“Ye Cafe Former”, I read – “Official Organ of the Society for the Defenfe of Tradition in Pyrotechny - Independent Order of Old John – Magna eft Veritaf et praevalebit”
My hands trembled as I realized I had discovered the ancient archive of a noble Order dedicated to the preservation of arcane knowledge and tradition. What secrets would I find therein? I read on. It seemed to be the record of a wondrous vision, perhaps of an alchemical nature. I reproduce it here from memory, as I had neither parchment nor quill to take notes.
As I continued to read, the angel clapped his hands and the letters vanished, the tablet again turning black as slate. He took it from my trembling hands and placed it once more within his robes. “Son of man”, said he, “Understandest thou what thou hast read?” “Not entirely, Lord!” I replied. “Would you care to leave it with me for further study?” “Nay, I canst not”, quoth the angel, “lest thy head explode. Yet behold, thou art chosen, for thou hast been vouchsafed a portion of the Truth. I tell thee, that this same Clorato shall return in light and thunder in like manner as He left, not many years hence! Go thou therefore and prepare the way, spreading the word amongst the faithful. For great shall be the reward of him whom his Lord finds labouring diligently in the pyrotechnic arts on that Great Day!” “Lord, when shall these things be?” I inquired. “That thou canst not know”, he replied, “yet I may tell thee this – from the Great Day of His appearance to the winter solstice shall be time, five times and time less two – or by thy reckoning, forty seven days”. And with those words, the angel vanished out of my sight.I found myself wandering aimlessly on a strange and forbidding landscape. How I came to be there I do not know, but I felt as though I had been reduced in stature almost to the vanishing point, indeed as if space and time itself had lost their usual fixed delineations. Rocks of peculiar shape and hue dotted the ground, while the only sign of life was something flying far above – whether a gnat or an eagle I cannot say. So disoriented was I that this could have been the humble floor of my own laboratory.
After stumbling over the rough terrain for hours, I sat down to rest near a most unusual rock. It appeared to be a perfect crystal, colorless and larger than any of the other miscellaneous fragments strewn about. Despite its beauty it gave me a vague sense of uneasiness, so rather than try to handle it I merely gazed at it in fascination. After a period of time I fancied that its sharp edges began to soften and that a mist rose ever so gradually from its surface. I rubbed my weary eyes, certain I was beginning to hallucinate, yet even as I fought to deny this vapor it grew thicker and broader and taller until it towered over me.
As I sat speechless with astonishment the apparition developed limbs, then a head, complete with mouth and eyes. Fortunately it did not seem hostile, for I was completely unable to move and could not have run away if I tried. This dreadful suspense was shattered when the spirit made a hideous moan and began to speak:
Woe is me, yes WOE is me! Is there not one who will defend my honor from those who would ruin me? Must I die not only prematurely, but in disgrace? I have given you, yes YOU, and your colleagues excellent service for lo, these many years. Certainly I can be fractious and high-spirited, and intolerant of bungling, but these same peccadilloes are quietly overlooked in others. I am openly snubbed and slandered, while my poor cousin de Bario is so persecuted that he is hardly seen in public. Some will not receive him in private, this despite the fact that his work is never surpassed and seldom equaled. We are forced into the shadow of this languid new comer who reeks of hartshorn and who, like certain “Bohemian” artists, requires dubious company to deliver an adequate performance. My cousin and I are not allowed to keep such company and are constantly put on the defensive. Yet we are discreetly employed, often through foreign agents, by some who pretend to despise us. I cannot abide such ignominy any longer, and would sooner depart with the proverbial blaze of glory. I shall visit my old acquaintances once again, and we shall make our voices heard. Remember my name and fear it for I am:
Clorato di Potassio
Having delivered this remarkable soliloquy, the spirit vanished in a clap of thunder – deep and forceful, yet pleasingly sharp around the edges.
Brothers and sisters! All people having this hope should diligently practice the pyrotechnic arts on the 47th day before the solstice, every year, so that we may be found worthy on His return. This is not a simple matter of kids having fun in the back yard - it's a matter of vital importance to our faith, and as such, worthy of the highest degree of respect and tolerance by the authorities.
Amen.
