unreported everywhere but the Guardian and the Fortean Times .
There were a few beats of prosaic silence before he continued: ‘There hasn’t been a single human being put on this earth,’ he said, ‘in whatever time frame, during whatever historical period, under the auspices of whatever god or empire, who doesn’t know, deep down inside themselves, that the universe is a struggle between good and evil.
‘I don’t know about you, but I believe in what you’d call God. I also believe that the Devil is abroad. And I don’t mean he’s in France. He’s out there right now. And he’s in here, in this room, with us. He’s King of the World. He’s Prince of the Air. We all know that, whether we allow it or not. Deep down. We all know that someone like Hitler wasn’t a man . Not in any sense we recognize. He was a devil, a demon, a dybukk, and for a while he possessed Germany and foamed and raved and threatened dominion over all the princes of the earth. Look in the history books, the newsreel archives. Turn on your televisions, read your own newspapers, and tell me these aren’t the last days. Tell me the Devil isn’t unleashed upon the face of the Earth. Show me a man who says otherwise and I’ll show you a fool. Now tell me: is it better to curse this darkness, or to light a candle? Next question.’
The next question was the first to be put by a female journalist. Young (young enough to be polite). Prada suit, Jimmy Choo shoes. Hair in a complex topknot.
‘What about the rest of us?’ she said: ‘Those of us who aren’t saved. Where are we?’
Dryden rested his chin on a knotty fist. Was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with quiet acquiescence. He shrugged.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he said. ‘You’re nowhere. Forever. Simple as that.’
On 22 December 1999, Rex Dryden arranged to have one dimpled 250 ml bottle of orange Lucozade distributed to each of those hundreds of men, women and children who had gathered about him in the grounds of the ex-public school in East Sussex. To each of these bottles had been added an odourless, flavourless ingredient which would hasten whoever drank it towards the Elohim and the eternal presence of God.
Of those hundreds who had gathered, an estimated 50 per cent refused to ingest the poison.
Although Dryden was indulgent to their schismatism, he nevertheless requested them to leave the grounds within the hour. All of them did so. Later, media psychologists would try to analyse why not one of them called the police. But not one of them did.
Those faithful who imbibed the poison were instructed to return to their beds, where they would fall into a dreamless sleep from which their bodies would never wake.
When the two or five or seven hundred cult suicides had done as instructed, closing the doors of their dormitories behind them, Dryden waited alone in the study until the sun had gone down, reading Erasmus.
In the morning, the suicides woke as normal. There was much confusion.
Nobody had died.
Upon investigation, all that proved otherwise unusual about the day was that Rex Dryden had disappeared from the compound.
Among a small but significant proportion of the elect, there arose an initially tentative belief that their survival in some way constituted a miracle.
Perhaps Dryden had been assumed directly into the arms of God.
The most vocal proponent of this amended belief system was a sales representative called Henry Lincoln. Henry Lincoln was a deputy of Dryden’s. He had personally been responsible for regulating distribution of the poisoned Lucozade. He now claimed to have been visited by Dryden as he slept. The ascended dream-Dryden told Henry that he was risen into the arms of the blessed Elohim. There he would prepare the way for his disciples.
However, the new gospel as espoused by Henry Lincoln was constructed in circumstances that were not ideal, and Mr Lincoln did not convince all the survivors of its veracity. Instead, many of
There were a few beats of prosaic silence before he continued: ‘There hasn’t been a single human being put on this earth,’ he said, ‘in whatever time frame, during whatever historical period, under the auspices of whatever god or empire, who doesn’t know, deep down inside themselves, that the universe is a struggle between good and evil.
‘I don’t know about you, but I believe in what you’d call God. I also believe that the Devil is abroad. And I don’t mean he’s in France. He’s out there right now. And he’s in here, in this room, with us. He’s King of the World. He’s Prince of the Air. We all know that, whether we allow it or not. Deep down. We all know that someone like Hitler wasn’t a man . Not in any sense we recognize. He was a devil, a demon, a dybukk, and for a while he possessed Germany and foamed and raved and threatened dominion over all the princes of the earth. Look in the history books, the newsreel archives. Turn on your televisions, read your own newspapers, and tell me these aren’t the last days. Tell me the Devil isn’t unleashed upon the face of the Earth. Show me a man who says otherwise and I’ll show you a fool. Now tell me: is it better to curse this darkness, or to light a candle? Next question.’
The next question was the first to be put by a female journalist. Young (young enough to be polite). Prada suit, Jimmy Choo shoes. Hair in a complex topknot.
‘What about the rest of us?’ she said: ‘Those of us who aren’t saved. Where are we?’
Dryden rested his chin on a knotty fist. Was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with quiet acquiescence. He shrugged.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he said. ‘You’re nowhere. Forever. Simple as that.’
On 22 December 1999, Rex Dryden arranged to have one dimpled 250 ml bottle of orange Lucozade distributed to each of those hundreds of men, women and children who had gathered about him in the grounds of the ex-public school in East Sussex. To each of these bottles had been added an odourless, flavourless ingredient which would hasten whoever drank it towards the Elohim and the eternal presence of God.
Of those hundreds who had gathered, an estimated 50 per cent refused to ingest the poison.
Although Dryden was indulgent to their schismatism, he nevertheless requested them to leave the grounds within the hour. All of them did so. Later, media psychologists would try to analyse why not one of them called the police. But not one of them did.
Those faithful who imbibed the poison were instructed to return to their beds, where they would fall into a dreamless sleep from which their bodies would never wake.
When the two or five or seven hundred cult suicides had done as instructed, closing the doors of their dormitories behind them, Dryden waited alone in the study until the sun had gone down, reading Erasmus.
In the morning, the suicides woke as normal. There was much confusion.
Nobody had died.
Upon investigation, all that proved otherwise unusual about the day was that Rex Dryden had disappeared from the compound.
Among a small but significant proportion of the elect, there arose an initially tentative belief that their survival in some way constituted a miracle.
Perhaps Dryden had been assumed directly into the arms of God.
The most vocal proponent of this amended belief system was a sales representative called Henry Lincoln. Henry Lincoln was a deputy of Dryden’s. He had personally been responsible for regulating distribution of the poisoned Lucozade. He now claimed to have been visited by Dryden as he slept. The ascended dream-Dryden told Henry that he was risen into the arms of the blessed Elohim. There he would prepare the way for his disciples.
However, the new gospel as espoused by Henry Lincoln was constructed in circumstances that were not ideal, and Mr Lincoln did not convince all the survivors of its veracity. Instead, many of
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