Written in the Rosy Effulvience of the Dionysiac Crucifix-
We may not have taken the Hindhoo at his proper measure. He excults in Chaos & Old Night-who are, also, the idols of the field of battle, especially when the “field” is a labyrinthine cacaphonous metropolis. Neither does he lack in spirits-though they be those allready alluded to. The Great God Hashich is most certainly one of them.
Without Gordon Ashe, &, most especially! Poor brave Chesspiece Kingforce (his proper English name)not only would you be without the, admittedly dubious, pleasure of this missive; but antique Bombay Herself would have been entirely overrun by foreigners. I, myself, made the mistake of applying reason to a land sodden with the tears of Aristotles great disciple. The Internal Alchymy under The Rose, commands in the Language of the Birds, even, though not absoloutely, the Invisible Pyramid hastily erected from mortal minds-none of them sufficed: the latter merely granted that which blind mortality calls my “life”.
The titular Prince was mad, you see. One can wield the Mesmeric fluid of the protodelugians; a madman does not obey sanely, nontheless. Whether it was Providental that I replaced it with the sap of Hypnos-blooms, Providence only knows. The Thing With Six Limbs that took him might well have been dethroned princely reason, fleshed by his own mesmeric arts, & poppy-milk. Shallow is the peace of that thought. “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause.” I was dragged to safety, apparently: can safety in these nights be anything more than apparent?
That Blackthorne, &, of course, Mistress Thomas, did not present themselves to quell that lord of misrule shoould be of no suprise. She made a jolly fine mess of things, actually: could just as well have gobbled him up right away, & saved us the trouble. We should fit Mistress Thomas into The Pyramid, under by preference no less than admantine building blocks: we can not afford whateer it is she be now.
Oh, & Bombay seems to be invaded by monkey-men? Rather suggestive, considering the motif of our previous native troubles. Yet again, we come upon idols in the dusk.
Bound to your service by Internal Chymestry,
“a small unleavened, undefiled Cake”