Read Online Masks of the Illuminati by Robert A. Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert A. Wilson
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part or parts …”
The bicycle falls over. There is no wind or other evident cause; it simply falls.
The
Merry Widow Waltz
rises to drown out Babcock’s words
.
Q: With what species of animal and plant life was Babcock Manor most plentifully supplied?
A: A murder of crows, an exaltation of larks, a clowder of cats, a muster of peacocks, a skulk of foxes, a watch of nightingales, a labor of moles, a gaggle of geese, a peep of chickens, a parliament of owls, a paddling of ducks, a knot of toads, a siege of herons, a trip of goats, a drift of hogs, a charm of finches, a murmuration of starlings, a pitying of turtledoves, a dawn of roses, a hover of trout, a tiding of magpies, a glory of violets, a zonker of hedges, a kindle of kittens, a hallucination of morning glories, a sunset of fuchsia, a stateliness of oaks, a midnight of ravens, a noon of fern, a cover of coots, a weeping of willows, a laughter of cosmos, a hilarity of gardenias, a sauna of beeches, a blather of crickets and a millennium of moss.
Q: With what books was the library of Babcock Manor stocked by Sir John?
A: A prevarication of politics, a chronology of history, a gnome of mythology, a schiz of theology [including aserenity of Buddhists, a cosmology of Hindus, an inscrutability of Taoists and a war of Christians], an eldritch of Alhazreds, a fume of alchemists, a tree of Cabalists, a heresiarch of Brunos, a lot of Lulls, an ova of Bacons, a mystification of Rosycrosses, a silence of Sufis, an enoch of Dees, a wisdom of Gnostics and a small snivel of romances.
The night after meeting George Cecil Jones, Sir John dreamed again of Chapel Perilous, which was now a heavily armed, scarlet-walled castle owned by a man-eating ogre named Sir Talis. “You must enter without being sown,” said Judge Everyman, “for bleating runes are red.”
King Edward III, wearing the conventional business suit of George Cecil Jones, wandered in numinous room incandescent muttering something about the impotence of being honest.
“The moover hoovered,” He He Commons added helpfully. “The door opens to the wastebule, past eggnaughts to oldfresser Poop in the Watercan.”
“The unheatable and the unsbrickable,” shrieked a giant owl.
“Sol is buried inside,” muttered Uncle Bentley. “Talk id and hoot!”
Sir John realized he was in the Temple of Solomon the King as described in Freemasonic literature.
“Wee-knee got Thor, Sir Talis war bore,” roared a Lion.
“Passing as some dew-mist too dense upon the air,” whizzed an Eagle.
“Bloog ardor!” howled Sir Knott the Almighty. “Take heed and hate!” Sir John, a solo man under sectualism, stumbled into the owld cavern of skeletons, a tripentoctocon where the morn’s dozen sheens. A sign said:
DO NOT MEDDLE IN THE AFFAIRS OF WIZARDS: IT MAKES THEM SOGGY AND HARD TO LIGHT
“Said, the old servant of Envy,” the Angel was lecturing, “tore him to shredded wheat and planeted him where the somn dozing snore, but he gnaw not weth the dew. For they whisked in a flicker, Jenny Peg and Brother Rot and Hamster, prinzipdungmark, and, slack it, a mouse with seven gerbils.”
“These,” Jones said with a gesture at the bones, “are those who came on this path without the Pentacle of Valor. What do you drink, Sir Joan: Shall damn bones leave?”
But before Sir Joan could decide on the literalness of the question, they were in the dark back shelves of the Tyrone side wing of the Brutus Museum in the gaseous shade of the tree Swifty ate, the tree ovus gaggin scissors, and Karl Marx was reading aloud from what appeared to be the secret history of Freemasonry: “And Solomon was a motley kink, and he shut in his cuntinghorse on the tail of his broken spine just accounting for his honey; and the LORD spook into him and said: Solomon, git. And Silvamoon gat; and in the foulness of tomb Solomon gart bark and begat. And Sol O’Morn begat Nightrex and Nighttricks begat Mars Harem and Moose Hiram began
The bicycle falls over. There is no wind or other evident cause; it simply falls.
The
Merry Widow Waltz
rises to drown out Babcock’s words
.
Q: With what species of animal and plant life was Babcock Manor most plentifully supplied?
A: A murder of crows, an exaltation of larks, a clowder of cats, a muster of peacocks, a skulk of foxes, a watch of nightingales, a labor of moles, a gaggle of geese, a peep of chickens, a parliament of owls, a paddling of ducks, a knot of toads, a siege of herons, a trip of goats, a drift of hogs, a charm of finches, a murmuration of starlings, a pitying of turtledoves, a dawn of roses, a hover of trout, a tiding of magpies, a glory of violets, a zonker of hedges, a kindle of kittens, a hallucination of morning glories, a sunset of fuchsia, a stateliness of oaks, a midnight of ravens, a noon of fern, a cover of coots, a weeping of willows, a laughter of cosmos, a hilarity of gardenias, a sauna of beeches, a blather of crickets and a millennium of moss.
Q: With what books was the library of Babcock Manor stocked by Sir John?
A: A prevarication of politics, a chronology of history, a gnome of mythology, a schiz of theology [including aserenity of Buddhists, a cosmology of Hindus, an inscrutability of Taoists and a war of Christians], an eldritch of Alhazreds, a fume of alchemists, a tree of Cabalists, a heresiarch of Brunos, a lot of Lulls, an ova of Bacons, a mystification of Rosycrosses, a silence of Sufis, an enoch of Dees, a wisdom of Gnostics and a small snivel of romances.
The night after meeting George Cecil Jones, Sir John dreamed again of Chapel Perilous, which was now a heavily armed, scarlet-walled castle owned by a man-eating ogre named Sir Talis. “You must enter without being sown,” said Judge Everyman, “for bleating runes are red.”
King Edward III, wearing the conventional business suit of George Cecil Jones, wandered in numinous room incandescent muttering something about the impotence of being honest.
“The moover hoovered,” He He Commons added helpfully. “The door opens to the wastebule, past eggnaughts to oldfresser Poop in the Watercan.”
“The unheatable and the unsbrickable,” shrieked a giant owl.
“Sol is buried inside,” muttered Uncle Bentley. “Talk id and hoot!”
Sir John realized he was in the Temple of Solomon the King as described in Freemasonic literature.
“Wee-knee got Thor, Sir Talis war bore,” roared a Lion.
“Passing as some dew-mist too dense upon the air,” whizzed an Eagle.
“Bloog ardor!” howled Sir Knott the Almighty. “Take heed and hate!” Sir John, a solo man under sectualism, stumbled into the owld cavern of skeletons, a tripentoctocon where the morn’s dozen sheens. A sign said:
DO NOT MEDDLE IN THE AFFAIRS OF WIZARDS: IT MAKES THEM SOGGY AND HARD TO LIGHT
“Said, the old servant of Envy,” the Angel was lecturing, “tore him to shredded wheat and planeted him where the somn dozing snore, but he gnaw not weth the dew. For they whisked in a flicker, Jenny Peg and Brother Rot and Hamster, prinzipdungmark, and, slack it, a mouse with seven gerbils.”
“These,” Jones said with a gesture at the bones, “are those who came on this path without the Pentacle of Valor. What do you drink, Sir Joan: Shall damn bones leave?”
But before Sir Joan could decide on the literalness of the question, they were in the dark back shelves of the Tyrone side wing of the Brutus Museum in the gaseous shade of the tree Swifty ate, the tree ovus gaggin scissors, and Karl Marx was reading aloud from what appeared to be the secret history of Freemasonry: “And Solomon was a motley kink, and he shut in his cuntinghorse on the tail of his broken spine just accounting for his honey; and the LORD spook into him and said: Solomon, git. And Silvamoon gat; and in the foulness of tomb Solomon gart bark and begat. And Sol O’Morn begat Nightrex and Nighttricks begat Mars Harem and Moose Hiram began
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