As Babalon Hermione entered the spiralling tower of her all girl’s Goetia convent school of Succubae; she mumbled to herself, “I feel like an out of place Alice in Under-land within this infernal Cabbalistic hierarchy of planetary classroom spheres. Maybe that is why I keep on getting into so much trouble in Da’at Avalon. I just don’t fit in anywhere,” she said to herself.
Hermione knew that the Grand Abbess Morgana le Fay awaited her forlorn arrival for detention upon the ’13th Floor’ of Gimel-Ot; her fumbling hands attempted to balance a half eaten Avalon Apple behind her back, in the hope that she could bribe Morgana to go easy on her backside.
But in her nervousness Hermione dropped its sweating mass. She watched the Apple corpse out of the corner of her blinking eye, as it rolled its erratic way across the cold chess-board floor, of cracked granite blocks.
Morgana is not at all impressed, as she silently observes Hermione’s tripping entrance, who, sadistically smiles. She looks like a Raven, eclipsed by shadow, as she stands behind an ancient oak desk, whose legs are carved into raging Tibetan Buddha’s, which are hungrily eyeing up Hermione as a potential vore meal.
“It has come to my attention… my dear… that you are using your Spell sung words… to weave… dissonance… among my other Succubae students.”
Hermione noticed that Morgana artfully uses spaces between her words, which to cut through the silence, like a sacrificial Athame. “All of my other eight Olympic sphere sisters, Moronoe, Mazoe, Gliten, Glitonea, Gliton, Tyronoe, Thiten, and even Thiton have reported that you have been a very naughty little princess in their Sephirot classes. At this rate, how will you ever be able to find a sorcerer to service you with his erect wand… you do know that you will not survive without its ejaculated emotive ‘charge’ to ‘spin’ your electron dream presence, don’t you.”
“Yes, I know Mistress… I am studying very hard, those arts, which will lead me to the creamy wand to suck off and to ride as my broomstick, just like my sisterly Witch Nuns,” Hermione replied. “so you say, my dear.” answered Morgana, “however, it is patently obvious that you are not trying hard enough, which has been further exacerbated by you… disturbing your Genie sisters… Tantric studies.” Hermione also becomes aware that Morgana’s Athame of a forged mind, always thinks, before speaking, of pondered breaks, prior to uttered words; though subtle, it lends to her speech, an impact on every word Spell spoken, which of conjuring quality, is almost like the arising silky tone of a wise serpent’s inevitable bite.
“But.. but, Mistress…” Hermione to mumble, while staring at her nimble left foot of scraped shiny shoe, scraping the checker board floor, as if attempting to dig a very deep wormhole, so as to fall into. “I did not intend to, affect the perceptions of the other Succubae students… I was just telling it the way… it is… Mistress.”
Morgana goes silent, her sea green eyes pierced into Hermione’s very soul; then, Morgana snarls. “Telling it… the way… it is,” Morgana to repeat her words, scornfully. “Pray tell, me… little Ghost Girl… what this, way it is… is… of a Spell?”
“I am afflicted… Mistress… with an affliction, which afflicts me.” Hermione to near tearfully answer, in the hope that a tear drop upon reddened cheek will soften Morgana’s sharp beak.
“Afflicted…” Morgana to shake her ruffled horned head of a black pitch crown, to then question, “Afflicted with what?”
“I am afflicted with…social anxiety disorder… and… clinical depression… Mistress; I can’t help it, Mistress.” Hermione to answer, while looking down at the granite floor, avoiding Morgana’s piercing green eyes.
There was a long silence before Morgana to snarl; “I would never of guessed it… nor to have even fathomed it as a sorceress… until you attempted to hypnotise me… let us not forget, all the other… Succubae students of my Da’at Apple lore Goetia school… who you have, duly hypnotised with your Spell of ‘belief’… before they even got to know you…. Now my dear, they all see you as having an affliction, which empowers your internal… ‘Self Image’… as being the afflicted.”
Hermione did not know where to look as she continued digging at the floor with her shiny shoe tip. “But… but… that’s what the Muggle doctors said… that I’m afflicted with… Mistress.”
“MUGGLES.” Morgana to howl, as she claws the round Zodiac tabletop with her Queen Bee talons. “Don’t you realise, that if the Muggles had their way.. they would pigeonhole us all, as being raving loons… suffering from varying mundane mental conditions… castigating us into their Holy-wood brick walled Masonic asylums of controlled mediocrity.”
Hermione looks down at the floor. “But… but, Mistress… I, I feel…so, Strange… ever since I left my mortal coil, finding myself here, in Avalon as a Goetia Ghost Girl. I just don’t seem fit into your Beehive; I can’t communicate what I really feel into my… Spells… it’s so, so confusing. I didn’t mean to hypnotise the other Succubae students, to see me as the afflicted; but, that’s what I was told, when I was alive… by the… Muggles.
Morgana places her left hand over her face, in an attempt to steady raging thoughts; “Alas, my dear… in your once mortal attempts to no longer feel like an outcast among the mundane Muggles… around whose brain dead mob, you felt.. so, very… Strange… you had inadvertently allowed yourself to be influenced by the inane Muggle priests… in order to feel that you belonged to one of their pigeonholed, Ring-Pass-Not’s… but, without realising it… you have since hypnotised your fellow Succubae, who, as you are very much aware, are all of the… Strange.”
Hermione decided to brave the situation, by craftily disengaging Morgana’s inquisitional dagger eyes away from her battered soul, to elsewhere stare, by quizzically enquiring, “Is Faustus Crow of the Strange too, Mistress?” Morgana, nearly trips over a raging Buddha leg of her table. “What? Why are you speaking of… Crow?”
“I’ve noticed his Tantric graffiti all over the cracked walls of your Silver Star school; especially in the Witches dormitories; I’m, just trying to understand what, Strange, actually is of a quantifiable example… Mistress.” Hermione to ask, half smiling to herself, as she observed Morgana’s face blushing Rubedo red; she appears to be experiencing an involuntary Nigredo orgasm, which ripples through her taken aback, autonomic-nervous system, of dark ecstasies. Morgana then graspingly takes hold of her heavy black Yew chair of carved Anubis hand rests, to slip into its steadying depths, remembering the Albedo Dog days of Sirius, when Crow penetrated her moist honey isle.
Morgana then slowly looks away from Hermione, as she answers; “Crow is the strangest of the Strange, who rages against the establishment of the Conquistador. His nature, is rebellious. of Zodiac sign.”
Morgana continued, “Crow does not care at all, what the Muggles think of him… even when as a Changeling Childe, he had consistently played truant from their temporal schooling… nor is he unduly concerned about what the Muggles to now say, about his Heyoka antics of artistic sorcery. Hence, Crow is an Avadhuta outcast in their world… who, I might add, has been pigeonholed by many a brainwashed Muggle priest of their Animus deity, as being quite mad, let alone being utterly insane… or far worse.”
Hermione, noticed that Morgana was stroking herself with a Crow feather, while licking her lips with a long serpentine tongue, “there are even a number of brain-dead unimaginative Muggles who believe Crow, is possessed by demonic entities.”
“Is that what being Strange, means… do I have to become an outcast, too… Mistress?” Hermione to worriedly enquire.
Morgana goes silent before answering; “I must say… there are differing Runic degrees of the Strange, my dear. What Masonic level of the Strange you choose to be… will be determined by your own inner truth as a… Succubus Witch… to not fear, expressing who you truly are of Genie nature, and in so doing, learning about yourself, in the process…. rather than attempting to be what the Muggles considered as being, acceptably normal, which made you fall asleep as a sleeping beauty; or to be otherwise labelled as being upon their rung of a Jacobs ladder, so that you could have been fitted into their Holy-wood TV land… of dull eyed, shiny herd-mind cliques.”
“In your constant attempts to be what the Muggles said you were of an illusory label, you ended up ‘believing’ in their curse, which led to you taking your own life… didn’t it not. Now you are here, within my Lilitû school of Avalon, where you have to learn to dispel their brand upon your branded soul, so that you can awaken.” Then there was silence, as Morgana gathered herself up from her chair, as an inky black shadow, who steadily moved of calculated steps towards an iron maiden, within whose opened guts of blood rust metal, Hermione noticed Morgana’s collection of canes, which made her bite her lip near red raw.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it” Hermione to have howled out within her St Trinian mind; “I forgot to put on a pair of Slytherin briefs, this twilight, of punishing onslaught, betwixt and between the crucifying pylons of Moon and Sun… Oh! By the name of the Goddess, save me!”
Morgana becomes aware of Hermione’s under-dressed dilemma, “the Goddess will not save you my little night-mare whore,” she then questions her iron maiden; “What am I going to do with such a difficult student? Perhaps I will use the biggest, longest and thickest of girth cane I have, of most ancient usage, whose tarnished grey wood has been laid upon many a pert behind of fifty shades, of red.”
Then, as if shot by a Vajra bolt of inspiration from out of the blue penumbra of the Moon; Morgana decided to place her grey cane of a biting tooth, back into the maiden’s guts, who to otherwise pick up a gnarled grimoire from a dusty shelf. “I know, what to do with you, of educational punishment, you can deliver this tome to… Faustus Crow.”
Morgana hands Hermione a book, which is, entitled Lilith’s Harem, she to notice has been authored by Crow. Hermione cannot help herself of feline curiosity to open the book up to the first page, which has been personally signed and inscribed to Crow, by a Witch, whose name she instantly recognises.
Hermione to uncontrollably scream; “By the Goddess, it has been signed by J.K . Rowling, herself, of living gold dust… Mistress!”
Morgana to impatiently snap; “Yes, yes; don’t get your Witch’s knickers in a twist; Rowling is too of the… Strange; her writing style is not too different to yours of artistic expression… for you to go far beyond of a Ring-Pass-Not… if you desire it so, as an inspiring Muse of the Gunas. You might even be able to open up the seven Dwarven smithy Chakra seals along Crow’s tree, should you ever awaken… my little serpentine, Kundalini Shakti Mercurius, to thence gift him your sweet Mercurial Apple of a Philosophers Stone third eye. That aside, don’t tell anyone about Crow’s autographed tome… it is a secret; wherein you will find my alternate name.”
Hermione stands before Morgana, grinning like a Cheshire cat, to then ask; “where, do I find Crow?”
Morgana answered; “You can find Crow within the enfolding shadows of the Goat Head Inn; he is usually by himself… quite alone, as he manifests visions within a black book, who is quite partial to Lady Killer Rum, which is of deepest red; likened to menstrual blood, of Rubedo colour… such be his alchemical poison; although, he has a preference for Cider, who to have drunk deeply of my bald, smooth grail… many a delicious time.”
Hermione to gibber, as a horrifying realisation hits her; “Oh! By the blessed Goddess… Mistress; but… but… the Goat Head Inn… is along the Tarot path… of the…”
Morgana cuts in, “Yes indeed, my dear, you will have to service Crow as his most loving Goetia Girl Succubus within his dreams; catering to his every whim; just as every bat winged Goetia Nun does so, who worship him as their Lord… that is your… much needed… punishment!”