Tales of Temperance: Chapter Three: The Stranger’s Vision

It was April 12, 1832. 

The morning sun peeked through the drafty curtains of the opulent four-poster bed belonging to Jeremiah Vane. It was a gift from his mother, shipped to Cleave-land from the family estate overseas. The seat of family wealth was no longer important since he left that world behind to come to this one. The family of origin had given all the catalyst needed to launch a wildly successful career developing, expanding and then selling pieces of empire to the highest bidder. 

First was the coastal town of Cleave-land, then south to Pitts, then Lewes. One by one, these fledgling metropolises had been both training ground and fertile soil: Capture ground. Exploit resources. Expand and build. Expand and solidify. Expand and capitalize. Human Resources, wealth, buildings, technology, education.

Each stage had brought new wonders, hidden history, and miraculous development in weaponry, tactics and popularity. Telegraph wires connected each entity to the other, electric transistors and generators propelled mechanics that powered faster steam locomotion and countless other advancements. Specific personalities were chosen, educated and put to work, investing and reinvesting in the human currency of the mind.

Money became no object. The ancient family wealth was a dim memory, replaced by the sole focus of benevolent conquest. Once a critical mass was attained, the entire estate would be liquidated, down to the last cut nail. Every metropolis left behind was better. Health systems and medical practices and schools and shelters and manufacturies all sold and walked away from with not a single regret. 

But then, Marigold Ambrosia von Opfern manifested her unstoppable grace into his world. She was a singularity that altered the course of history and fractured his purpose into a kaleidoscopic wanderlust of possibility and love. She moved mountains that brought compassion and wonder into a machine that lived without soul. Love blossomed, bloomed and was just as suddenly crushed in the violence of one evening. As Vane looked back on the genesis of love and life lived, he found the sheer magnitude of what was stolen to be unthinkable and heartbreaking. 

Head in hands, Jeremiah Vane sifted through the vault of memory as he stood to face the rising sun. Like countless mornings before, he purged the pain and grief of his loss, reigniting the fervor that had made him a literal force of nature in this fledgling country. He walked out onto the balcony of his suite in City Hall, chuckling. This time, there would be no liquidation and migration. This time, Temperance, Tennessee—not Lewes, where sweet Marigold had stolen his heart, and not Mount’n End, where the ancient Shaman had opened his eyes to the Other—no, Temperance is where his train terminated. In just the year and a half since his arrival, the town itself had flourished in ways now familiar to Jeremiah Vane. He kept his promises to provide work, fair wage, basic humanitarian needs, and purpose. Every time Vane filled those four promises, human beings had lined up like worker bees to drive the engine of progress into tomorrow. 

The rising sun reminded him of a similar morning after completing that gods-forsaken ritual. It had been a thing of smoke and blood and vows and had connected his new ways to the old ways of faith, religion and control. What’s more, it gained the trust of the Shaman, and the Shaman taught him the truth of the Wells. Vault Wells were places in between this world and the next that held power and secrets that the ancients safeguarded and buried and walked away from. While the clergy stayed in their churches and chanted their Psalms to the Holy Father, Sacred Mother and Christ-life, Vane walked the Vault Wells and listened for secrets.

One by one, he found, delved and reaped the sacred knowledge of the Vault Wells. Still, he never found the answer he sought. No creature imprisoned in any Well had satisfied his questions until that boy had revealed the door to the great trove hidden under Temperance. There, in the deep, he had made his promises to a different kind of pact. There, he had not simply struck down and banished an old starved demon. In the Well below Temperance, Vane had met the Power of the Old Gods face to face.

“It won’t be long, Marigold, love.” Vane thought. “What was stolen from us will be reforged. And we’ll finally have our eternity together. The answers are here. The truth is here. It is already manifest.” He looked up into the broadening pink and gold of the sky, driving back the depth of night. “I will undo what has been done.”

“But you will not do it without us.” Unbidden, the voices erupted from the depth of his lizard brain like a gentle whisper from Marigold herself. “You have nothing without our power, Jeremiah Vane, and we steward it until you have proven yourself… worthy. Now feed us, friend. Bring us the sacrifice you promised.”

As usual, the voices receded in an echo of repeating harmonies and sing-song effect that left Vane’s head swimming in euphoria. He grasped the washstand for balance, interrupted by a polite knock on his chamber door. 

“Mister Vane?” a timid lady’s voice interrupted. “The Alderman is here to see you. You have a report you were making to him? The town is gathering for your monthly town hall as well, which makes the schedule a little tight this morning, if you please. Granted, the Alderman is somewhat early however. I can delay his session if you-”

“No Chavah, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, ma’am.” The maid-of-all-work was a creature of mystery herself. Vane was thankful for her skill and attention to detail. 

Dressing himself, Vane touched the painting of Marigold, pushed back the voices that offered consolation, hope and endless need, and gathered his belongings. The bone blade never left his person: a tool of the Shaman, thrice blessed, the blade had proved its  capacity to send demons back to the Abyss. Vane owed his life to the instrument’s ability to sever the cord that bound the Other to this world. The cane-sword, likewise, was made from a single sliver of ancient tusk molded by fire and arcane magics into something far more powerful than any weapon man alone could ever forge.

For good measure, Vane had–tucked into the specialized pocket of his overcoat–the wonder made by his friend Samuel Colt. The first prototype of a repeating firearm was a gift after saving Colt’s fiancée from a Nephilim. Vane had been forced to use this weapon far too often. While the slicing weapons were for the Other when it ventured too far into this world, the Colt was for earthly evil that Vane had met on his travels. Unconsciously shivering, he patted the sandalwood grip and steel cartridge barrel.

Never again would he helplessly watch a loved one be torn from life in front of him. He would do the work of the prophecies spoken by the Christ-life. He would drive evil itself back into the Abyss. The moment he even thought the word, “Abyss,” the Power rose in him again, making him swoon and promise to bring his offering before sunset today. Gaining his composure, Jeremiah Vane swung open the mahogany doors of this suite and poured the charm of a thousand lifetimes into Alderman Benjin’s gruff visage. 

“Alderman, thank you for waiting. Let’s take stock of progress and remind the good people of Temperance how we brought them wealth, work, and the fullness of life.”

“Mister Vane, we need to discuss some disturbing news, sir.” The Alderman wrung his hat, obviously uncomfortable with the burden he carried to the political and spiritual leader of Temperance.

“Alderman, we have knocked on the door of the gods. We have demanded they see us as gifts and we have been fearfully and wonderfully refined into leaders of men. Whatever arises, we shall confront it and enfold it into our terrible purpose.”

The two walked down the third floor hallway of the building known as City Hall, discussing the business of the day while deep, in the darkness below, silver tentacles floated on sightless currents and whispers cried for sacrifice. 

—-

“So you see, Alderman, I hear your concerns, but each issue has a rightfully coherent explanation, sir.”

“Yes, Mister Vane, your words make sense, but I cannot pass off the growing disappearances, accidents and mutations as the normal currency of our increased population. Did you hear me, sir? The last calving birthed three-headed monsters that almost took the lives of their human masters! A full dozen head of sheep have just plain disappeared in the last moon, which puts the whole herd in jeopardy. Two human babies were born blue-skinned with no whites to their eyes. Countless friends, family members and workers–good men and women–have disappeared with no trace. They leave behind saved wages, even children in some cases. My office is inundated with accusations of theft. It seems that every day, a family heirloom goes missing or melts into a puddle on someone’s mantle. This is not the way of civilization, sir. This feels more like mountain rootwork and granny magic.”

Vane stopped short, forcing Benjin to meet his gaze. They had reached the balcony, above a gathering crowd who came once a month to hear Vane’s updates and plans for progress. 

“What did you call it?” He asked Benjin, only slightly menacingly. 

“Mountain rootwork and granny magic? Sir, it’s just superstition and folk religion. The Brothers have stamped it out of the county and all the townies are fervent followers of the Holy Fathers.”

“Mountain granny magic… Mister Benjin, do you think the work we do can be done without sacrifice?”

“Well no sir, of course not. It’s just that the nature of the peculiarities is quite-”

“Alarming, I know. But I assure you, sir, the Old Religion and the Old Gods that bore it have no place in our future. They were weak already and exorcized by the Brothers of the Holiness Redemption and Sanctuary of Divine Majesty. Would you not agree?”

“Of course, Mister Vane, but times have changed-”

“Times have indeed changed, Alderman. They have indeed. Eggs cracked for omelets, isn’t that the phrase? Everything has its cost. Shall we remind the good folk of Temperance all that they have received in almost two years of this endeavor?”

“Sir, I just wish your leave to investigate these goings on, and-”

“Blazing tarnation, Benjin! Do you hear yourself?” Vane raised his voice and tightened his tone. “Blue-skinned babies, three-headed cows, mountain magic… Next you’ll be telling me about demons and devils and the Holy-End-Of-All-Things. Get a grip, man! The town still needs an Alderman. It needs its elders to be calm and decisive, not ranting lunacy about superstition and Old Dead Gods.”

“I never said nothing about no dead gods.” The muscled old man mumbled as Vane pushed past him and out onto the balcony.

He firmly clutched the rails of the bridal-stair balcony and breathed a deep, cleansing breath. The stairs were the perfect setting for his wedding just over a year ago. “Marigold,” he thought. Then, immediately, “Feed us Jeremiah Vane, you promised.” Swooning, he regained composure and addressed the crowd in his usual way:

“To the people of Temperance, in the county of Franklin, the State of Tennessee, a member of the great Federation of New England in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and thirty two, we come to yet final full Moons before the Fall Turning to meet, join our hearts, and discuss the future progress of our greatest endeavors. This month’s agenda is quite long, so if you’ll excuse me, we will get right into it…”

An hour or so later, after fielding numerous questions, Vane adjourned the meeting and folks filed off. Vane stayed behind to handle the usual meetings after the meeting, but a lone figure caught his eye, standing motionless in the courtyard of City Hall. Since the orphan boy’s disappearance a year ago, Brother Ayden had become more and more erratic. Now he stood, bedraggled, staring disconcertingly at Jeremiah Vane. After a moment of deadlocked eyes, the former Prior of the Brothers of the Holiness Redemption and Sanctuary of Divine Majesty spoke in a raw, pitched voice. 

“Jeremiah Vane, you open a door to evil. You sleep with it in your bed every night. Repent! You barter with Powers beyond your ken and now we pay the price of your arrogance. Repent! The Holy Fathers know you, the Sacred Mother prays for you, Christ-life leads your way to repentance. Do not deny me! Serpents lie tangled in your mind. The Old Gods have tainted your thoughts. Your wife, Marigold, paid the price and now so do we! Repent! Repent and be-”

At the mention of Marigold (You promised, Jeremiah Vane), Vane leapt off the balcony, rushed Brother Ayden, swept his leg, pivoted the older man over his hip to the hard packed earth, rolled over to straddle the deranged monk and in one smooth motion pulled the Colt, cocked it and rested it against the monk’s temple. 

“If. You. Ever. Mutter her name again, old man, I will make a burnt sacrifice of you myself, like Abraham might have done to Isaac. You come at me all day long, spout your lies and madness at my name without care, and condemn me as often as you think you’d like, but if you ever, EVER MENTION HER NAME I will send you to the Abyss myself. Have I made myself clear?”

By this point, Brother Ayden was weeping. His hands held in helpless surrender, he racked out words in between sobs, “You don’t know what you have done, Jeremiah. You don’t know the power you have unleashed. All of this,” he gestured to the hall, the bustling Main Street, and dozens of stopped workers and artisans staring at them, “All of this is too quick, too off balance, too unnatural. Hasil told me of the secrets below, Jeremiah. You cannot continue down this path. You will doom us all!”

Jeremiah Vane cackled, released Ayden and returned his prototype revolver to its secret holster. Standing up and walking away, he looked back at the holy man on the ground, “Your grief at losing the boy to the mountain has made you crazy, Brother. I know this grief and it’s why I won’t kill you.”

He stopped and turned, mud staining his perfect suit as he straightened his tie and rearranged the frock coat. “Pray, serve and listen, Brother. But stay away from me and my Hall and my affairs. I will not tell you again.” He turned around and walked back into City Hall, sneering at the barely audible last words of the weeping Ayden.

“Please, Jeremiah. Don’t do this.”

—-

That night, Jeremiah Vane descended to the Undercroft of City Hall, where the silent giants awaited him for the work ahead. He walked to the now fully-excavated Vault Well and easily swung open the dark door with its silver sunburst pattern. He walked into a small room, at the center of which was a circle of inlaid stone painted white. Around the stone were seven lamp stands, and around those a round room lined from floor to ceiling with shelves holding countless books and scrolls and codices. At the four compass points of the room were tables, and at the tables sat the most brilliant minds Vane had collected along his travels. They lived in this room and the nearby cells, translating ancient languages, cataloging the various tomes, and slowly gathering the pieces of Jeremiah Vane’s grand puzzle: reunion with Marigold (Now, Vane!) on this side of the Veil. A servant held the halter of one of Alderman Benjin’s mysterious disappearing cows, and Vane took the halter to lead the beast to the center circle. 

“When next month comes, I need you to either pay for the sacrifice or steal it from farther away. You have drawn too much attention with your thoughtlessness.”

The figure nodded dumbly and stepped back to the outer room.

Vane worked the bovine sacrifice into the cut circle at the center of the room. His head was pounding when the voice of Power spoke, “Say the words, Vane. Say them now and receive your grace.”

Vane said the words taught to him by the Power, as that’s the name he had given it. The Power, in return for sacrifice, guided Vane in decisions, led him to resources and finally answered his secret questions. So what if it also corrupted the natural order now and then? The cost was minimal. Vane had done the work. This was worth any half-born cows or stolen trinkets, even if the Power’s sacrificial requirements were getting more and more severe.

When Vane had finished speaking the words, the circle glowed with fluorescent blues, and brilliant barbs of energy reached out to enfold the cow and draw it silently into the earth where just a few breaths before was solid rock. As Vane breathed slowly throughout the unnerving experience, the voices subsided for short blissful moments. 

Jeremiah Vane, mastermind of countless risings and fallings of fortune, who so desperately sought a cure for the wound that never healed, who gave of himself to improve the lives of countless others, and who knew the ancient, secret ways of the Other, felt the now familiar old, soft, spindly hands of the Power fall on his shoulder. 

“Now, my son, tell us the questions you seek, and we will find new answers tonight.”

Jeremiah Vane let the faintest smile break his lips. Tonight he would find the final puzzle piece, and tomorrow he would begin the real work of piercing the Veil into life immortal.