Page 61 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

your ancestors were huddled in straw huts and eat- ing acorns off the forest floor.”
“I would concede Sergeant Hariaksh on that point,” Frazer said, placing his hand upon the soldier’s arm and laughing; the observation precipitating glares
of open hostility from both Moore and Horwitz. “As an anthropologist I’ve studied so-called advanced civilizations that have seen their rise and fall, yet there is much in comparative history to recommend that savagery exists on all continents. Simply ponder the unprecedented carnage that awaits these civi- lized Europeans upon their return to the trenches of France and Palestine.”
A gruff shoe shuffling of acquiescence from the sol- diers met this comment in silence as Frazer contin- ued: “What particular significance can we place on an English re-enactment of a so-called Syrian punish- ment? I’ve learned in a lifetime of study that little is unique. Customs and folkways that develop in one lo- cation may arise independently and uniquely derived in almost a perfect simulacrum, elsewhere.”
“But we have a suspect in hand,” protested Horwitz. “This Hariaksh is obviously not a Gentleman, he’s spent time in Palestine long enough to learn a few Syrian tricks, and by his own admission comes from a long line of bloody fanatic militants. That’s enough for me to be convinced of his culpability in such a heinous crime.”
“But there are dissimilarities between my descrip- tion of the cult sacrifice in Syria and this crime,” Frazer said holding up the long twitch that he’d inadvertently carried from the Inspector’s office for emphasis. “Elements that point to a uniquely English crime, and not the hothouse of the Levant.”
“What are you saying?” Moore asked getting up. “Seems to me the Inspector’s got it right. This bastard Hariaksh was all put out because of his Regiment get- ting shot up and only a bloody savage nigger like him could have done something so spiteful.”
“But that would be the simple conclusion,” Frazer said. “However, there are facts which don’t fit our puzzle. For instance, I find it curious that Sergeant Hariaksh had boasted of his Regimental pride where- as Lieutenant Moore has not.”
“What? What’s that got to do with anything?” Moore asked angrily, staring down at Frazer. “My Regiment’s out of Warwickshire, that’s all. The ‘Heart of Oak’ is our insignia,” he indicated, pointing at the Regimen-
tal patch on his shoulder.
“Exactly! I took that to be the case,” Frazer said, tap- ping his patch with the twitch. “It’s the ‘Heart of Oak’ that dedicates your Regiment to the Royal Forest at Arden, does it not?”
“Yes,” Moore replied warily. “Arden is in Warwickshire where the Regiment was originally levied.”
“But what of these other signet symbols?” Frazer asked.
“I don’t know,” Moore replied angrily. “It’s just a bit of decoration.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Frazer said. “Regimen- tal ensignia are like royal family crests to the mili- tarist; filled with symbology and secret messages brought down from time immemorial to the cur- rent day; messages that convey the longings of the common soldier for honorific claims of pride and accomplishment.”
“On your shoulder I see a scythe and circlets of woven branches? A mistletoe branch by the white berries if I’m not mistaken, and the means to cut it down.” Frazer said as he turned and whip-snapped the blackthorn cane in his hand, this eliciting a whistling report and caused a reflexive flinch among the soldiers.
“The mistletoe is a powerful occult symbol in commu- nities from all over the world, you know. Especially here in England, where it was once a seminal compo-
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