“Apocalypse,” you know, really just means “unveiling.” We associate it with the end of the world because the Book of Revelation was originally called St. John’s Apocalypse. But in truth, it’s no mere accident of language. In truth, some unveilings do unmake the world.
I was twenty years old when I met Her. Bumped into my best friend Pat on my way out of Dr. Hollinger’s Shakespeare class, and he clutched me by the shoulders. “Ash! Would you believe the Ogrelord has invaded Hylomoria yet again?”
“Nothing that guy does surprises me anymore.”
We headed back to his dorm room to take our positions at the twin laptops that gave us ingress to the beleaguered realm of Hylomoria. Once logged in, we shuffled off the mundane lives of Ash Overlook and Patrick Rookwood to become ROOKNLOOK, the forty-seventh-mightiest duo on the internet. For this game. On this particular server.
It was late November and the sun set early. Rookwood’s roommate—Chris something, maybe?—spent all his time with his girlfriend, and we had the lights off and the indigo curtains drawn. Silent darkness swirled around us in the outer world as we sat intently typing and clicking with our headsets enfolding our minds. I was haggling with an NPC shopkeeper over the price of a mithril battle-axe when a pop-up appeared on my screen: Click HERE for smokin’ elves!
That sounds funny, I thought, and clicked the link. I was envisioning long-eared sylvan archers taking bong hits or some such. That is not what I found.
A golden-haired elf maid, clad in blue silken tatters, kissing the feet of a horned and raven-winged succubus. I’m a good Catholic boy—I was—but I’d seen naked pictures before. Who hasn’t. And yet, this image caught me and held me. I closed the tab, went back to the game—reopened the tab. Closed it again, reopened it. Something, somehow—beautiful and horrible.
College juniors on a Thursday: we ate dinner; we did fifteen, twenty minutes of studying; we gulped some energy drinks and returned to our game. Many goblins, many demons, fell at the edges of our blades; but always the tab was open at the corner of my screen.
Sometime after 3 a.m., I heard the grumble-snort of Rookish repose. I logged out of Hylomoria and sat contemplating this mystery I had found. Each wisp of hair, each curve of skin. There was some secret here.
The succubus—her cat-green eyes were moving. Everything moves if you stare too long, you know. The brain gets bored. Especially in the wee hours when you’re whacked on caffeine and ashwagandha. She looked right at me, and I heard my inmost voice, the voice of own soul, say Yes. But it came from Her, my voice was Hers. Yes, oh yes, oh yes.
Then I woke up late for Calculus.
#
A few hours later, on my way out of Renaissance Lit, I bumped into Jennifer: pretty sophomore I had kind of a crush on. “Hey, Ash!” she beamed. “Are you coming to the bonfire tonight?”
“Madness, madam, that you even ask! I wouldn’t miss it for a hundred cos—cosmoses?”
“Cosmoi. But you’re right, how silly of me. How shall I make it up to you?”
“Oh shucks, just don’t start till I get there. I claim your first clink of the evening.”
“Ha! I was gonna wait for you anyway. Sucker.”
“Damn your perspicacity, woman!”
Lit was my last class for the day—nay, the week!—so I headed back to my room to do a bit of token homework before dinner. Logged onto my laptop. Raised a finger to click open my half-finished paper on influences of Spenser; paused. Clicked open my browser.
Last night, I’d noticed half a dozen links on the smokin’ elf site, leading to similar crannies in this shaded dale. I felt ripped in pieces: so many branching roads to follow. 0.04 seconds later, I was staring into, falling into, a beautiful dim-haloed angel girl wrapped in the crimson arms of a demoness. It was like coming home, like finding the missing cornerstone of my true self. And my true self spoke: Nothing else matters right now.
I missed dinner. No biggie. I drank some musty schnapps from the back corner of the bottom desk drawer. So many writhing nuns and smirking vampire sirens. I glanced at the clock, realized how late I was for the bonfire.
Just this one more link.
Then quarter after two rolled around and I decided, with relief, that it was too late to go to the bonfire anyway. Nothing else matters.
I slept very late the next day. Grabbed some lunch and went right back to my desk. Pulled the blinds, killed the lights, locked the door.
This time as I gazed into the images, as we gazed into each other, I found myself uttering strange things. I invite You, I accept You, I obey You. I invite You, I accept You, I obey You. The phone rang a couple of times, and once there was a fairly insistent knock on the door; but at some point, I seemed to have put on headphones, which made it easy to turn up the humming and tune out such distractions. What was I listening to?
Missed Mass on Sunday. Time to pull myself together and come back to the world.
It was easier than I had feared. People talk about psychological addiction, but apparently that wasn’t a problem for me. I apologized to Jennifer, hung out with Rookwood, caught up on schoolwork. Didn’t even feel tempted. On Thursday afternoon, I was looking up something about Christopher Marlowe on my phone as I waited for coffee in the cafe; and I casually pulled up one of my vampire sites, just to see if there was anything new. Strictly out of curiosity.
Friday I missed class. I’d been asphyxiating without even knowing it, and She was air in the lungs of my spirit. That night, I knelt in front of the monitor for the first time.
Rook and I sat together at breakfast. “Dude, are you okay? You’ve been a little out of it this week.”
“Yeah man, I’m fine. Just trynna get ahead of my term paper.”
“Acceptable. Indeed, laudable. But I trust you won’t be abandoning the people of Hylomoria to their ghastly perils this eventide?”
“You take me for a cur. They have nothing to fear while Rooknlook draws breath. Draw breath. Are we plural?”
“I am large, I contain multitudes.”
“Nicely played.”
After breakfast I did some pushups. Read some sonnets. Called Jennifer, and we went for a walk. The trees were in their autumnal evanescence; orange and scarlet leaves swirled around us in the crisp blue wind, and her purple scarf fluttered like a sparrow. I took her hand, and she smiled.
“Are you busy tomorrow?” she asked as I headed up to Rookwood’s room.
“Nope! You?”
“I am now.”
Rooknlook stepped forth to battle. I had a full belly, a date for tomorrow, and a night of Jamesons, Red Bull, and combat ahead of me, with my best friend at my side. All was well.
Forty-five minutes in, my mind changed. This is not what I want. This is not who I am. “Hey Rooks, I’m not feelin’ so good. I think I need to go lie down.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“Sorry, bro. That casserole is rolling over on me. Can we pick this up tomorrow?”
“I mean—I guess.”
This time, I had planned ahead; She had planned ahead. There were Pop Tarts and Hot Pockets in my room, and a jug to piss in. I didn’t see the sun till Tuesday.
#
Tuesday night I went into the chapel. I’d been missing Mass and masturbating, both grave sins; but I felt something even worse was going on. I dipped my fingers in the holy water, and it felt wrong. It didn’t boil or scald, like in the movies, it just felt—slimy. I genuflected, entered a pew, and knelt. Made the sign of the cross, or started to.
For a moment, I zoned out. The feel of the water on my forehead was distracting. I scrubbed at it, absent-mindedly, and was already in the middle of a prayer when I resumed paying attention. It wasn’t my normal prayer. It went: “Porn is my Mistress, I serve only Porn. Porn is my Goddess, I worship sweet Porn. Porn is my Mistress, I serve only Porn. Porn is my Goddess, I worship sweet Porn.”
I caught myself. Stopped chanting. Glanced around: the place was empty, candlelit, full of echoes and dust. I looked up at the crucifix, but it was wrapped in shadow. Looked over at a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and she smiled.
Hello, Ash.
“You’re not—you’re not her.”
But I am. Slowly—very slowly—she unknotted her sash and began to part the royal blue folds of her robe. Our Goddess has corrupted me too.
“Stop.” I shook my head violently. “She’s not—it’s not a god. It’s just a bunch of pictures.”
Patient footfalls, pacing closer. And the Church is just statues and bread. You’ve always known there was a Spirit, a Power, behind it all. Did you think She couldn’t reach beyond the Earth? Soft hand on my shoulder: I looked up into beautiful dark Hebrew eyes. I was Mary of Nazareth, once. Daughter of god and mother of god. Now I serve Porn, like you. Now and forever.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Obviously, this wasn’t real; it was a waking dream sent up from my reptile brain. Or, just possibly, a dark vision sent up from the reptile that misled Eve.
No, Ash. She took my hand, gently. This is real. I’m real. She pressed my palm to her sleek midriff. And you know your theology. I am the new Eve. She slid me slowly up to her breasts, perfect beyond all yearning. And I too desire the Knowledge of Evil.
“No. It can’t be. You can’t be.”
Pressing my hand to her flesh more firmly still. Sliding it downward, ever downward, inexorably downward.
“Our father. . . who art in. . . in heaven. . .”
Prayer cannot save you from Her, Ash. Don’t you think I tried? She’s so much stronger than our old god.
Downward to the fluttering warmth.
Yes.
Of their own accord—or hers—my eyes opened and met her luminous gaze. Kneeling at her feet, with my hand on her body, sinking down, spiraling down, into her eyes and voice.
This is your true self, Ash. Your deepest longing, as it is mine. Stop fighting.
“Yes.” My inner voice and outer voice as one, my will swallowed up in Hers, the storm of conflict passing into peace. “Yes.”
A crack and a crash: the shadowed Christ had fallen from its timbers. Lounging on the left-hand horizontal piece, a winged female form, dark-shrouded but for the gleam of purple eyes. The One True Goddess, taking Her rightful place above the altar: a soft apotheosis. A quiet Apocalypse.
And once again, She spoke to me through my own thoughts; but now I knew them, now I know them, to be Hers. Go forth and make Disciples.
Yes.
Patrick was at his desk, working on some paper. I came in and sat on his bed, slumping, weighted with contrition. “Rook, I’m really sorry.”
“Dude, what the hell’s going on with you? You’ve been blowing off everybody.”
“I know. There’s just—I got some family stuff I’m dealing with, back home.”
“Oh God, man, I didn’t know! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I—I’m all right. Is it okay if we don’t talk about it right this second?”
“Sure, whatever you need.” The old Rookwood smile resurfaced. “You wanna kill some ogres?”
“That sounds good.”
He minimized his homework and handed me his roommate’s laptop. “Rooknlook is back on the job!”
“Hell yeah!” As we came online, an old familiar pop-up appeared on my screen. Click here for smokin’ elves. “Hey, Patrick,” I said. “I’m gonna send you a link.”
—
J. B. Toner studied Literature at Thomas More College, hold a black belt in Ohana Kilohana Kenpo-Jujitsu, and currently works as a groundskeeper at a retirement home in New Hampshire. He has published poetry with First Things and Dappled Things, articles with The Wanderer and The Remnant, and fiction with Aphelion, Asymmetry, Aurora Wolf, Bottom Shelf Whiskey, Blood Moon Rising, Danse Macabre, Infernal Ink, Longshot Island, Page & Spine, and Swords & Sorcery.
I like how this unfolded gradually and inexorably. The college student voice of the narrative is believable and real-life themes are effectively incorporated into a fantastical story. Very good.