Desecration of a Monarch
Switzerland looks like Heaven on Earth in the Spring. The snow-capped Alps and verdant meadows lend an almost surrealistic quality to life here. Hyne Haus stands like the defiant Templar Fortress it is – solid, well-defended and vigilant – inside the town limits of Sternenberg. Hyne Haus’ neighboring, captive farms are busy with Spring harvestings – the late growths of winter wheat, barley, potatoes, hardy vegetables and feed corn. Lambing is in full swing and the little creatures are hobbling about everywhere, learning how to walk. Calves are also being delivered. The rhythm of life here is God’s own symphony. A pastoral, verdant miracle.
But this morning Heinlen and his select group of Paladins are watching digital drone footage time stamped 3:30AM of a Red & White Airbus H145D3 Five Rotor Blade Helicopter displaying the prominent markings of “REGA”. Its distinctive, stylized White Cross and Tail Registration Code HB-ZYT are also clearly visible. The chopper swoops down low over Hyne Haus’ majestic stone Gate Piers and Iron gates in front of his driveway and drops something from an altitude of about 50 feet – something large and heavy.
BratvaVerang surveillance has identified the chopper as a Swiss Air Rescue (“Schweizerische Rettungsflugwacht” or REGA) Airbus H145D3 rotorcraft airframe with a Tail Registration Code that was reported missing from Zurich yesterday morning. The Swiss Air Force search for it concluded about an hour ago. It apparently crashed into a remote Alpine crevasse fifty kilometers away after being exploded by a remote device. The pilot was still strapped in – with his throat torn out. Swiss State Police report that his family – two adolescent girls and a wife – are missing.
Heinlein’s digital recording shows the drop – and when he, Xen Chen, Dirk Fremd and Per L’Enfant walk down the long driveway to investigate, it all becomes clear. Twelve fully outfitted BratvaVarang Security Commandos stand nearby and are shaking their heads in disgust. It’s a pitiful sight.
The Helicopter has dropped the dead carcass of a beautiful “Monarch of the Glen” Deer with splendid horns in front of his Gate Piers that had sculptures of the very same animal on poised on top of them. Around the poor creatures’ neck is a leather strap with an animal skin pouch jammed inside of it. Inside the pouch is a letter – scrawled in blood on yellowed parchment. Heinlen recalls seeing the printing style before – on the three documents he burned pursuant to Oath he took to Archangel Gabriel.
The script was identical to the Pactum Baalis – the Pact of Baal – that had been signed in blood by the late Cardinal Angelo Franchetti, the late Rebbe Zvi-Mordechai Schnoorbrun and Chief Archon of the Vampyres, Belisarius.
It was a short message delivered with maximum dramatic impact, unfortunately for the poor animal:
“THE CHROME TRADE MUST EXPAND.
HARVESTING WILL PROCEED.
WITHDRAW YOUR WOLFE PACKS.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
BELISARIUS”.
Heinlen’s heart aches for the unfortunate deer. He is saddened by the a senseless destruction of such a wondrous creation of God. Captain Andrei Groyko, Commander of the Security Detail addresses Heinlen with his usual solemn voice and sound advice.
“Don’t eat it. I don’t see a bullet wound – they may have poisoned the poor creature. What a terrible waste. There’s enough food here for one family in Serbia for the whole winter! Curse these bastards. We’ll move it to one of our disposal facilities within the hour, Hetman.”
Heinlen touches his arm and mutters, “Thank you, Andrei.”
He then addresses his men.
“WE CALL A MEETING WITH THE BRATVA ASAP. THE VAMPYRES ARE GOING TO DOUBLE DOWN AND TAKE EVEN MORE CHILDREN. NOW WE MUST UTTERLY DESTROY THEM AND THEIR FAMILIARS. WE TAKE NO PRISONERS. NOW WE GO MEDIEVAL ON THEIR ASSES. THIS IS WAR.
DIOS GRATIA, DEUS VULT!”
Heavy is the Hetman’s Brow
For the rest of day Heinlen is more moody than usual. He takes his afternoon hike through the Alpine forests behind Hyne Haus in morose silence. Bratva Varang Security Commandos are never far away and their cameras capture every frame of their Hetman leaning on his favorite oak walking stick, picking his way through the trail brush. But lately he’s taken on a dark aura – a taciturn, brooding and withdrawn manner. Per L’Enfant, whose turn it is to accompany him today, tries to engage him in light conversation – even attempts some feeble banter and jest – but fails to elicit any kind of appreciable change in his “Capitaine’s” demeanor. L’Enfant continues to address Heinlen as “Mon Capitaine” – his Gallic roots insist upon it like some psychic imperative he can’t control.
They hike for about two hours, then Heinlen quietly trudges home. Per L’Enfant allows him his solitude, offering up his presence as moral support for the weight his Capitaine is bearing alone. L’Enfant knows well the responsibilities the man is juggling. The financial and leadership decisions alone, now that the BratvaVarang has virtually adopted him as their rightful leader are suffocating. At least they insist on obsessively keeping watch over him. This French-Canadian gadabout and “Raconteur“ owes Heinlen much – his wealth, security, lifestyle, freedom from want…Per St. Jean L’Enfant has never had it so good.
Still, he wishes he could somehow return these favors to his friend – in some way ease his mental anguish. Help him in a more concrete way that just silent comradeship. But the truth is obvious. L’Enfant’s Gallic blood tells him what any Frenchman can see even if he were blind in one eye:
Heinlen is lonely.
Dinner is splendid for the group – Lakas their Chef regularly outdoes himself in his new kitchen at Hyne Haus. He has a Swiss cook named Charles assisting him – baking breads and pastries and acting as an in-house Sous Chef for the delectable sauces and gravies that his meals require. Charles, of course, trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris – but he’s originally from Zurich. The young man can’t be happier.
After dinner, Heinlen asks Per L’Enfant to join him at Vespers – evening prayers – in the Hyne Haus Chapel. It’s not an invitation to engage in loquacity as much as it is one to continue their previous taciturnity. Translation? Heinlen wants his company – not his conversation. Sit there and shut up. L’Enfant cheerfully obliges, hoping that eventually the dam will break and Heinlen will gradually open up about what is eating him inside.
As expected, their time at the Chapel passes slowly with prayers and much reflection. Heinlen completes his devotions and calmly bids L’Enfant a soft “Good Night.”
Per L’Enfant – out of habit – performs his “Rounds”. He checks rooms, hallways and locks, adjusts the brightness of lights, scans the outside monitors for anything amiss and prepares to “turn in”. But passing the impressive library doors piques his desire to check out some old, leather-bound tomes and immerse himself in Medieval histories, legends and battles. This is the one room in Hyne Haus that always calls to him like Sirens luring Odysseus to the rocks of doom.
He finds himself an exceedingly comfortable wing-back chair and stocks a side table with a fifth of Cutty Sark Scotch Whisky, a full ice bucket, a crystal glass and a fresh pack of Galois cigarettes. He selects a dusty and cracked leather bound – original 1913 Edition of – Rafael Sabatini’s “Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition”, and settles in. There’s a woven wrap already folded on the top of his comfy chair – and he drags it around his shoulders. After a couple of good pulls on his super-sized double Scotch and water, L’Enfant is ready to study a famous historical record of The Spanish Inquisition – at least the version of it set forth in 1913 by Rafael Sabatini.
One double Scotch leads to two. Per L’Enfant is in Heaven. A good book. His favorite Scotch. The hours pass. Soon he can hear the Chimes of a Hallway Grandfather clock striking Twelve Midnight. He reads another chapter wherein Sabatini recounts how Torquemada, The Grand inquisitor, marvels at the “faith and piety” in the faces of those he tortured but they still refused to recant their Demonic Heresies. He described tears of joy running down their cheeks as the rack slowly ripped their arms and legs from their sockets as they cried out to “The Evil Ones” – Beezelbub, Azazel and Lucifer.
L’Enfant contrasts this to the Heinlens’ moist eyes as he fervently prayed in the Chapel – how his Capitaine’s body visibly tremors with faith and his head bows incessantly before the Icon of she who Heinlen reverently calls “The Divine Theotokos” – the Blessed Virgin Mary. L’Enfant pauses his reading and stares off into space, reaching over for his scotch. His hand brushes over another book on the lamp table – an old, cracked and leather-bound tome with Medieval script gold writing on its cover:
“The Grimoire of Simon Magus”
Intrigued, L’Enfant puts down Sabatini’s book about Torquemada and picks up the Grimoire of Simon Magus to examine it. He’s heard of this book – it’s rumored to be the means by which Heinlen talks to Archangel Gabriel. It’s unremarkable in every way – except, perhaps it’s faded and weathered condition and obvious age. He opens it – and immediately sees the yellowed window on the inside cover with scratch marks all over it – obviously scrapings from the Ivory stylus that’s in a small pocket next to it, sewn into the well-worn leather cover flap.
It’s as he surmised: the Grimoire works like a children’s “Etch-A-Sketch“ toy; a person writes their message on the yellowed window face with the special stylus and then, on the – now blank – pages that follow, an answer appears.
Is it magic?
L’Enfant can’t resist. He’s so stricken by Heinlen’s descent into dark moodiness, funk and fanatical obsession with his Orthodox faith – that he draws the stylus and scrawls a few choice French words:
“Archange Gabriel, l’ange de Annonciation,
Aidez mon Capitaine –
il est seul”.
(Archangel Gabriel, Angel of the Annunciation,
help my Captain –
he is lonely.”)
L’Enfant holds his breath for an answer. The minutes pass. He turns the small book upside down and flips through its pages like he’s shuffling a deck of playing cards. He waits longer, tapping his fingers against the side table in frustration.
Nothing.
Between the late hour and Scotch whisky he’s been sucking down, L’Enfant is tired. Tomorrow is another day. He tosses the Grimoire back onto the tabletop and shifts his body weight to get off his chair, grasping Sabatini’s book about Torquemada so he can return it to its proper place on the library shelves. He’ll finish it another night.
Suddenly, a loud sound from the right side of his comfy wing-back chair shocks his moving body down off the cushions and propels him on to the wood-plank floors. His scrawny ass and coccyx bone impacts the hard wood surface with an audible thud and sets his mind reeling. Pain instantaneously splinters up through his spinal column.
Impulsively, he cries out – very loudly – an irreverent name in vain –
“JESUS CHRIST!!”
There’s another loud noise – this time it’s the heavy, oak Library door being slammed shut. L’Enfant contorts his neck to see over his right shoulder while collapsed on the floor in blazing agony and sees a tall, thin man with gray hair and a silver, full-length robe belted around his waist standing about ten feet away from him.
He doesn’t look happy. His voice is loud, withering and acerbic.
WELL!!! HAVEN’T YOU GOT A BLOODY CHEEK!!!
I SEE YOU HAVN’T CHANGED A WHIT FROM YOUR DAYS AT SECONDARY SCHOOL – SAINTE ANNE DE BEAUPRE IN QUEBEC!
MONSIGNOR LEFEBRE KNEW EVEN THEN YOU WERE A HOOLIGAN!
AND HERE YOU ARE – PER ST. JEAN L’ENFANT – A GROWN MAN, EX-COP, MARTIAL ARTIST AND VAMPYRE SLAYER SLYLY PEEKING INTO YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER’S PRIVATE GRIMOIRE!!!
YOU, SIR, ARE IN NEED OF CONFESSION AND ABSOLUTION!!
FOR SHAME!!
I HOPE YOUR PENANCE IS LONG AND MEMORABLE – AND PAINFUL, TOO!!
L’Enfant rubs his eyes and slowly gets up off the floor. His back is still pulsating, radiating pain up and down his spine. He’s speechless. The Apparition – or whatever manifestation it is – stands motionless before him, scowling. It’s precise, clipped and verrrrrry British timbre of voice has delivered an aristocratic verbal thrashing – and has disarmed him completely. It’s been both Shakespearean and Sherlock Holmes-ian in its intended effect. L’Enfant attempts a feeble response but winds up blubbering all over himself.
“I’m…I’m sorrrry, Sir…….truly sorry. But, I had to at least try….”
The Apparition’s face softens appreciably at L’Enfant’s obvious tongue-tied contrition and lack of guile. His voice quickly transitions from desultory rage to a mischievous, conspiratorial banter. He presents himself like some naughty, misbehaving English schoolboy dreaming up ways to vex and infuriate his Headmaster and grinning while he does so.
“Oh Tush-Tush….I won’t tell the Big Heinie if you don’t.
I – as you might suspect – am Gabriel.
Archangel Gabriel.
And – truth be told – Monsignor Lefebre thought you were delightfully entertaining. I can see why. You are a picture-postcard Gallic scoundrel. A modern Scarlet Pimpernel. And you smoke Galois cigarettes just like Jean Paul Belmondo!! C’est delicieux!!
You and I have much in common! We are tailles dans le meme bois! Carved from the same wood!
BUT TO YOUR POINT, MONSIEUR L’ENFANT….
Tomorrow a Helicopter will land here at Hyne Haus. Who will disembark?
Une femme d’une beaute’ fatale et dangereuse – a fatally beautiful and dangerous woman named Captain Andrea Vucic.
Now I warn you, L’Enfant: keep your hands off this one! She is for Heinlen and Heinlen alone. She is the one. They will both be smitten. Tomorrow, the Queen of Hearts will deal Heinlen a Royal Flush. And he will take all the chips.
We know what your Capitaine’ needs before he does, Monsieur. Heed what Monsignor Lefebre tried years ago to get through that rock-hard head of yours in Quebec: Have Faith.
Until we meet again, my precocious Paladin – Adieu!”
L’Enfant blinks to clear his overwhelmed eyes. In that instant, Gabriel is gone. He reaches for whatever Scotch is left in his glass – the remains of his second double – and downs it. He has one thought as he heads back to his room, grinning from ear to ear.
“What a Character. Mon Dieu! I like that Guy….”
*NO PART OF THIS WORK PRODUCT IS AI GENERATED*
Copyright, 2026 – Jon Croft
www.bogironfoundry.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
