At the apex of the pyramid, where the four poles joined, was a block-and-tackle contrivance with a heavy rope pulled taut and out at a forty-five-degree angle. The end of the rope was affixed to a railed dais that was positioned about forty feet from the pyramid’s base.
On top of the dais, lounging in the fan-backed wicker chair and still dressed in spotless white, was Lars Hellstrom. A black drum rested on his lap. His lean body was in a casual posture, but his eyes were penetrating and as keen as a hawk’s. Ryan had the urge to duck his head, even though he knew it was impossible for Hellstrom to spot him and his friends.
The area around the pyramid and the dais was thronged by a murmuring crowd, all wearing strange, barbaric costumes. Many wore the hides of beasts, others nothing at all except body paint in multicolored patterns. Most of them wielded flaming torches.
Hellstrom lifted a hand, and the murmuring of the crowd died away. Every eye was upon him, staring with an intensity that came close to adoration.
“I greet you, my brothers and sisters and children.” Hellstrom’s voice was like deep, compelling music and carried a great distance. It was a voice that could sway crowds to madness.
Ryan looked at the rapt faces of the people gazing up at him, and decided that Hellstrom was one of the most dangerous men he had ever seen. To the men, women and probably even the children of Helskel, this rail-thin patriarch was already on the road to divinity, just like his savior, Charlie Manson.
“We have survived. That’s our key word. Survival. The Family has survived for over a century. Everything Lord Charlie prophesied has come to pass. Helter Skelter did indeed come down. And we, his Family, have inherited the earth and we have prospered.”
Absolute, uncompromising uniformity of purpose lay like a duplicated mask on all the faces turned toward him.
“We have seen the dawn of our success,” Hellstrom continued. “We have risen like the phoenix from the ashes, and we occupy the place that was kept from us years ago by the duplicities of false gods.”
The listeners stirred, venting their enthusiasm in an ovation of “Helter Skelter has come down.”
“Even if the world had not choked to death and spit up its own guts and burned itself out, the Family would still have survived. Charlie’s vision was real, his knives were real and the blood he spilled was real. His teachings outlived his enemies. The age of pig magic is over!”
“Helter Skelter has come down!” The throng went wild. Hoarse shouts and cries of hysterical delight resounded.
“I can’t believe this,” Mildred said in horror. “I really can’t believe it.”
Ryan knew what she meant. Hellstrom’s presentation seemed so staged, so contrived, so childish, it was difficult to understand how anyone could buy into it.
“The age of pig magic is over!” Hellstrom thundered again. He leaned forward in his chair. “We’re the sorcerers now, baby!”
The night trembled with wild acclaim and wilder screams. Everyone stamped their feet and shook their torches madly. Hellstrom’s eyes roved over the faces of his audience. Slowly the shouts and hysterical shrieks subsided into murmurs of heartfelt sentiment.
“Now, we must give one of our brothers a proper farewell,” he said. “And though he leaves us, and we will miss him, we must not shirk our duties to our world, to the rest of the Family.”
Hellstrom sat back in his chair and began to beat the drum in his lap with slow, light blows. The brassy blare of the trumpet split the night, and four people, all wearing hooded animal skins, marched toward the dais. They were carrying Zadfrak, bound hand and foot to the wooden frame of a litter.
The quartet placed the man on the platform near the base of Hellstrom’s chair and the crowd shuffled forward, forming a half circle around it, chanting mindlessly, “Helter Skelter has come down, has come down, Helter Skelter has come down.”
As the crowd chanted, they flung their arms up in unison, weaving their bodies rhythmically from the waist up.
“Helter Skelter has come down, has come down”
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