Murder on Mars, Chapter 18
Have Archaeologists Finally Solved The Mystery Of Atlantis?
Donnelly’s theory is still popular among some of today’s theorists. This is because it shares the same location with where Plato described Atlantis to be. It has since been debunked by modern oceanographers. Scientists have a much better understanding of how plate tectonics work. Therefore, the idea that the waters shifted, sinking Atlantis in the process, had too many holes for people to continue taking Donnelly’s work seriously. But this didn’t stop future theorists from expanding on his work.
One person who was directly influenced by Donnelly’s work was Russian mystic and gestural magician Helene Blavatsky, who founded the Theosophical Society. Unlike Plato, who believed that the Atlanteans were purely a military entity, she considered them to be more sophisticated and a culturally rich civilization. She believed that her own race had evolved from the Atlanteans, who she called the “Root Race.” However, the people of Atlantis were the cause of their own downfall after many internal battles influenced by supernatural powers.
Shockingly, Blavatsky’s theories would have more damaging repercussions than she could ever have anticipated. After articulating her beliefs in her book The Secret Doctrine, this manuscript eventually became a piece of inspiration for the Nazis. The myths of Hyperborea, a land that was home to a godlike race only added fuel to the fire of Nazism and added a new mythological layer to their ideology. It was a dark chapter in the pseudo-history of Atlantis, until more impartial theorists came into play …
A hard, cruel voice. The heavy accent is Russian, with the expected enunciation, but her diction is impeccible. A severe, cultured voice in keeping with the stiff-backed old lady that she is.
“So … You are the plaything who dares to try and kill its better?” Asks the spinster, rhetorically, of a prone, incapacitated Simon who is laying face-down in the alley. She’s looking down at him slowly with a striking coldness.
Her name is Helene Blavatsky, a duchess and retired librarian. She is also a mystic, gestural magician, and the founder of the Theosophical Society. Back in the day, she was Hitler’s personal astrologer. That notwithstanding, the prim and proper Duchess Blavatsky is not a Nazi.
Racially, she is a Hag, specifically a Furie. Therefore, she is easy mistaken for a Crone, but, upon closer inspection, the madness shown in her eyes is the giveaway as to what flavor of Hag she truly is. Her lunatic kind is the very definition of two-legged insanity and depravity.
Therefore … underneath of that cold, calculating exterior of hers is a maniac, a raving thing … who, from time-to-time, expresses that madness unrestrained. Most often, a portent of that lunatic expression is red circles or rings around eyes and irises, and bloodshot eyes [i.e., Kahlan’s Con Dar].
And, also during this Con Dar. Messy straight hair. The unkempt hair of a lunatic who rants and raves at a full moon, while foaming at the mouth and gnashing their teeth. A hairdo that makes it look like she’s wearing a frightwig.
In appearance. The Hag goddess embodies aspects of both the anti-feminine and the feminine. Her tight obscene bun and strictured skirt suit, complemented by women’s black ballet flats and drab khaki stockings, contribute to create an overall impression of a grotesquely deviant femininity, sexual repression, and the devious overtones of a dominatrix.
In many ways, Helene is the flipside, as well as the expression and extension taken to its logical conclusion, of Lucy’s husband, Ms. Barbara Elizabeth Covett. She is Lucy’s perfect “other” woman.
A beguiling perfume. The same becoming, natural-looking “no makeup” makeup worn by Russian ballerinas in Moscow’s world class Bolshoi Theatre—i.e., Bolshoi-bare. Fancy, retro-1950, French-cut underwear. A perl necklace. Coke-bottle eyeglasses, with plain glass in the place of prescription lenses, and clear plastic frames— i.e., the unbecoming spectacles known as sternns. A frumpy outfit. An equally dowdy hairdo—her grey hair, liberally streaked with white, is parted down the center and yanked back and down into a bun which rests on the nape of her neck—i.e., the staple hairdo of the Russian librarian since the 1930’s, known as a sternka. Wrist-length formal white gloves—i.e., prudz. A white cotton pussy-bow blouse that has been pressed and starched within an inch of its life—coarse weave—i.e., a corsa. A flecked gray tweed skirt suit of a style made popular in the 1940’s thru the early-to-mid 1960’s—its nipped waist jacket has a very conservative English cut and three-quarter-length sleeves, and its matching knee-length pencil skirt with a high waist and comes with a matching belt—it’s known as a Kaye in the UK, and is stodgier than the Kate because of the aforementioned lower hemline of its of skirt. And, underneath that no-nonsense business suit and that plain white blouse. A lacy white underwire bullet bra, with a daring cleavage-baring French cut, resulting in the highly artificial look of pointed projectile breasts—breasts are pushed up, together, and straight out. A matching white satin lace-trimmed half-slip and a lacy heavily boned flesh-colored panty brief with metal stays and a French-cut. Brassiere and panty briefs have old-fashioned hook-n-eye closure. A cigarette purse gripping the waistband of her skirt.
If you were to lift up her slip and skirt, you would see a telltale bulge in the crotch of her panties. She’s wearing Parts, and is well-endowed strapping. And intends to use it to sodomize her would-be murderer. The very idea of rectally violating him makes her cum.
Simon is quite the sight. Bereft of his clothes as well as his senses. Mouth fitted with a ball gag. Handsomely hogtied. The proverbial roast meat on a spite. His beloved knife is in her purse.
The duchess rolls him onto his back.
“I thought you looked familiar. You’re one of those bastards of Theirs. I know your father very well, you favor him. Your uncle is the goat deity Baphomet.”
She kicks him viciously in the side, cracking a couple of his ribs. She’s already broken six of them.
“I’m going to have a lot of fun hurting you. They said that I could do anything to you as long as I didn’t kill you. Too bad your half-breed kind heal so fast.”
She pauses, thoughtfully.
“Come to think of it.”
She giggles, mindlessly.
“Half Angel and half human … I haven’t had the chance to do one of you in a coon’s age … Yes, much fun indeed hurting you.”
She pauses again, this time licking her thin lips with her long, facile, well-educated tongue. Her mouth is large and ugly, as vulgar-looking as its owner is vulgar. A vulgarity that she’s carful to hide from public view.
“You uncle tried to recruit me once upon a time into the membership of that church of his. Such an insult, a very grave insult, with me being a goddess and all. A very old god thing I be. You’re gonna pay for his insolence.”
Baphomet and his church are fictionized in a Netflix serial, “The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina”, the streaming company’s spin on the story of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. The show uses a statue of Baphomet as the central icon for their story’s evil human-sacrificing Satanic cult.
In the show, Sabrina (played by Kiernan Shipka, best known to audiences as Sally Draper of “Mad Men”) is a half-witch, half-mortal teenager who needs to decide whether she wants to take the step to become wholly witch by signing “The Book of the Beast.” The problem: Although signing that book would give her powers, it would also tie her to life-long servitude to the “Dark Lord” (also known as the Devil, also known as Satan) and his church, the Church of Night.
The Dark Lord is not a benevolent character in the series; he sends his minions to torture and coerce Sabrina into signing the book, and is head of a decidedly patriarchal church organization that is rife with abuse and corruption. He shows up occasionally in the series as a terrifying beast with a goat’s head and hooves, and is represented by the Baphomet statue, which sits in the center of the show’s Academy of the Unseen Arts.
Strange how life often imitates art, isn’t it?