One thing Stromgaard had indeed helped them with was designing a hierarchical structure in the new priesthood. Stromgaard had devised the management levels of Acolytes, Acolyte Supervisors, and Coven Managers, with the various numerical ranks in between. A hierarchy kept the converts feeling like they had their own place, he said, giving them something to work toward, some ladder to climb up.
“I think we should also engage a professional graphic designer to come up with a logo for neo-Satanism,” Vincent suggested.
Nathans’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Symbols—we’re going to need plenty of those. Crosses, stars, rosaries, mandalas, communion wafers—it’s all just to keep you thinking about the abstractions and not the contradictions.”
Vincent brought out a stack of printouts, handing them to Nathans and then offhandedly spreading the sheets so Stromgaard could look on as well.
“I’ve come up with a list of special demons according to mythology.” He pointed to the list. “Abaddon. Asmodeus. Eurynome, the eater of carrion, Satan’s own prince of death. Oh, and I also found that in order to summon a demon, your circle is supposed to be drawn exactly nine feet in diameter—that’s a little over 2.7 meters.”
He pointed to the second sheet of hardcopy. “I’ve also found several people to put in our Hall of Fame, if you want to call it that. Theophilus, a sixth-century cleric who sold his soul to the devil in order to obtain Church office.” He scratched his head. “There’s something inherently paradoxical about that. Anyway, Roger Bacon is another. And Sjømunder the Wise of Iceland, who was without a shadow because Satan had extracted it as payment for services rendered. Friar Bungay, who was slain along with the sorcerer Vandermast when they dueled each other, using demons as their weapons. And of course Dr. Faustus of Wittenburg. Charles Dexter Ward. The Arab, Abdul Alhazred. I’m open to suggestions for any others.
“And finally,” he said, gathering up the papers and looking smug, “a nice finishing touch would be for us to come up with a few holy relics of our own, some tangible objects, solid things to point to as proof in case any of our new converts are a little bit skeptical.”
“Proof?” Nathans cocked an eyebrow. “We can just say the angel Moroni popped down and conveniently did away with all the evidence. It’s been done before.”
Vincent frowned, but then decided that the other man’s sarcasm had not been directed at him. Nathans waved for him to continue. “I was thinking that we might want to try and find an untranslated original copy of the Malleus Maleficarum, the ‘Hammer of Witches.’ It was a book actually used to justify the burning of witches in the Middle Ages. It’s sort of exactly the opposite of what we’re looking for, but the name sounds so sinister, no one would doubt its authenticity.”
Nathans looked at Vincent, then shifted his gaze to the elder Van Ryman. “Good idea. Stromgaard, you could probably track down that book better than either of us, am I right?”
Then came the advertising blitz, subtly secretive, but staged by some of the best publicists Stromgaard could hire. Through it all, Vincent remained isolated in the mansion, looking at the neo-Satanist scheme from a detached and amused stance. But he felt a growing amazement as the inverted star-in-pentagram logo began to appear in prominent places, placed there by zealous new converts. One evening he saw a dancer on a Net entertainment channel wearing a pentagram pendant in her ear.
To keep up the charade, the appearance of the Van Ryman mansion changed, undergoing a metamorphosis to make it look more like the abode of a High Priest. What had once been a white-painted, black-roofed facsimile of an old Midwestern farmhouse changed into a dark and sinister-looking haunted house. Vincent watched from behind his upstairs window as a crane uprooted the picket fence surrounding the house to replace it with a barricade of black iron spikes. The rooster weathervane on the rooftop became a cavorting demon pointing in random directions. Pipes connected dry-ice pumps to the sprinkler network under the lawn, releasing eerie mist each dusk. Under the eaves of the roof and around the gables now stood a line of hideous gargoyles, one to represent each of the special demons in the neo-Satanist writings.
And Nathans had been right. With remarkably little effort the religion of neo-Satanism was becoming a business success rapidly approaching the success of Resurrection, Inc.
“Vincent, there’s something you have to help me with,” Stromgaard said. His voice was dull and somber. Nathans sat unobtrusively at the far end of the long dining-room table, watching but saying nothing.
Vincent had seen his father rarely during the past few weeks. Now, though, Vincent noted that Stromgaard had grown precariously thin, haggard and gaunt. His eyes were stained with bloodshot lines, and the shadowed hollows around them looked dark enough to be makeup.
Stromgaard removed a packet and spread the contents on the wood surface of the long table, moving the decanter of Glenlivet and setting it distractedly on the floor. Vincent bent forward to see various NMR images and two x-ray plates showing the intimate inner detail of some human being—he presumed it to be his father. Trails of dark smudges showed up in an alarming number of places where they shouldn’t have been.
“It’s all over inside of me. My entire lymph system. There’s no place it hasn’t touched,” he said slowly, as if each word were a stone he choked out of his throat. “Right now I can feel it, like a parasite, hiding inside me and trying to peek out.” Stromgaard started to tremble and then, very uncharacteristically, he put his face in his hands. Vincent stood frozen, not knowing what to do. His father had never asked for any kind of comfort before.
For the past year and a half, neo-Satanism had been running smoothly, with Stromgaard Van Ryman as its High Priest. Vincent assisted in the ceremonies, as did a few highly placed converts, but the others were fanatics who actually believed in the religion. Nathans helped neo-Satanism as well, but for the most part remained invisible in the background—he had once compared himself to the Wizard of Oz, running the show from behind his curtain. Stromgaard was the figurehead, the visible power, the focal point in the public eye.
Nathans stood up and patted Stromgaard on the shoulder, then he turned to Vincent. “He’s probably got a month left, maybe two.”
Vincent stared in silence, absorbing the information. He waited, and finally Nathans spoke again. “He needs you to take his place as the High Priest of the neo-Satanists. You’re the heir apparent.”
The younger Van Ryman snapped out of his trance and looked at Nathans. “Me? Isn’t it enough now? Haven’t we brainwashed enough people?”
“No,” Nathans answered firmly. “These are people who have to find themselves a religion—it’s like theological masturbation. If they don’t join neo-Satanism, then they’ll become Fundamentalist Christians, or Scientologists, or something else. At least we’re honest with ourselves about our motivations.”
“And I’m supposed to take his place, carry on those sacrifices, attend the rituals, and pretend I believe in all that stuff?”
“It’s for a good cause.” Nathans shrugged. “The betterment of humanity—we’re keeping the marching morons occupied while the rest of us continue what mankind was destined to do.”
“You sound very high and mighty, Mr. Nathans,” Vincent responded.
“I have every right to. Nobody else is thinking about our future.” He rubbed his hands together, as if dismissing the subject.