Archive for the ‘fantasy’ Category

The Strangling Hand
by Karl Hans Strobl
translated by Joe E. Bandel
Copyright Joe E. Bandel
The Strangling Hand Ch 1 pg 13-16

With a long last glance Eleagabal Kuperus parted from his souvenirs of the dead and turned to a table, which stood in the middle of the room covered with strange instruments, beakers and retorts. The wrapped head of the poet lay between sparking knives, lancets and clamps, so sharp and precise that it gave certain evidence of its reality, even though Emma knew that it had been left behind on the marble table in the domed hall. But she didn’t have time to think about it, how it could have gotten here, before the old man picked up the package with soft tenderness and began to unwrap it. As the head of her beloved appeared, a sharp pain began to climb out of the deeps, as she saw that it had begun to decompose. The eyes lay deeper, the mouth gaped open and was covered with a dull foam. Gory blood stuck to the severed surface of the neck. Under the equalizing power of death the head had lost its freshness and now showed a dull humanity, which a richer and finer spirit had once struggled to overcome.

The scrupulous finger of Kuperus lifted the lids from the eyes of the dead. The spouse, who had done the work of washing the corpse herself, watched the moderate hands work with strong emotion which she sensed as almost a rape, as this man held it as a friend cuddles what was dearest to herself.

“You are welcome here poet, far more welcome than any of the others who would despise my work.
Now you are restored,” and after a short thought, Eleagabal Kuperus added a short sentence from out of the Book of the Dead. “Even the greatest is only a cobblestone for the roads of the public to destroy.”

The spouse stood there astonished: “You know his words.”

“I don’t live in the world, yet I live with it. Should I tell you something similar? The eternal point remains unmoving, where equal forces cross each other, which are striving in opposite directions. It also exists in all streams and takes on different aspects as it flows. I live in this point called the present moment, and pour myself into every possibility. Yet the best and finest thing is to rest in peace. Everything comes to me, and I merge more deeply with the world.”

He raised his hand. “Go my dear friend. You brought a stream of beauty and love. My most diligent skill will maintain the memory of your spouse for you. You must never carry any guilt about this, because immortality can only be preserved with hands of love.”

He reached into the marble wall and hastily lifted the network of vines up to allow the Frau to step back into the domed hall, where the servant with the wolf’s face waited, in order to escort her out of the house.

She stood quietly before the door for a short time and looked over at the Cathedral, whose immense weight, seemed to have increased in the night and the heavy, unmoving fog, pushing it down into the hill upon which it stood. Tired and flickering gas lanterns fought the darkness which crawled up to the foot of the Cathedral and pulled itself up the walls, as if the ground was seeking to pull it in. She was seized with the thought that she might be singled out for attack by a drunk in these empty streets, and even more by the notion that she was afraid of the sinking Cathedral. She didn’t dare leave the door of Eleagabal Kuperus.

Through the uncomfortable play of the darkness and the gloomy lights a stone face magically appeared on the front of the Cathedral with a broad talkative, but now closed mouth. There was a broken balcony and above the high arched windows appeared two mismatched silent and stubby towers. They were so misshapen and alien that they grew out of the massive structure like a finger that springs out from a head. After the impression of harmonious peace and wisdom, which Emma had sensed in the domed hall and the museum of Eleagabal Kuperus, this Cathedral across from his house appeared to her like a lurking monster of stone. One with a scornful, contorted smile that leered at the hand over the door, prepared to strike some fearful, murderous blow if it had the chance.

In the same way that the meerschaum mask of a warrior, the terrifying painted shield with the head of Medusa on its polished armor, or the locked visor of a helmet bewitched at the sight, so did this sinking Cathedral in the darkness. The friendly gestures of hospitality, which greeted the oppressed during the daylight, transformed during the night into a procession of unquiet, murmuring voices filled with a malicious joy that spread fear and terror.

And now – ever more clear, came a sad and unrelenting melody from out of the confusion of voices, rising up – a sad and unrelenting melody. A long, drawn out, dreary song, which lingered on a few notes, climbing up and down as if it were sounding a warning. Something wasted and bleak lay within it, like a breath, which comes from over infinite planes, which has uprooted all life from out of a magical world, something poisonous and offensive, like the wind that blows over a field of slaughter. This song, this unbearable, monotonous tune seemed to come from out of the solidly closed mouth of the Cathedral, as if it was searching for some way to escape. The wailing of this monotonous hum rose and died, and when it finally lost itself in the whispers of the fog, it never left the trembling Frau for a moment.

She knew that this was all related to her past life, when she was younger and had suffered under this same song, but she was not capable of finding her way free of it, and could not really say what was reality and what was dream. She just stood at the threshold of Eleagabal Kuperus and held on to the iron ring which protruded out from the carved wooden door. Some superstition and fear had her convinced that she would fall under the power of an enemy if she stepped onto the courtyard in front of the Cathedral.

Slow steps came from out of the darkness, which echoed dully and repeated against the walls of the houses. The night had produced feet and wandered across the courtyard in front of the Cathedral. But it was only a watchman, who came through the fog with heavy legs, tired from long service, and his movements were like those of a drunken sleepwalker. In the thick fog his movement appeared aimless like the movement of a ship that has lost its direction. He came up to the Frau, looked sharply into her face with a penetrating glance, was about to say something about single women walking the streets at night, but then turned and walked back up the street, stopping under a street light. He stayed there, prepared to perform the duty of his office if needed. The tip of his helmet began to glimmer under a ray of light, as if it carried a little blue flame.

His appearance broke through the spell of this place. Then Emma once more gathered her courage. She let go of the ring, whose coldness had frozen her fingers, and walked across the courtyard, between the two ill tempered saints of stone, around whose raised arms the thick fog collected and she climbed back down into the city. The cold, leering eyes of the saints and the echoing footsteps of the watchman followed her.


I am currently translating this book a few pages at a time. I will be posting them as I translate them. If you enjoy this story and type of literature please support me and become a patron. Translation is hard work and takes a lot of time. Consider donating $1 a month to help out. This book is over 500 pages long! You can donate at my website:
or my Patreon link: https://www.patreon.com/anarchistbanjo
Comments are welcome!

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The Strangling Hand
by Karl Hans Strobl
translated by Joe E. Bandel
Copyright Joe E. Bandel
The Strangling Hand Ch 1 pg 9-12

“His memory permits him to be like a saint, but it will not belittle him, if I tell you that he didn’t have any more to give, that he was not producing any more great creations. The people have already glorified and immortalized his claim to fame. The world would have become very impatient if they had to wait for his final great work. They would have become very impatient with him and because of that his glory would have become less than it now is.”

“But you have only spoken to me about him, now tell me a little about yourself.”

“There is not anything to say about myself, other than that I loved him.”

“There is only one love, but it’s appearance is multifold and varied like the colorful images of this world and nature will never tire of creating ever changing shapes and blossoms. Each day is a celebration.”

The glass dome arched higher, and an exquisite silence sank down upon her that rang against the smooth marble walls like silver. Then the Frau began to talk, and the finger tips of her hands slid over the cool surface of the table.

“He lifted me up, when I was close to falling. I s pent my youth among strange people, in whose houses I had to educate spoiled children. They tolerated me at the table, because they were so disturbed by the bad habits and sassy questions of the little girls. But they never forgot to let me know that my good work was in service to them.

The grown sons and Masters of the houses often pretended to be sweet when they were alone with me. They brought little gifts and flowers, which they asked me to hide from their mothers and spouses. I pretended not to understand their hints and wishes, so I could never find a permanent home.

Going from place to place made me tired, and in the house where I finally ended up the not so subtle pressure of the gentleman wore down my resistance. He had a strange power over his entire environment and was a terrible Master. He had the cruelty and lewdness of an Assyrian conqueror.

It was one evening in a quiet park, after a difficult storm, when I felt that my power was broken and that I would soon succumb to his will. I saw swans like blue birds with large wings fly up a narrow stream, and from far away came the sounds of their music.

That was where I spoke to a young man, and his first words told me that a poet was standing in front of me. He felt my despair and the distress deep within my soul. Every one of his words was so good and kind that they seemed to caress me like soft hands and I could not resist him. When he asked me to share his happiness and his meager life, I took it as a gift from an old friend.

He led me back to the house of my oppressor, beat his empty threats into the wind, and didn’t allow himself to be intimidated by the teeth grinding and angry gestures.. Then we lived in a dream for six years and … were … happy.”

The long beard of Eleagabal Kuperus trembled on his breast. His finger followed a red marble thread on the table, at which the young blond Frau was sitting. Her eyes seemed to be blinded by a radiant glory. The dark cloth that had covered her head and shoulders had slid down onto her lap, and all the light in the room, which flowed in invisible waves, seemed to appear and collect on her transfigured pale face and radiate back at him.

“Have you told me everything?” Asked Eleagabal Kuperus.

“I have been given very much. What I mean is that we were happy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were unfaithful to him?”

“It was his right as a poet to leave, and yet, he always returned to me. His love only made my conquest greater”

At that Eleagabal Kuperus bowed down and kissed the young Frau on the forehead, and she looked him quietly in the eyes as he took her by the hand.

“Now I will gladly fulfill your wish.”

“He spoke of you with reverence and conceived many plans of how he could be closer to you. Your life had a great influence over him. He often said that you were the one that had the power and courage to shake off all the things that he couldn’t. He created his island, which the entire world had to go around. He built high barriers around his life, and only narrow paths led to him. Now he himself comes on a narrow path. It was his last wish to have his head preserved. Will you deny him your skill?”

“I waited for him, and he didn’t come. I will not deny him my skill now . Follow me.”

Eleagabal took the hand of the Frau and walked with her toward the marble wall. No door was visible, and the Frau shrank back when her forehead almost touched the stone. Then she saw that delicate copper leaf vines stretched over the opening and they looked like the green and red veins in the marble. The hand of the man reached in, lifted the vines and she stepped through.

Another room lay in front of her, a type of laboratory with marble walls and like the domed hall it had a row of columns. These columns were permeated with a mild tranquil light that spread through the room in invisible waves. Marble pedestals were placed around the room near the walls, upon which, beneath glass covers, lay human limbs; arms, legs, and hands with the full appearance of life, whose cut surfaces appeared to be still fresh and bloodied. Eleagabal Kuperus lifted up one of the glass covers and invited the Frau to touch the arm, a beautiful woman’s arm. Emma obeyed without horror or disgust and felt how the skin was soft and supple, so that the flesh gave way beneath the pressure of her fingers.

“This arm is 30 years old: it belonged to my daughter Constance,” said Eleagabal. “I studied and researched for a long time until I discovered this method to bring back life from the dead. The old Egyptians preserved the bodies of their dead for life in the underworld. But those dried out, shriveled up bodies, whose cavities were filled with spices and wrapped with countless bandages, are more frightening in their decomposition because they no longer maintain the beautiful shape that life once gave them.”

He pointed to one corner where a wrinkled and ridiculous head could be seen with a narrow gold band around its forehead which appeared to be glowing. It lay within a weathered black coffin. Emma was frightened and turned quickly away, in order to follow Eleagabal, who walked in front of her explaining as he guided her from pedestal to pedestal, from one memorial of his life to the next, and at each she marveled at the perfection of his art, the perfection of its victory over the dead relatives and friends who had donated parts of their bodies to this remarkable museum. So many of them had been dead for decades and their limbs here still retained an unending freshness. They stopped in front of one where the head of a negro lay on a shiny mirrored plate beneath a bell jar.

“This head was not the best part of my Hassan,” said Eleagabal Kuperus, “but it was a strong skull and took more than one chop, which shattered the cutting board, for me to cut it off.”

The way that Eleagabal grabbed the thick curly hair with loving tenderness and softly held it showed how loyal this servant had been and Emma sensed how much he had been loved. A little breeze of eternity, uninterrupted by death, lay in this room, a continued sympathetic existence, on these pedestals placed at measured intervals. And they insured beyond any doubt that oblivion was not known here. The deep peace of a temple and quietness of a true home gave the room a deep sense of happiness. Here time was stopped and could no longer unfold. It was dammed up, and only flowed in a measure that was pleasing to the master of this house, slowly and without beating waves. The water in this chamber did not carry the smell of sewer, of decay and rot that often was given off by a cadaver, but remained refined and clear as if it was purified through a machine.

So detached from all other things, yet at the same time suspended in and through itself, a world in space, so filled with peace lay within this chamber. These things were so strange to the young Frau, so content and inoffensive as they gave themselves to this man. While she was lost in thought and kept coming back to these images of the infinite, the mild light within the room transformed to became stronger and more radiant. It seemed as if red bundles of light radiated out from the columns, until the walls lay bathed in a glowing red like the light through a stained glass window, and all of the limbs twitched upon their pedestals in these strong life giving rays.


I am currently translating this book a few pages at a time. I will be posting them as I translate them. If you enjoy this story and type of literature please support me and become a patron. Translation is hard work and takes a lot of time. Consider donating $1 a month to help out. This book is over 500 pages long! You can donate at my website:
or my Patreon link: https://www.patreon.com/anarchistbanjo
Comments are welcome!

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The Strangling Hand
by Karl Hans Strobl
translated by Joe E. Bandel
Copyright Joe E. Bandel
The Strangling Hand Ch 1 pg 5-8

The Frau who wanted to visit Eleagabal Kuperus had to wait a while before the heavy door opened. The faint light from a nearby lantern engaged in battle with the fog and brought the carvings on the door into sharp relief, then slid across the hand with the key as it radiated out to the edge of the darkness that lay heavy over the end of the street. The portal slowly opened and a long passage led the Frau into the interior of the house as she walked silently over soft carpet. To her left and right were glowing letters that arranged themselves into words which were not recognizable, as well as hieroglyphics, cuneiform and glimmering symbols. They gave off so much light that in the dim twilight dark paintings and statues could be seen high above all along the entrance corridor. A fountain pattered a wistful melody in a red-lit room, in which a collection of paintings were hung on the walls. A servant waited there, whose hairy head, whose pointed little ears and whose evil glimmering eyes made him look like a wolf. He raised his hand in a silencing movement.

The Frau followed him down a narrow path between two walls of books, until he took a ball from out of a bowl and dropped it back in producing a silvery sound. From out of the folds of a curtain, a cool breeze blew against her hot face as she stepped beneath a glass dome that arched above a room of marble. It was like a temple with two rows of supporting columns, but the broad capitals of these columns were decorated with scrolls and animal heads that looked down on her and did not in any way support the dome. They apparently served no purpose except to divide the bottom portion of the chamber, while the dome itself remained unsupported and free above like a symbol of the infinity of heaven. There were all types of colorful marble collected in this chamber, from white fragments of Tyrolean marble to flaming , starry and miraculous colors of the rarest kind. Water trickled down a wall, as if a little stream of blood poured from out of some hidden opening above and silently slid down the flat surface. Nearby were tiles like those that maps were painted upon, but these showcased delicate ferns, moss or bush like veins encased within the stone, as well as blossoming corals that spread their branches out wide, as if they contained the power of unchained expansion. The impeccable surfaces of white, yellow and ivory colored marble glowed in ever changing displays of color.

This chamber presented lifeless stone, while at the same time radiating an intense sense of life and peace, which was driven by an infinite source. It was possibly like a head in which confused thoughts stormed, in which confused thoughts dwelled, and of which no one would dare speak or act upon in real life. Up above, the dome itself remained completely detached from the confusion, containing it so that none of it could escape; arched and glassy like the cornea of an eye, upon whose retina these most precious and wonderful colors played.

Eleagabal Kuperus sat at a marble table in the center, guarded by columns on the left and the right. His hand lay on the table, his finger traced some vein in the marble and his lips moved. Then he looked up and his gaze wrapped the Frau in a veil of questions. His questioning eyes lay deep inside a head that was just as much that of a patriarch as it was that of an old predator. A high forehead rose above them, furrowed with so many wrinkles that people would find it laughable in anyone else. Down below grew a wild beard that bushed out on all sides, yet remained forced down onto his chest. Beneath his mustache gaped the dark cavern of his mouth from which two canines protruded. The incisors were long lost, the canines of the upper skull had transformed into fangs through a rare power, and when Eleagabal Kuperus laughed, they crept out like daggers from their sheaths. Around his bald head lay a thin wreath of white hair, which stood out straight like bristles as if from an electric shock.

The Frau hesitated and then stepped up to him and laid a round package on the table in front of him which she had carried beneath her coat.

“You are welcome here,” said Eleagabal Kuperus and he waved away the servant with the face of a wolf, who had been crouching like a predator behind the Frau. “You are welcome here,” said Eleagabal Kuperus once more, and the Frau felt how his gaze penetrated through her. Then he added, and his hand pointed to the round package:
“You have brought me the head of your husband.”

A trembling came over the Frau, and the table, at which Eleagabal Kuperus sat, began to spin quickly around its axis, so quickly, that it seemed as if the man in front of her multiplied. Fainting, she grabbed at one of the columns for support, but she quickly pulled her fingers back, because the stone was so hot, that it almost burned her skin.

“Take it, just as it is. Death is a powerful master, almost as powerful as life itself, and often it seems as if it overcomes life. I honor your pain, and I want to fulfill your desire.”

“You know, what I want to do with it?”

I know. Your love is great, and I bow down before that love.”

Then the Frau broke out into tears and looked despairingly around her, because she felt so weak, ashamed that she had allowed herself to show weakness. Eleagabal Kuperus stood up and stepped over to her; he laid one arm around her shoulders. And then a strange thing happened, Frau Emma Rössler, despite her horror and fear of this notorious old man, this weird man she had come to, sobbed as she hid her head in the thick brush of his beard. They both stood completely still, and the silence crackled like a small blue flame. Then he led her to his chair at the marble table and asked her to sit down.

“Tell me about your husband, who was a poet and the things that shaped – his life.”

“It seems, that you knew him.”

– Eleagabal Kuperus smiled, and both fangs crept out of the hole of his mouth, while his hand motioned for her to continue –

“His name was in the mouths of all the people, and his future stood before him, brilliant and wonderful. But despite all of his promise and ability, his advancement remained bleak and gloomy. He didn’t understand how to market himself and his works with ostentatious boasting and self advertising.

People always gave him support along the way and recognized his talent., He didn’t have the proud consolation of being unrecognized. But they only bought enough of his books so that we could live in common comfort. Yet he thirsted after more, and his artistic moods continued to bring forth even more beautiful, unheard of things. But we were not rich enough to rise above the common folk, and not poor enough to give up poetic speech entirely.

He continued on indifferently, along a path that was neither difficult enough nor successful enough until in the end he became tired, and that was his life. He could not be called a fighter, but he was also no fortunate child, to whom the stars dropped fortune into his lap.

With calm, disciplined work he achieved enough to lead a life that was similar to that of a thousand others, until he sank without too much pain, without a trace of tragedy, except that a voice was silenced, which the fates should have established, and allowed his final wishes to be expressed.”

Eleagabal Kuperus stood in front of the Frau and listened to her, while he stroked his long beard with his hand like a gardener strokes his bushes. The furrows of his high forehead moved. It seemed as if his thoughts ran across them.

“His life and his death was not so bleak, as might appear to your love. His life was not allowed its full brilliance, and I know, that his power dissolved into a soft twilight. But it could have been richer and deeper, if he could have had your love. And that is why I tell you, that he did not understand how to achieve it. From out of the depths comes all happiness. Yet his death was not in vain, because of that which he was able to give to the world in the end.”


I am currently translating this book a few pages at a time. I will be posting them as I translate them. If you enjoy this story and type of literature please support me and become a patron. Translation is hard work and takes a lot of time. Consider donating $1 a month to help out. This book is over 500 pages long! You can donate at my website:
or my Patreon link: https://www.patreon.com/anarchistbanjo
Comments are welcome!

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The Strangling Hand
by Karl Hans Strobl
translated by Joe E. Bandel
Copyright Joe E. Bandel

The Strangling Hand

Behind the Cathedral, where the roofs of little houses pressed around a narrow courtyard, the little alleyways lost their direction and disappeared, crowding up against the fronts of old gray buildings, or suddenly turning to the side around protruding corners, going up and down stairways, until they ended in some corner at one of the surrounding houses. The modern times with its expanding circle of industrial development had still not changed this innermost core of the city. And under the dark arches, in dusty niches, and in front of the blackened statues of saints lit with trembling little lamps cowered the past.

The stairs which climbed up and down around the houses had many steps which had become worn smooth and slippery, so that in the winter time the old women could only timidly and with choking prayers dare go to the Cathedral. Such joys and sorrows were carried over these stairs. There were holes worn into the granite steps, in which little pools of water stood after the summer rains and in the winter everything was covered with crackling ice. Thoughtful and sometimes sullen faces looked out the little windows of the old houses at the few people who carefully made their way over the rough concrete, and urgently and uncomfortably rushed past the mountainous Cathedral as if it held no power over them.

You could see many old people. Life appeared on these quiet and crooked little streets that stretched out in all directions. On Sunday you could see all these old men and women walking to the Cathedral, as if it were a treasured memory, haunted by the shadows of what it had once been. Yet the youth lived in the midst of these old people, rude, irrepressible and noisy in the present moment as they clambered over the stairs among the gray houses to play in the sunshine and enjoy the energy of youth.

The old people looked at them and smiled, because here the past and the present was not yet in conflict. These old people loved their green plants and white gardens, and many green window boxes protruded from the many paned windows. In the summer blood red fuchsia blossoms nodded above the wooden window boxes and sturdy wide leafed geraniums stood in the background. There were also entire windows full of blooming hyacinth, boasting all colors and in one arched window frame that was topped with the figures of animals and birds, you could see the foliage of exotic plants and wondrous orchids, which captivated all the children. They were compelled to stand in front of the window and push against the glass with their fingers. During the greatest summer holidays that was where the passion flowers were placed, the beautiful and sad blossoms which carried all the marks of the martyred Christ, the nails and the hammer and even the terrible thorn of crowns.

Here the people still celebrated the holidays. They put decorations on the doors and even the houses transformed their faces for Easter, Pentecost and Corpus Christi day. That was when a procession came through the narrow streets, when the bells rang out and the white clouds of incense swam above the heads of the priests. That was when rows of candles flickered in the windows and the statues of the saints looked out of sleepy eyes at the many lights. During Pentecost boughs of green birch were placed on all the doors, so that it seemed as if springtime had placed an ostrich plume on the face of every house. That was when things seemed so bright and cheerful in the world, so cheerful that people almost didn’t believe, how many other stories hid behind the old brown doors and slept inside the little windows. Familiar stories and strange stories, which awoke on sad days and during the long winter nights.

Near the main entrance to the Cathedral, guarded by the cold empty eyes of the stone saints, stood a house, around which many such stories were told. That was where Eleagabal Kuperus lived, of whom the people in the houses around the Cathedral told the most remarkable things. Of whom the youth told fantastic and mysterious stories and whom the old women were so careful to avoid, if he crossed their path on the way to the Cathedral.

His house was certainly the oldest anywhere around and had a slate gable roof on its wrinkled brown face that sat there like an old hat. In dry weather it’s front appeared dusty and furrowed , but when the rain beat against its walls, ancient images appeared on its surfaces: the sacrifice of Isaac, the judgment of Solomon, the passage of the Jews through the Red Sea and many others, of which the people up here on the hill knew nothing about. Like a secret ink that is activated by the sun or the water, these images appeared from out of the moisture, stretching themselves along all the walls, between the windows and showing themselves, down below intertwined with vines of plants and animals bound together with words written in an unreadable language.

But over the richly carved door that was bound with iron bands, a figure became visible, which stood there in the garments of a distant time, in one hand a sword and holding a key in the other. From out of its mouth came a ribbon on which was written in ancient letters: “Believe in miracles”. The strangest thing about this figure and about this house was, that the hand which held the key extended from out of the wall in a real and graspable form. This hand, with its curled fingers, sinews and perfectly formed veins appeared so much like the living hand of a human that you had to marvel at the artistic skill of its creator. After the rain coursed through the furrows and turned into a trickle the sun once more dried the walls and then the figure and letters disappeared, and only the hand remained holding the key above the door, as if it grew from out of the wall and wanted to show that the passage was locked and could only be opened by it alone.

And even the door – was a terrifying puzzle which the children could never solve. It was a carving of Saul and his visit to the witch of Endor. Misshapen bodies with hideous grimaces surrounded the hero. Up above, a wingless dragon spewed fire from out of its mouth, and down below Leviathan swam in an ocean of enormous pointed waves and blasted mighty streams of water from out of its nostrils.
Of all the people that told stories about Eleagabal Kuperus, it was old Frau Swoboda who told the strangest ones. She was the one who lit slender candles in the Cathedral for all the souls in purgatory. She was the one who had seen on one moonlit night, how a finger of the hand over the door had released the key and straightened out, exactly like the finger of a human hand that wants to relieve a cramp. And she was the one, who at the crack of dawn on one foggy winter day had seen clearly how the dragons and the monsters on the carved door had swarmed together, and how Saul had raised his arm to banish her. Ever since then she swore that Eleagabal Kuperus was a sorcerer, and a legion of old women stood behind her maintaining the same thing.

But even the men, who just laughed at this gossip, shunned the old man in the mysterious house, and when they encountered him in the twilight of a dimly lit street, gladly crossed over to the other side. Only rarely did anyone ring the bell under the hand with the key, and it was always a stranger, someone from the bustling city down below, who visited Eleagabal Kuperus in his castle.

The Frau, who surrounded by a heavy mist filled with mysterious voices, climbed up the large stairs one winter evening and slowly crossed the little space in front of the Cathedral, hesitated a moment in front of the door to the house in which Kuperus lived. Here on the top of the hill only a few little lights glowed, and one of them stood unmoving like a staring eye in the forehead of this house. Frau Swoboda, who had just came from out of the sanctuary of the Cathedral, saw, how a dark figure in front of the door of Kuperus reached to ring the bell, and with a shudder sent a short prayer for the salvation of this poor soul that was in the clutches of evil, and entrusted its soul to heaven. As she rounded the corner of the alley, she heard the shriek of the bell, and freezing, yet happy in the kindness of God’s grace, wrapped herself more tightly in her large shawl.


I am currently translating this book a few pages at a time. I will be posting them as I translate them. If you enjoy this story and type of literature please support me and become a patron. Translation is hard work and takes a lot of time. Consider donating $1 a month to help out. This book is over 500 pages long! You can donate at my website:


or my Patreon link: https://www.patreon.com/anarchistbanjo

Comments are welcome!

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Ten of Cups

Symbol– He truly and deeply realizes how much he loves her. She realizes that she is the Holy Grail that all men seek but no man may have.

Meaning- Realization

After she leaves him, he realizes how much she really meant to him. He realizes that he truly loved her after all and that she had so much more to offer than he ever realized.

He had been wasting his life and his potential letting her do everything and never telling her how important she was to him. He took everything that she did for granted and now it is too late. She is gone forever and no one can ever replace her in his heart.

He places her on a pedestal and worships her memory. All that he remembers are the good times that they had together and now those good times are gone. He is freely generating lower emotional energy now of sorrow and sadness.

He is creating a life for himself of sadness and misery. This experience is an important one for him because he is becoming a deeper and more caring person. He is more aware of the needs of others now than ever before.

She knows that he loves her deeply and it hurts her to leave him but she also knows that her goals in life are not compatible with his goals in life. If they stayed together it would just be a life of misery for both of them.

It is far better to release him to follow his dream and for her to follow her dream. She knows that someday he will find someone else that is a better match for him. She also knows that she wants to be free to find her special person too.

She feels a sense of renewal and excitement as her new life unfolds before her. She knows that her desires will someday come true and she acts with conviction.
Society is against her this time and she feels social pressure to conform to the norm and go back to him but she refuses. She rebels violently against all that would confine her and prevent her from her true purpose and goal in life.

Male experience:

He feels hurt and anger that she would leave him. He is generating the lower emotions of pain and sorrow and his life becomes filled with these new emotions.
He never realized how much she meant to him until after she was gone. He never deserved someone like her. She was so good for him. He knows that he will never find anyone else like her.

Female experience:

She knows that he loves her and she loves him too. But he is not right for her. The love that they share is not the type of love that she really longs for. No matter how much that they try they will never really be able to meet each other’s needs because they are too different.

She feels joy and excitement in her new found freedom and reacts violently against anyone that tries to pressure her into going back to him. She knows what she is doing and she knows that someday he will find someone that is better for him than she is.

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Five of Cups

Symbol- young woman’s lover is killed at her feet. She is made captive by victor

Meaning- entrapment

He is generating a full supply of emotional energy and absorbing all of her excess emotional energy. As it combines with his energy he gains the ability to astral project and have astral adventures. He is able to sustain an astral body at will.

He has the ability to do dream work. This means that during his dreams he is able to alter the outcome. His dreams represent his potential future and by altering these dreams he is able to alter his future. He takes an active role in trying to astrally contact the girl he is interested in and gets more of her emotional energy. As he does this he alters the astral events she has created into events that are more to his liking. They are not working together.

She is trying to astrally draw her ideal mate to her. Her ideal mate is a lot like her and they have many things in common. Her friend is trying to destroy this future and draw her to himself instead. They are in conflict about what they are trying to accomplish.

As these astral events progress she finds the man of her dreams and falls in love but her old friend ruins the relationship for her. If not in the physical world he is trying to change it in the astral world.

She has already created the future she wants and is trapped within the very thing she has created. It has become a part of the collective and she no longer has the ability to alter it. She can’t defend the future she has created and watches helplessly as her dreams fall apart into ruins through his alterations.
He knows she is the perfect person for him. She is everything that he is not.

She is his soulmate, his missing half. He will do anything, fight anyone to win her love. He is frustrated with her refusal of him and his desire drives him to try pressuring her into a relationship. He won’t take anything else for an answer. She is beginning to feel afraid. She has no desire to have a deeper relationship with him but the shear force of his personality is impossible to resist. He is too powerful for her and he drives off the one she really loves.
She feels herself sucked into this nightmare relationship helplessly against her will. She is completely at his mercy.

Male experience:

She is the perfect one for him and he will convince her of it no matter how hard she resists. Sooner or later she must realize they are meant to be together. He absorbs all of her excess emotional energy and his dreams become vivid and realistic. He has dreams about her with another man and he fights this man in astral battles to win her back.

He is fighting back in his dreams and changes the outcome of them. Each time he confronts a problem in his dreams and defeats it he feels a gain in power. He is creating the type of life he wants to live by astrally fighting for it.

Female experience:

She has created the astral future she desires and it has become part of the collective. She is trapped within the version of her future that the collective gives her. She is forced to watch in horror as the dream life that she astrally created is torn apart piece by piece.
Instead of being drawn toward the one she loves she is helplessly enmeshed in a relationship with someone she doesn’t love.

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Prince Of Cups

The Prince of Cups is related to other cards in the Tarot. He contains the elements of the Tarot Trump cards THE TOWER and THE STAR. The Prince is also related to the SIX of CUPS, SEVEN of CUPS, and EIGHT of CUPS. His Element is Water. His power is Water of Water.

He is strongly aware of his physical environment and of what is going on around him. Green is one of his favorite colors and he wears it when he can.

He has a strong aura and gives off energy that others can sense. He has a natural healing ability that he uses to heal and help others. He also has the strong ability to prevent negative astral events from becoming physical reality by transmuting those energies into more harmless energies.

This healing aspect is very strong and his physical body is resistant to any illness or injury. It also works as a type of armor against any psychic attacks. In all he is very well protected.
He is very loyal and honest to a fault. He will not be corrupted from what he feels is the right thing. Being true to his own convictions is the most important thing in his life.

Sometimes this works against him and he lets people take advantage of him. At times his happiness and pleasure are suddenly blocked and he feels trapped and helpless, perhaps even fearful. This happens when he lets others gain control of his life against and they try to force him into actions against his will.

He suffers occasionally a deep intense physical pain that is a result of damaged nerves. There is a deterioration of his nervous system that causes this pain.

He doesn’t have the ability to astral project because he doesn’t have the energy needed to sustain a permanent astral body. His energy is too easily lost or given away to others.

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