THE RED KING

The Red King emerges; detail from the Splendor Solis

At the outset of our explorations we pledged to investigate the origins and meaning of these mysterious ruins as far as any evidence permits. Yet, being left mainly to the suggestions of local toponymy, it would seem our reading of the evidence has led us to rather disparate conclusions.

On the one hand, various symbolic associations, coupled with many of the practicalities involved, would tend to aver some connection between our ruins and an inveterate patrimony of Masonic Orangeism once dominant within Toronto's municipal affairs. On the other hand, the cultural and psychological underpinnings of said symbolism, as revealed through these very same studies, appear inapplicable at best, and antithetical at worst, to the philosophy or ambitions of any such institution. Instead, they would seem to point towards the dire, if hypothetical aspirations of what we have deemed, by way of Neumann, to be "ouroboric annihilation" — the return to a primal, unconscious inanimacy; in pursuit of a permanent, insensate oblivion.

By all means, such discrepancy could indicate a fault in the course of our explorations; implying our analysis of the relevant symbols has been somehow incorrect, or that various assumptions of symbolism were erroneous to begin with. That said, however, it is by no means a sign of inevitable failure to discover conflict within the interpretation of a symbol, or set thereof. Contradiction, to the contrary, is often the intended result. Nor is it necessarily folly to seek meaning where none is overt. As Neumann, himself, has written of such things:

The symbol always stands at the beginning, the most striking feature of which is its multiplicity of meanings, its indeterminate and indeterminable character ... The psyche blends, as does the dream; it spins and weaves together, combining each with each. The symbol is therefore an analogy, more an equivalence than an equation, and therein lies its wealth of meanings, but also its elusiveness. Only the symbol group, compact of partly contradictory analogies, can make something unknown, beyond the grasp of consciousness, more intelligible and more capable of becoming conscious.

This, as it happens, accords rather nicely with a certain Masonic charge: "to gather what is scattered" — that is, in other words, to search out, then bring together, such disparate conclusions as ours in the service of rendering some greater symbol, infused with deeper meaning. Here one may cite from Béresniak, as if in continuation of Neumann:

Symbolism emphasises subjective knowledge. The use of symbolism encourages a form of introspection through free association, linking individual and collective history, as well as the laws governing all things ... In fact, the use of symbolism destroys fossilised definitions which no longer fit a changing reality. It causes us to accept the transitory nature of being, constantly in the process of becoming something else. The point is to recognise reality's true, living nature, to recognise the porousness of the boundaries that separate categories ... Thanks to their familiarity with symbolism, Freemasons recognise the mythological aspect of any discourse. What better proof is there that the use of symbolism gathers what is scattered?

In gathering, then, what has been scattered throughout this city's ruins, we might now recall the common recurrence of a certain ostensible symbol — that of the gateway, or interface — being found either in the form of a multi-directional passage or, conversely, in the form of an un-passable portal. Thinking here of those pillars, obelisks, and boundary markers; fallen or standing in various arrangements — of those broken or blockaded bridges, open manholes, sealed-off "deneholes," entries, outfalls, and the like — what better pronouncement of both the "multiplicity of meanings" and "indeterminable character" manifest within, and all around, each of these symbolic structures, positioned topographically and metaphorically between our understanding and the unknown?

Various routes of ruined passage, from a painting by J.S. Cotman c.1801

From them we have managed to synthesize such divergent inscrutability into the form of yet another symbol — that of the "red king" — investing all of their assorted associations into this singular composite figure; one virtually translated into existence through our own peculiar mode of "mythological discourse," being full of all the multiplicity, ambiguity, and paradox that one might expect from such a complex of interwoven imagery.

Our last image of a "red king," as we'll now recall, was that of the second coming of Christ — as a syncretized vision of William of Orange — charging through Revelation upon a white horse, "clothed with a vesture dipped in blood." This, however, is just one of many incarnations our "red king" has deigned to assume. That one should surpass any other in legitimacy is still not in any way evident. As simply an amorphous, indefinite concept our "king" remains symbolically versatile. As a multifarious "king of kings" he is continuously strengthened and enlarged. But then, of course, arrives a question: towards what particular end?

We might note that this blood-imbrued form of "red king" corresponds with the original ruaidhri of "Crothers" Woods — from the Celtic ruad, that "red, of a brownish or dark red ... of blood-stains." We then might refer to the Orange Order's Irish roots, or its deeper Celtic origins in the Gallic god Arausio. Indeed, we might reference many Celtic "red kings," from Arthur and Dá Derga, to Áed Ruad and more, then link them, some way, back to William and Christ — but, still, it would seem there'd be much left undone.

Observing the often quadripartite nature of this symbol, as established through our prior mythological studies, it may appear that this rider and mount yet require some additional ally and serpentine foe. Revelation, we will note, being replete with numerological content, maintains no shortage of consequential quartets. There are the four winged beasts, known also as the Living Creatures, "full of eyes before and behind"; one like a lion, one like a calf, one like an eagle, and one like a man. Then there are the Four Horsemen, mentioned earlier with regards to their chromatic significance; one red, one white, one black, and one "pale" (from a Greek word for yellow, as we will recall). As concerns the "red king" Jesus, however, he, as always, rides with God in the schema of the Trinity; allowing, here, for the Holy Spirit to play the role of steed. Whom they ride against, of course, is the fallen one, "that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan" as he is described.

Our first encounter with this adversary in Revelation, however, occurs in the form of another foursome. The unborn Jesus is together with Mary, here depicted as the Woman of the Apocalypse, "clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars." As the author John then relates of his vision:

And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born.

The fourth component of this quaternity is the archangel Michael, who battles the dragon after Mary escapes with the newborn Christ Child "into the wilderness." Being then "cast out into the earth," Satan continues his pursuit of the Virgin, who now sports a pair of eagle's wings. The Red Dragon produces a flood from his mouth so as to consume the Woman, but the earth swallows up the flood, and again she evades "that old serpent," leaving him "wroth" in the parlance of the King James Version.

Here it would seem that the Devil takes the lead in this conglomerate "red king's" iconography; being red of flesh and many times crowned, if ultimately suppressed by the other three parts. The stellar, diluvial, and child-devouring aspects of this dragon also connect him with many "kings" and themes past — which, by now, should need no further restating. We might only note that this particular red dragon-king would seem to be the possessor of certain quadripartite forces, in and of himself. Having been foiled by the triumvirate of Michael, Mary, and Christ, Satan turns his vengeance towards the rest of the world; first raising two other demonic beasts: one of the sea, and one of the land (recalling Leviathan and Behemoth of the Old Testament, Hedammu and Ullikummi of the Hittites, etc.) — with the former being "like unto a leopard," with "the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion," and the latter having "two horns like a lamb," while "he spake as a dragon," being often inferred as the Antichrist. Satan, as Red Dragon, then serves as mount to a third compatriot, "the great whore that sitteth upon many waters." John is taken away by an angel to see this figure in person, whom he finds, like the Woman of the Apocalypse before, off in the "wilderness":

So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.

This woman, in fact, is that city itself — whether Babel, Babylon, or the ancient astral Eridhu. As the repugnant embodiment of a location so often revealed through our studies, she completes, with those beasts, this Satanic quartet. We'll then recall that, just as Lucifer was likened to a fallen king of Babylon (with Nimrod, Marduk, and Nebuchadnezzar all viable candidates for this title), so too is Babylon, in Revelation, prophesied to fall. With much symbolic bearing on our own investigations, we read how "a mighty angel took up a stone like a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying, Thus with violence shall that great city Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more at all." We'll now note how our "cosmic mill" motif portends a celestial fall — with our own ruined stones, and their sundry ties to mills, standing, in certain ways, like the remains of another fallen city, spread throughout an urban "wilderness" (observing, here, the sunken-city-within-a-city implications as they relate to Neumann's "Great Mother" theme).

The Red Dragon and his Women, from a 14th century illumination

With respect to our symbolic gateways above, we might also remember "Babel"/"Babylon's" Akkadian etymology: "gate of God," or "the gods." With respect, however, to the manifold perplexity embedded in such gateway symbolism we should also consider that the historic Babylon had already fallen from any importance long before John is thought to have written his Revelation, sometime near the end of the first century AD. Why it should be said to fall once again is a matter of frequent speculation. Some conceptual bifurcation of this city, though, is the generally accepted gloss. As the Reverend Cyrus Scofield explains in his famous Reference Bible:

Babylon, 'confusion,' is repeatedly used by the prophets in a symbolic sense. Two 'Babylons' are to be distinguished in the Revelation: ecclesiastical Babylon, which is apostate Christendom, headed up under the Papacy; and political Babylon, which is the Beast's confederated empire, the last form of Gentile world-dominion. Ecclesiastical Babylon is 'the great whore' (Rev 17:1) and is destroyed by political Babylon (Rev 17:15-18) that the beast may be the lone object of worship. (Th2 2:3); (Th2 2:4); (Rev 13:15). The power of political Babylon is destroyed by the return of the Lord in glory. The notion of a literal Babylon to be rebuilt on the site of ancient Babylon is in conflict with (Isa 13:19-22). But the language of (Rev 18:10); (Rev 18:16); (Rev 18:18) seems beyond question to identify 'Babylon,' the 'city' of luxury and traffic, with 'Babylon' the ecclesiastical centre, namely, Rome. The very kings who hate ecclesiastical Babylon deplore the destruction of commercial Babylon.

To bring this all back to the Orange Order, now, we will note that "Babylon," and the Whore thereof, remain common epithets employed by the more militant adherents of Protestantism to refer to the Catholic Church in Rome. The Antichrist, or Satan himself, will also, as deceiver-in-chief, regularly assume the position of Pope. As a fallen angel, who "fell as lightening" from heaven, he is also, of course, the fallen light of the morning star Lucifer. We might, here, effect some linguistic bridgework from this "light-bearer" Lucifer to the "shining" Arausio of Orange; noting somewhere, in between, that "shining light" Nimrod — Babylonian king and cryptic Irish saint, alleged Masonic founder and centauric suggestion of the equestrian King William. But Revelation, one finds, is full of such fallen stars. One, for instance, unlocks a "bottomless pit" from which proceeds a plague of locusts; while another, the mysterious "Wormwood," so named, "fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters," poisoning them, and killing many men — recalling, here, that "third part of the stars of heaven," cast down by the tail of the Dragon himself. The morning star is also cited twice, by name; though first as a gift to the faithful at Thyatira (an important early church in western Turkey), and then as Christ himself who, in the book's final chapter, pronounces: "I am the root and offspring of David, and the bright and morning star."

From here we could remark upon David's Masonic significance in relation to the Temple of Solomon, the importance of Turkey to much of our studies, or even the twenty-two chapters of Revelation as they might relate to the twenty-two steps of the Humber Summit bridge, and then to such further areas of interest as Kabbalah (22 being the number of letters in the Hebrew alphabet), Tarot (22 being the number of cards in the Major Arcana), and alchemy (22 being the number of illustrations in the earlier mentioned Splendor Solis ‭— attributed to one "Salomon Trismosin")‬. But it should suffice, at this point, to have amalgamated Satan and Christ under the same "Luciferian" moniker, solidifying their shared iconic responsibility in this last manifestation of the "red king." Again, however, the call goes out: towards what particular end? Beyond vain multiplicity and contradiction, what "something unknown, beyond the grasp of consciousness" can be made "more intelligible" through such a symbol?

Certainly, more of the Orangemen's Masonic basis would be intimated through any relation to Lucifer. But such a basis is well-enough known already, and, as previously detailed, any Luciferian relations among the Freemasons would be of the Gnostic, not the Satanic variety. Meanwhile, neither variety would seem to address our underlying cause of "ouroboric annihilation" — unless, of course, an even deeper basis can somehow be discovered. One lost, or unknown to its later descendants. Or one which, perhaps, filtered through undetected, into an organization heedless of all the "red king's" obscure implications — infesting it, whether purposely or not, like a form of symbolic parasite — corrupting it, like the vastly deferred curse of an exceedingly ancient spell; resolving that the profound subconscious significance of this nihilistic figure will eventually prevail over any superficial significations of "heroic" ideals or intent.

In search of this deeper basis, we must now look, of course, to the basis of Masonry — or, at least, to some early influence. We have already covered their self-professed roots in the biblical mists of Babel and Israel (to which we may add some ancillary roots in Egypt, by way of Euclid). We have also traced their own recorded history to a purported set of documents laid down at York in the 10th century; during the regin of the Saxon king Æthelstan (a name meaning "noble stone," we should not fail to mention). The generally agreed upon origins of modern Freemasonry, though (at least, as accepted beyond the walls of the Lodge), date to the gradual relinquishment of control over the Scottish stone masons' guild by the Sinclair, or "St. Clair," family of Rosslyn (noting the prior import of St. Clair Avenue to certain of our ruins), and then to the founding of the First Grand Lodge in London, with both occurring sometime around the start of the 18th century (not long before the founding of the Orange Order, itself, in 1795). Certainly, however, this society, with all of its arcane beliefs and ceremony, did not arrive fully-formed out of nowhere. Thus, the truth of its genesis must lie somewhere in between Babel and the Enlightenment.

Having already hinted at Masonic ties to Gnosticism, Kabbalism, and alchemy, we might mention some similar ties that are found within a more immediate tradition of (largely) German occultism — as practiced by the likes of Paracelsus, Agrippa, Kircher, and Boehme during the 16th and 17th centuries — and which resulted in such things as the Rosicrucian movement, whose direct influence on the nascent Freemasons one can read much about elsewhere (let us, for now, merely recall those "red" or "rosy cross" associations frequently cited earlier). Without going into any further details about each of the systems above, it will suffice to observe that the Masons were drawing on sources which could, at the time, all fall under the dangerous heading of religious heresy, while tending towards even graver indictments of magic, sorcery, and witchcraft. That all this was occurring at the height of the great Western witch-hunt, wherein thousands were executed for even the slightest suspicion of such doings, is surely significant. It is not unreasonable to assume that the constant threat of persecution might explain the Freemasons' inherent commitment to secrecy, while eventually leading to more vehemently anti-Church outgrowths of Masonry such as the Orange Order (not that witches, or their kind, suffered any less at the hands of the Protestants).

Of course, the mere charge of wizardry by no means ensured an inevitable punishment. In this time of the late Renaissance, certain occultists enjoyed royal patronage and protection (we might think of Nostradamus, or Kelley and Dee), while many royals — and even clergy — were, themselves, alleged dabblers. In the more liberal climbs of this era such esoteric arts could also pass under the guise of science (Newton, as most know, was a dedicated alchemist). Hanging, drowning, and burning at the stake were mainly a plight of the unfortunate peasantry — and then, among them, mostly a female concern. Any negative attention cast from on high upon these fraternal activities may well have been brought on without the aid of any magic at all. Indeed, one of the stated goals of the original Rosenkreutz pamphlets was the overthrow of the papacy — which accords with the later Freemasons' pursuit of religious, intellectual, and political freedom as espoused through their very name (disregarding the alternate, and more likely etymology as related to limestone, and as previously discussed).

To what extent the origins of Masonry and Orangeism are founded in actual thaumaturgy is uncertain. It is likely that many accusations of witchcraft and devilry were initially levelled by the priesthood itself as these institutions steadily grew in power to eventually rival that of the Church. Even today one can still find such claims being made from numerous religious points of view. Still, one must remark upon a particular aspect of these societies — namely the primacy of King Solomon, and his Temple, to Masonic lore — and the potential association of this aspect with sorcery. We will note a proliferation of various magical texts and grimoires, from the Middle Ages into the time of the first Masons, as well as the attestation of many existing much earlier, all attributed to Solomon himself — The Key of Solomon, The Book of Solomon, and The Testament of Solomon being among the most typical examples. These would mostly seem to stem from a popular legend regarding the construction of his Temple at Jerusalem. As Francis King writes in his Witchcraft & Demonology:

One of the things which most impressed the Jews of the centuries subsequent to the reign of King Solomon was that the huge Temple he had ordered to be raised took only seven years to build. Surely, it was said, ordinary human beings could not have been capable of this feat ... To split rocks into stones of the desired size was no easy task for Solomon's workmen for, according to legend, God had forbidden that any tools made of iron should be used in the construction of the Temple. What was needed was knowledge of a way to control the 'shamir', a huge worm believed to have the ability to split and shape stone. Solomon knew that the demon Asmodeus was possessed of this knowledge so he sent a warrior named Benaiah to capture the demon and make him a slave ... by the use of a magic ring engraved with the secret name of God.

Here is a clear proxy to the Masonic story of Hiram and his secret password. Here is also another quadripartite "red king" configuration involving Solomon, Benaiah, Asmodeus, and the "huge worm" shamir in place of the usual serpent — again, having integral relations to stone (by some interpretations of its name it is actually made of stone itself), as well as to water (being originally, by some traditions, a subject of the "Prince of the Sea"). If, from this point, one is then willing to accept that the Freemasons showed, at least, some passing interest in German and Judaic esoterica, it is surely no far leap to assume that this initially British establishment might have found some similar influence elsewhere, including their own local heritage of magic and mysticism — and not just in the arcane tomes of learned occultists, but also in the humbler folklore and superstitions which many of their members most assuredly grew up with.

Seal of Asmoday, from the Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis, after Sloane Ms.2731 of 1687 (above);
depiction of a stone-eating worm, from Eberhard Happel's Relationes Curiosae of 1683 (below)

This now broaches another commonly recurring theme, heretofore only briefly touched on. From the megalithic forms and fetishistic markers strewn about the Don watershed, to the "wicken-trees" and bewitching primrose of the botanic Humber Summit, we have, since the very beginning of our explorations, made symbolic acquaintance with magic plants, enchanted waters, witches, druids, and oracles; agents imbued with paranormal powers, as well as protections against such things. Indeed, even before our explorations were officially underway, suggestions of magical matters were revealed in such street names as Faye Drive and Warlock Crescent. "Faye," we'll recall, was the "nickname for someone believed to have supernatural qualities," arriving via faie, a Middle English variant of "fairy." While not to imply anything literally supernatural about our ruins, nor their presumed custodians, here we might entertain some connection to a particular theory which is arguably just as controversial: that of the lingering witch-cult.

The so-called "witch-cult hypothesis," widely accepted not a century ago, is now all but resigned to the junk heap of academic history. It posits the survival of an ancient, semi-organized fertility religion, pan-European in scope, that was bestowed the epithet of Satanic witchcraft by an upstart Christian faith so as to suppress and, ultimately, exterminate it. The main proponent of this theory within the English-speaking world was the British Egyptologist Margaret Murray, whose work in this area gained prominence during the early 1920s. Among her last remaining advocates, albeit with certain reservations, was the history teacher, turned BBC director, Pennethorne Hughes. Taking a more conservative approach to Murray's investigations, he claimed, in his 1952 book Witchcraft, that anything of the sort which may have come down to us in recent centuries as an alleged "witch-cult" was merely the misunderstood residue of this once supposed practice; "a poor relation of the higher magic and of the earliest and ultimate experience." Nevertheless, some relation remained, in however confused and degenerate a form. Speaking, then, of the witch-cult's contemporary situation, Hughes had the following to say:

Its organization broken, it had become the individual habit of miserable persons. Among the wealthy, who had inherited the cult from a knowledge of dualism, and of magical practices derived from higher sources, pockets no doubt continued, undetected until much later ... The early stream of belief was carried on by secret societies, and handed on by individuals — the non-Christian gnostics, the Cathari, the Rosicrucians, the Illuminati, and, in some respects, the Freemasons.

As to that "earliest experience" of "higher magic," and its original devotees, Hughes, along with Murray (and others before), identify a rather peculiar kind who link directly to our mention of Faye Drive above, to the Faerie Queene of Spenser, and to multiple other previous references:

The practitioners of the cult were originally merely the people of those racial fringes of Europe which still represented palaeolithic culture. The worshippers were known variously as witches or fairies ... It is a truism that the tradition of fairies, whenever it is found, often embalms race-memory of earlier peoples ... They represented various constants in human belief — dreams and hallucinations of little people, used by the subconscious for expeditions of Lilliputian self-expression, finding an outlet in literary nympholepsy. Also, they represented belief in ghosts and nature spirits, and the lesser deities of the Teuton and the Celt. But, more particularly, they were race-memories of the stocks which had inhabited Europe before the coming of the Celts, with their iron culture, in the first two millenia before Christ.

These half-remembered apparitions, according to Hughes, were a breed of "small dark cattlemen" who, upon the coming of civilization to their countries, "retreated into the swamps and the islands, loathing with passion the agriculture, iron, and church bells which were their defeat" — sounding not unlike our own proposed breed "who, being dissatisfied with this march into unchallenged modernity, could sympathize with they who sent dragons and floods to return everything back to its natural, inanimate state."

That such displaced/replaced people existed (at least, as Hughes describes them) is not a matter of archaeological dispute. This is the culture, or number thereof, who painted the caves of Altamira and Lascaux, and then, in later eras, erected those great megalithic structures which we've associated with many of our ruins (and which were known, at various places and times, as "fairy stones," "fairy mounds," and the like). Virtually nothing can be said with certainty, though, about their religious beliefs. Johns Hopkins professor, Georg Luck, however, in his study of Greek and Roman occultism, Arcana Mundi, gives some further credence to the prehistoric roots of witch-cult practice with specific respect to this apparent aversion to iron, stating "the fact that iron knives are generally taboo in magical sacrifices suggests that they may have originated in the Bronze or Stone Age." We now recall God's prohibition of iron tools in the building of Solomon's Temple, while thinking, once again, to the "entombment" of iron-based metals in our reinforced concrete, as theorized along with our "dissatisfied" primitives. We'll then also observe how the Christ of Revelation is repeatedly said to "rule with a rod of iron," and how this might contribute, in its own particular way, to the subsequent "loathing of church bells."

Nocturnal witchery around the "fairy stones," from an 19th century etching (left);
witches and fairies at work together in a 17th century painting by Frans Francken (right)

That being said, however, it would seem that certain elements of these opposing ancient cultures had more in common with each other than initially suspected. It is thought that occasional inter-mingling gave birth to a latter-day "witch-cult" that had, by the early medieval period, and in the words of Hughes, devolved into "a jumble of phallic-Druidism, the dregs of Mediterranean ritual, Scandinavian magic, and, before long, Christian parody" — parodies, he notes withal, that "were in fact degenerate examples of their common origins with Christian practice itself." Hughes, here, goes on to list a multitude of such commonalities, often linking to our own studies in the process: "Probably Jehovah himself was originally a sky and thunder god ... the Jewish religion was itself a compendium of Mesopotamian beliefs with interpolations which seem Egyptian. It even included the common tradition of a sacred stone from Heaven like the Kaabah — the Ark [the heart of Solomon's Temple]." He further notes shared symbolic interest in tree-worship manifested in the form of obelisks, pillars, and the Holy Cross; sacred wells with magic waters; and a "Dianic" virgin/mother-goddess figure. Above all, however, the concept of a "horned god" predominates witch-cult discussion:

The first representation by man of any anthropomorphic deity whatever, is perhaps that of a horned figure, wearing a stag's head and apparently dancing, hidden in the inner darkness of a cavern in Ariège ... The horned god naturally appeared less shaggy and more resplendent with the first civilizations. In Mesopotamia, the number of horns for long indicated the relative importance of the god. The Lamp with Seven Horns, in the Book of Revelation, borrows the symbolism [as, presumably, would the seven-headed, ten horned Red Dragon]. The demon Eukidon, one of the types of the Christian devil found in illustrations, possessed not only horns but hooves and a tail as well. In Egypt, many goddesses had horns, and Osiris, the greatest of all the gods, wore the horns of fertility. So, of course, did Isis.

So also, of course, did Enlil and Pan; Mishipeshu, the Minotaur, and many others already mentioned. Even those associated with horned, or antlered animals — like Mithra, or the Anatolian stag-god — fulfil the requirements of this enduring character, with Hughes supplying the further anecdote that "for hundreds of years a fat buck was led up to the altar of Old St. Paul's, where once had been a temple of Diana." Horses were equally revered in the witch-cult and, in much the same fashion as the silenes and satyrs, were often conflated with this archetype. The witch's broomstick, in fact, has been traced to the rustic hobby-horse, upon which any would-be sorceress could engage in literal flights of fancy; miming the aerial nightrides of mythical "wild hunters" (see above), of whom Diana, again, was the reigning queen. Recalling, here, the ostensive boundary, or gateway charm of that standing broomstick in the Ferris Ravine, we'll now note of the Roman gateway god, Janus (whom we previously aligned with our "red king" Hrwyfy), a possible etymology in the old Italic Dianus, which Hughes is not shy in supporting. For his own part, Hughes aligns Janus/Dianus with the obscure Basque deity Jannicot, and we might then recall the Basque language's previously observed use of grammatical gender animacy. Indeed, the isolate Basque tongue's mysterious roots have led many to assume a prehistoric origin — thus, perhaps, linking the Basque people themselves to the fairy-witch folk of current concern (it is certainly the case that the Basque homeland was a hotbed of witch-hunting during the 16th and 17th centuries, with Francis King devoting an entire section of his book to this subject). Of further interest to our explorations, Hughes goes on to associate Jannicot with Little John of the Robin Hood legends, and then relates the following:

In Germany, the local hobgoblin was called Hoodekin, or Hutkin, and Robin à Hood may be another manifestation of the devil king of the fairies ... The legend of Robin Hood was never entirely localized in Sherwood Forest. It appears up and down the country, sometimes with episodes attached to parallel heroes such as Rob Roy (who, incidentally, disguised himself with goat-skins 'to resemble the Highland Satyr') or Herne the Hunter (an obvious incarnation of Cernunnos, horns and all), but usually under the name of Robin ... a constant name, in many places, for the devil king of the fairy witch people.

Hughes, in the immediately succeeding paragraphs, goes on to link two more of our "red king" suspects with this curious tradition — King Arthur and William Rufus, whom "Miss Murray believes to have been a master-devil," going so far, in her 1954 book The Divine King in England, as to suggest that he was ritually sacrificed in an act of black magic.

The original horned god?: Henri Breuil's depiction of "The Sorcerer"
from the Trois-Frères caves in Ariège, France

Further parallels to various things might continue to be drawn. It would now seem, though, that we've already gotten whatever it is that we came for — and whatever that is, it would seem to be something we likely already had. All this business of "horned gods," "Dianic goddesses," and sinister "devil kings," is, of course, nothing but an overt implication of Satan worship — a charge that would have first been levelled against these fairy-witches by the Church, then possibly incorporated later as actual practice within their cult's remnant confusion of paganism and "Christian parody."

This now takes us back to the intersection of Faye & Lucifer Drives, and a name long suspected as the primary force behind our intangible "red king." But who is this "Lucifer," our's or any other? Who, but a name and a symbol; a cipher and a suggestion? Who, but a literal and metaphorical signpost; a pointer to, and away from countless more of the same — standing-in for a set of ruined structures which, themselves, stand only as symbols? Recalling, here, that third Drive of Warfield which intersects Lucifer with Faye, it would seem we remain locked in symbolic conflict, upon a battleground of icons, language, and myth. As a symbol, Lucifer is both positive and negative; angel and demon; light bringer, dark lord, and blank slate. He is the perfect embodiment of duality, multiplicity, and contradiction. But yet again, the inquisitor must ask: towards what particular end?

In spite of the thousands of words already invested into the cause of these ruins and toponyms, it speaks to the failings of our explorations that we have still not managed to determine whether such monuments were meant to honour or disparage this apparent "red king" of ours. True, structures were raised, and places were named, but all in the most cryptic fashion. Then, of course, most of our "ruins" are ruined, which may, or may not, speak well of their purpose. We should also observe that many of the supposed charms and enchantments alluded to in our studies were meant to ward off, as often as conjure, the magic of witches, fairies, and such. So, too, might these monuments stand equally as protection from, or an invitation to, whatever version of Lucifer is implied or imagined. In truth, we have not even determined if they were the work, or maintained under the auspice, of one single group or tradition. Might their be multiple, and possibly competing powers behind these doings — or, as was hinted at earlier, competing powers within the same institution, operating at various levels of conscious intent? Based on the evidence gathered, from what we've found scattered, a definitive answer is not likely forthcoming.

It must do, at this point, to simply reiterate the frame of our current hypothesis: All, or at least some, of these unusual structures were erected, or co-opted, by a cadre of Orangemen, probably sometime during the early to mid-20th century. Their collective purpose, at least in part (whatever else it might have been), was to project a tradition of pertinent symbolism — a tradition informed by the Orange Order's Masonic roots, which, in turn, were influenced themselves by the convoluted melange of occultism, esotericism, and putative witchcraft as existed at the time of the Freemason's founding. Paramount within this symbolic tradition is a figure known alternately as Lucifer, or the "red king" — a figure representative of numerous others, and numerous diverse qualities; though all tending to gravitate around the general attainment of knowledge, power, and individual liberty. This figure, however, would seem to be based on another, much older conception. One which — potentially unbeknownst to the Orangemen, Masons, or even their immediate predecessors in the so-called "witch-cult" — represented entirely opposite ambitions; standing for the abandonment of knowledge, power, and even life itself, all in search of liberation from the greater realm of animacy. This other conception, which we've dubbed "ouroboric annihilation," may be traced to a strain of primitive culture at odds with the civilizing course of modernity's ancient ancestors — although fragments of this regressive ethos might also be found within the anterior linguistic reaches of our very own cultural bloodlines; waiting, like the proverbial sleeping dragon, or king, to arise at some symbolic notice and reclaim their ruinous kingdom.

But then, of course, the case may be that none of this is right. Lucifer, we're told, is the great deceiver; a trickster, like Hamlet, or Nanabozo before. He's a "red king" not to be entirely trusted, like the "duplicitous" Hrwyfy, or the two-faced Janus. A "Lucifer" in the Miltonian, or Faustian sense; one who promises a certain thing, but delivers quite another — or, perhaps, to be more accurate, one from whom we may have assumed far too much at the start. Indeed, he may be but a figment, like the illusory, dreamlike Red King of Carroll. Or, at most, an archaic irrelevancy, like the Gypsy Red King of The Red King and the Witch.

The "red king" as seen in his many forms

It may serve some further interest — or merely satisfy, what is now, a habitual compulsion — to briefly recap this last mentioned tale, while noting certain relations to our ongoing studies. Despite the name of this story, it revolves mostly around one Peterkin (a diminutive of "Peter," from the Greek name Petros, meaning "rock" or "stone"), third son of the titular Red King. Upon learning that his sister is the co-titular Witch, Peterkin flees his family home; buries a gift of gold from his father in a stone chest, under a stone cross, on the border of his kingdom; then departs on horseback in search of a land where there is "neither death nor old age." He first comes to the land of the Queen of Birds, who'll remain immortal until the last tree in her domain has been felled. This, however, is not enough for Peterkin, so he travels on to another land where he finds a maiden within a palace of copper. Here, within this magical realm, all remain immortal until every tree has been felled, and every mountain levelled. But, still, this is not long enough a time for the third son of the Red King. So he travels, at last, and against his own horse's warnings, to the ominous Plain of Regret, wherein he finds a youth claiming to be the Wind itself. This, for Peterkin, is proof enough that neither death, nor old age, inhabit this land; and there he stays, for what seems twenty years, but is, in fact, a million. Eventually, though, that forewarned regret overtakes our homesick hero. He resolves to return to his father's kingdom, unaware of all the time which had passed. Retracing his route he finds nothing but waste; the mountains and the trees all gone, the maiden and the queen both dead. His sister the witch is still quite alive, however. So Peterkin, upon arriving in his now ruined homeland, disposes her with the sign of the cross; by a well, the only structure to remain intact within his father's kingdom. Now, still thinking that only twenty years had passed, he goes in vain pursuit of the king himself. Finding only a disbelieving old man, who knows this Red King from legend alone, Peterkin goes to unearth the treasure he buried all those years ago so as to prove, both to the man and himself, that the king was actually real. But, upon opening this ancient chest of stone, Peterkin is immediately seized by death, and so the story ends.

This is all to say, one could suppose, there is little to be gained from digging up the past. We might, then, wish to leave the mysteries of our ruined stones buried, together with their long since departed "red king" (if ever he actually lived to begin with). Another interpretation of this tale, however, may be that, having come this far already, there is little profit in going back; that one must press on, without regret — even on until eternity. Here, again, we are struck with the symbolic multiplicity outlined at the start of this section. But now the question, towards what end?, would seem to imply the endless. Having only been allotted a mortal span, though, the endless extends beyond our grasp. Therefor, let us simply end things for now, with an outline of the symbol we've come to know best — the one that we've most associated with our ruins, and that most associates with their other associations — summarizing all that we've learnt of this figure, while adding just a few last items...so as truly to give the devil his due. 

Venus as a "Queen of Birds" (left); "little ones" riding hobby-horses (centre);
the Red King and the lunar-goddess (right); all from the Splendor Solis

Lucifer is foremost the planet Venus; "light-bearer" of the morning star. This planet — brightest object in the firmament, after the sun and the moon — has long held significance, for obvious reasons, to mythoi around the world. We have seen it linked to both Satan and Christ, as well as to numerous goddesses; Ishtar, Inaras, Sachi, and Hecate to re-name only a few. From Hamlet's Mill we also read that "a Babylonian cuneiform tablet states: 'The Goat-Star is also called the witch-star; the divine function of Tiamat it holds in its hands.'" This goat/witch-star, mulUZA, or enzu, pertains either to Venus or Vega (the future pole star). By name, of course, Venus also relates to the Roman goddess of love. Though the goddess and the planet were not connected by astronomers until sometime in the 13th century, this goddess was equated to another, Aphrodite, far back in classical times. The Greek "Aphrodite" then links back to "Ishtar" by way of Astarte, or Asthoreth, a fertility goddess of the ancient Levant who, according to Lurker, "donned a bull's head as a symbol of her ruling position, and there are other references to the horns assigned to her." We now recall the "horned god" and "fertility goddess" that were said to focalize witch-cult worship. We'll also note Venus is the ruling astrological planet of Taurus in the traditional Western zodiac. As the planet of copper in astrology, as well as alchemy, Venus further relates to various topics already detailed above.

Being the closest planet to our's, in terms of both size and orbital distance, we also often find Venus referred to as the "twin" of our own planet Earth. Lucifer, as Venus, we then observe, is likewise the twin of himself; both morning-star and evening-star, darkness and light — Hengist and Horsa, Castor and Pollux, Horus and Seth, and so forth. He is Phosphorus and Hesperus, father of the Hesperides, with their serpent Ladon who, in turn, is the serpent of serpents so often linked back to Lucifer again. To the Greco-Romans he is also father of two sons: Daedalion, who, upon the death of his daughter, flung himself in grief from the heights of Mount Parnassus, only to be transformed into a hawk by the compassionate sun-god Apollo; and Ceyx, who, while en route to the Apollonian oracle of Klaros (recalling the "brightness" of St. Clair, Clarinda, etc.), drowned in the depths of the Aegean Sea (recalling numerous other such deaths), only to be reborn as the halcyon, or kingfisher bird (recalling, now, the Fisher King).

Lucifer, in his next related role as a fallen king of Babylon, is Nebuchadnezzar, Nimrod, and the "calf of the sun-god," Marduk. He, then, is slayer of the serpent-goddess Tiamat, and thus, by extension, is Tiamat herself — as well as Apsû, and Ea, and Enlil, et al. — the whole of the Mesopotamian theomachy. Indeed, to read Lurker's synopsis of Marduk, alone, is to read of our Luciferian "red king" in virtually all but name: "Marduk displayed the characteristics of a god of judgement and of a bringer of light [literally the 'light-bearer' Lucifer] ... His wife was Sarpanitu [Akkadian zarpanit, 'she who shines silver,' being also aligned with Venus] ... Symbolically, Marduk is represented by the reptilian dragon Musussu [the 'red snake' Mushhushshu of Nebuchadnezzar, and the potential relation of our local Mishipeshu]; other attributes of his are the pick-axe or the sickle [castrating weapon of Cronos (*Saturn/Satyr/Satan), who is then also Nimrod, the centaur, again]." He is also the self-consuming "red king" complex of Revelation; the purple Woman of ecclesiastical Babylon, brought down by the scarlet Beast of political Babylon, and finally defeated by the bloody red Saviour, who comes riding out of heaven upon his brilliant white steed.

Lucifer, as satyr, as centaur, as horse, is Leucippus, Nimrod, Silenos, and Pan. He is the horse-like sea-serpent nykr, the serpent-like centaur Medusa, and the winged sea-horse Pegasus, born of the gorgon's blood. As such he is also the chimerical dragon; reptilian, feline, avian, equine — ruler of the sea, of the sky, and the land (both above and below the earth). He is the Red Dragon of Revelation, and the composite monsters he engenders. Being all, and any creatures at once, he is unrecognizable; fluid and transitional between the realms of beast, spirit, and man. As such, he is the ambiguous Set animal; or the horse-like silene who becomes, over time, the goat-like satyr. He is then the horned king and the antlered god — the sacrificial bull and the hunted stag. As mount he is the indeterminate Airavata, wrung from the churning Ocean of Milk. In like manner he is that myriad of horsemen and charioteers such as Bellerophon, the twin Dioscuri, or the ubiquitous Mithra. He is William of Orange upon his own charging steed; then, lest we forget "shining" Phaethon, too, who fell as lightening, by lightening, into the starry Eridanus — river of Eridhu, the original Babel, terrestrial seat of Ea and the "shining light" Nimrod — celestial way to the otherworld, where Cronos, lord of the cosmic mill, sleeps beyond the "shining" bronze gates of ogygion.

Lucifer, now as lightening, is the biblical Satan, and all of those storm-gods in their many number: Indra, Odin, Tarhund, Zeus, Seth once more, and Marduk once again. He is also the very cause of concrete, itself; the fiery snake within the stone. As "light-bearer" he is solar, lunar, and astral; the starry river and the Milky Way; the Virgin "clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet," and the Whore "that sitteth upon many waters." As such, he is the water, the sea-serpent, and the Great Mother. As such, he is she — the progenitor of things — but also the liquid womb in which we coil back up to sleep; to sink into paralysis, into comatose inertia, and to drown in an ossified, inanimate concretion. He, as she, is Diana Luciferia — twice "shining," twice "bright" — but also the dark goddess Hecate, who draws down the moon, and the wild witch-huntress who rides only at night. As just light, alone, s/he is energy itself — the spark of creation, and the flicker of vitality — but also the proverbial light at the end of life which draws all who die to eternal darkness.

Lucifer is the "red king" because he is the king of light; the king of vision and of blinding brightness — one eyed, many eyed; the "pillar," and the "source." He is the red glare of dawn and the red glow of sunset; he who separates the yellow sun from the white moon, and all which shines from the black of night. He is the ultra-violet and infra-red, defending the golden heart of white light from the surrounding cavity of darkness. He is the preeminent primary colour, the first to be distinguished and last to be forgotten. He is the solar-god, and the wielder of lightning, who rules the red flames of fire and combats the icy waters of the black abyss. Yet, as storm-god, he also unleashes the water, and thus holds the power to extinguish himself. He is the "red king" because he sheds the blood of the serpent and, in doing so, sheds the blood of self-sacrifice. He is the missing god, the dying god, and the killing god in one. He is the god of life, and the god which life despises; St. George, the "farmer," the dragon-slaying horseman — and yet Arthur, the "red ravager," who lays waste to the land; a holy royal warrior who emerges from the Aryan alliance of red, white, and gold, to subdue the black horsemen of fertility and growth.

As both dragon and dragon-slayer, life-giver and life-destroyer, our Red King Lucifer is the symbolic embodiment of duality and contradiction; light and dark, man and beast, male and female, life and death. Yet he is not just another symbol of facile "dichotomy"; a mere nod to the existence of opposites. Nor is he, necessarily, an attempt to reconcile, or even explain such existence. Rather, he would seem, like a question, or complaint, to strike at the paradox of existence itself — that "ultimate opposition," as laid out before, from which all the others proceed. Indeed, our assumptive opponents of movement and growth, action and mutability, resent not so much progress, but the very process which allows it — that which permits consciousness from sleep, vitality from death, activity from inertia, or anything from the void — a process to which, despite every grievance, we are always intrinsically linked. As such the Red King is not just an indictment, but also an admission of guilt; a confession that we've all somehow stolen our illegitimate existence, literally gaining something — everything — from nothing...a fact that 10,000 years of symbolism, mythology, religion, and science are still loath to fully explain.

And so we are left only with symbols of frustration, in which opposition resolves itself into intractably opposing forces, stuck in perpetual, insoluble gridlock, never to achieve a particular end. One may attempt to present some faint picture of this contrast, such as often expressed through the Chinese taijitu — yin and yang — wherein complementary, interdependent opposites propel and perpetuate a greater whole. But, in most cases, this literally black and white symbol lacks our Red King's coloured opposition to the actual whole itself. At best, it merely depicts alternating aesthetic voids: White being the flat, blank stare of eternal emptiness; the cynical certainty of its light exposing everything for nothing. Black, meanwhile, representing the uncertainty of infinite depth; out of whose darkness one may always draw from a well of endless, reassuring doubt.

Four conceptions of opposition

In like manner, our Red King may, at surface level, appear to tread similar ouroboric waters as Neumann's heroic/incestuous alter egos. But, at depth, he is also the counteracting force which creates an unfathomable undertow. He is the whirlpool, the Maelstrom, which drags them both downward, and drowns all explication in a sea of extinction. The Red King offers no answers, no consolation, no relief. Instead, he portrays, with flaming indifference, all the conflicting, contrasting, competing ideas which gradually nullify each other's position; subtracting an ever lesser design, until all is lost within total cassation. If any symbology relates him to these visions above it is, perhaps, only that of a taijitu swirling down the drain of ouroboric annihilation; the black and white of yin and yang blending, at last, into the solid grey of lifeless, inanimate concrete.