddered and entered the clinic.

Candles lighted the way to the procedure room. The firelight flickered, projecting dancing shadows on the walls. The witches of the coven were there, waiting in their red robes, the color of blood. They cackled in anticipation.

Helga, the first witch of the coven, licked her lips. “Tonight, we have our revenge. Our High Wizard will conquer!”

“Tonight, we bring death and fire to our enemies,” he replied. “Is the breeder ready? The devil’s hour approaches, and our timing must be perfect.”

The spell required perfection in the chant and perfection in timing. The sacrifice of the second twin must complete the spell precisely at the stroke of the third hour, presaged even before the flood as the time, the devil’s hour, the hour that would be opposite the hour of the death of the Carpenter on the cross.

The doctor prepped the breeder, her belly ripe with the sacrifice. The goat to be sacrificed for the invocation of the demon of tongues bleated. He would not risk chanting the ancient curse without preternatural assistance. Who knew how things would turn should a word of it be mispronounced? All was ready. The High Wizard laid his cane aside and picked up the scalpel.

“Prince of the dark way, accept this our sacrifice and guide my lips to repeat the curse of death and fire in the tongue of the ancient ones of Samaria.”

This he repeated thrice. He slit the goat’s throat and captured its blood in the ceremonial bowl. He raised the bowl to his lips and drank it. He filled several more bowls and passed them to the witches of the coven who drank of them, then passed them on.

When all had drunk from the bowls, he raised his arms to the coven. “Prince of the dark way, accept our sacrifice and aid us in our need!”

The witches repeated this, and three times they exchanged these words.

The High Wizard checked his watch. It was time.

He opened the envelope containing the rubbing with the ancient words from the carved stones half a world away. His mind comprehended them in his native English language. He heard them from his mouth in incomprehensible utterances, sounds no human voice could now make or imagine.

“Princes of the air, fire, earth, and water, cast out from the realms of light into the everlasting death and flame, we beseech thee come, accept our sacrifice and bring that death and fire upon our enemies, Father Ignatius and his servants, and to his chapel. We beseech thee, bring death and fire!”

The coven repeated, “We beseech thee, bring death and fire!”

Three times, these words, perfectly chanted in the ancient tongue, shook the procedure room. The breeder herself joined the chorus. A flawless execution. Now, the sacrifices. He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes until the devil’s hour. He raised his arms to the witches of the coven.

“We offer this, our sacrifice!”

Their chant went up, in English now, as was their wont at these times, repeated over and over, “Our bodies, our choice! Our bodies, our choice!”

He carefully reached the scalpel into the breeder, and into the head of the first fetus. This one would not be born alive. He twisted the scalpel, feeling it slice through the brain of the fetus, until it stopped moving.

He stepped back and the doctor removed the fetus, slicing it in pieces and placing it on a platter. The High Wizard held the bloody sacrifice over his head. “Accept this our sacrifice!”

He lowered the gruesome offering and handed the platter to Helga.

“Our bodies, our choice!” Her eyes glinted with the reflection of fire and the glimmer of the polished silver platter. She picked up an arm of the sacrifice and consumed it.

The witches passed the platter one to another in their pecking order, each taking part in consuming the sacrifice until there was nothing left.

He checked his watch, six minutes until the devil’s hour. He glanced at the doctor who nodded. The second twin was ready. It was too early. He watched the seconds tick. Would this one be born before it could be sacrificed? It was still a crime to kill an abortion survivor. The bill to make it legal had stalled in the state assembly. Five minutes now. The timing must be exact. Tick, tick, tick. Four minutes now. He glanced toward the breeder, who groaned. A contraction. A worried glance toward the doctor, who smiled and nodded, raising his eyebrows. But it was not yet time. He checked his watch, again. Three minutes, now. Tick, tick, tick. Another groan from the breeder. He gripped the scalpel. His heart pounded. His breathing quickened. Deep breaths, calm down. Two minutes, now. Tick, tick, tick. The crown of the fetus’ head began to emerge. He prepared to make the lethal wound. Hold on, hold on. One minute now. Tick, tick, tick. He raised his arms to the coven.

“We offer this. Our sacrifice!”

The coven responded, “Our bodies, our choice. Our bodies, our choice!”

The High Wizard watched the clicking forth of the time, the deadly instrument at the ready. As the second hand ticked forward onto the twelve, he plunged the scalpel into the head of the fetus and twisted it, scrambling the thing’s brains. It stopped moving.

The doctor completed the procedure, placing the body on the platter.

The High Wizard raised the bloody offering over his head. “Accept this, our sacrifice!”

He handed the plate to Helga. “Our bodies, our choice!”

A blaze of light lit up the sky outside the window. But, not like any firelight he had imagined. The words of the meddler’s prayer filled his darkened mind, “By the power of the Holy Spirit and by His authority, I ask Jesus to break any curses, hexes, or spells and send them back to where they came from, if it be His Holy Will.”

A pounding of his heart, a tightening in his chest, he moaned in anguish. Death. Screams of agony, the licks of flame from the everlasting hell arose, consuming the coven, the breeder, the doctor, the clinic. Fire. The spell, his most powerful spell, perfectly executed, reversed; its power consumed him. The curse of death and fire.

Darkness came, the darkness of his lost soul. But there, that flick of light. He saw it now. He heard the prayer for mercy on his soul. The meddler prayed for him. Could it be, that even now, with all he had done, in the blackness of all his sins, even now, there was a hope of mercy, if only he would ask for it?