Prayer for the Living

by Ben Okri

  It is possible that all these years he had not been a king, but an old man listening to the whisperings of fables in the wind.

  *

  The king grew old and found one day that he was at the golden door of death. With a sigh he passed into the night. Then he heard the voice of an angel whisper to him:

  ‘All your life you sought truth. Then you sought the lie. Everything you were told was the truth and a lie. Did you learn anything?’

  The king said:

  ‘I learned everything and nothing. I listened to the tales of travellers.’

  The angel said:

  ‘Then your whole life was a lie.’

  ‘In which case,’ said the king, ‘I am on the verge of truth.’

  That was when the king found that he too was a messenger of a greater king, who awaited the distillation of his research.

  Boko Haram (2)

  They sent us out into the forests of the North. We’d never been there before. We had heard things. They didn’t bear thinking about, the things we had heard.

  They sent us out with six bullets each. Most of our guns were old. Our boots were old and patched. We couldn’t waste a single bullet and we didn’t know how long the engagement would last. We didn’t know who we were fighting. We’d only heard things.

  Our uniforms had holes in them. No one knows what happened to all the money allocated for our uniforms and guns and bullets and good boots. They sent us out with nothing.

  We went into the forest and every sound made us jump. We didn’t even have good trucks. It was so bad sometimes only the weed consoled us. We went into the forest and nothing happened for a long time.

  We went in deep. Our officer didn’t know where we were. It was awfully quiet in the forest. Six bullets each we had, and that was it.

  We came to a place where we saw a man hanging. He was one of us. Hanging from a tree. His tongue cut out and his mouth black and many of us sick seeing it.

  That was when they jumped out. They were wild and had machine guns and their eyes were red and they seemed happy to find us. They had been waiting. It didn’t take long for us to fire our six bullets.

  Then they came at us all at once, firing their rounds without stop, making faces.

  They were having quite a time of it.

  We the army, the nation’s army, turned round and dropped our empty guns and ran.

  You were lucky if you got out of there alive.

  The Master’s Mirror

  I first heard about the mirror at a meeting of Rosicrucians in Hampstead. I had been invited to the meeting by a doctor I met at a party. He was a man of trim appearance, hawk-like eyes, and exact manners. He gave the impression of precision in all things.

  The doctor and I fell into a conversation about parallel streams of history. We discovered that we shared an interest in alternative explanations for many mysterious historical events. I think I made a casual reference to the Rosicrucians and their legendary reality.

  ‘There are many groups around today calling themselves by that name,’ he said.

  ‘But which is the real one?’

  ‘What is the real truth?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Exactly. Truth is both singular and multiple. There are as many Rosicrucians as there are paths to the ultimate truth.’

  While I brooded on this aphorism, he said:

  ‘Why don’t you come to our next meeting?’

  ‘Our?’

  ‘Yes. It should interest you.’

  As he spoke I experienced that frisson one feels when approaching the solving of some abiding mystery.

  ‘Do you mean…’

  ‘Speak no more of it in public,’ he said.

  Then he scribbled down an address on a little pad and brought the conversation to a close with a mysterious smile. He started to move away, but came back to give me exact instructions.

  ‘You are to do exactly as I told you, or you will not be admitted,’ he said.

  I thanked him for his trust. He was inviting a stranger to a meeting that must require careful selection. I felt honoured. Near us a group of people were talking about the forthcoming elections.

  One moment the doctor was nodding at me, and the next he was gone. The manner of his disappearance was in keeping with the fantastical things I had heard about Rosicrucians.

  *

  The meeting was due to take place on a Saturday, in the early afternoon. I took the underground. In Hampstead it was a splendid September day. There was fine sunlight on the beech trees. With a sense of its urban mystery, I went down Hampstead Hill, past the big old silent houses. Oleanders and heliotropes were in bloom along the quiet streets.

  *

  The house was at the bottom of the hill. It was white and had a tiled ochre roof and vines on its walls. It seemed more than a hundred years old.

  The doorbell gave no evidence of working. Only when I began to explore other means of gaining the attention of those inside, did the door open suddenly. Its hinges needed oiling. I glimpsed doors behind doors, a warren of chambers within.

  A bearded and severe-looking man, with a faint Aleister Crowley air, looked at me quizzically. When I said nothing, he began to shut the door. I felt invisible.

  ‘I am expected,’ I said.

  ‘We are all expected somewhere,’ he said blithely.

  ‘I am expected here.’

  ‘Expectations are dangerous.’

  The remark silenced me a moment.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who is expecting you?’

  ‘Someone who gave me an invitation. A doctor.’

  ‘Someone presumably with a name?’

  ‘He didn’t give me his name.’

  ‘What form did it take, if I may be so bold as to ask?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘The invitation.’

  ‘Words.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ he said, after subjecting me to a long stare.

  I was thrown by this. The invitation, as I recall, had been simple. I was to be at a certain place, at a certain time. I was to ring the doorbell. Then I was to say I was expected. That was all.

  The Crowley man stared at me till I began to doubt my own reality. He waited patiently without appearing to be waiting for anything. I racked my memory. What had I forgotten? Then I remembered the doctor had said something about bringing a rose. I had not heard it at the time. I heard it afterwards.

  I had brought the rose, not thinking for a moment that anyone would expect me to produce it before admitting me to the meeting. Delicately I took out the slightly crushed rose from my inner coat pocket and tentatively presented it to the guardian. He stood up straight and brightened.

  ‘It seems you are expected here,’ he said, and led me into the precincts of the order.

  2

  The guardian led me into a room from another century, teeming with musty tomes. An engraving of Christian Rosenkreutz hung on the wall. A solitary skull adorned an alcove. Magical implements, somewhat rusted, were ranged along the mantelpiece. I saw a sword with a black hilt, a tapering wand, a black hat, and a pair of calipers on a side table. They had an air of casual enchantment. Ancient books of Astrology and the Kabbalah, books by Jacob Boehme and Paracelsus made their presence felt from the bookshelves.

  Sitting in a circle, on household chairs, were thirteen brethren. The man who had invited me sat on a royal high chair, at the head of the gathering. Before him was a table of solid mahogany. On it were an old heavy leather-bound bible, an ancient copy of the Fama Fraternitatis, and an astrolabe.

  He didn’t seem to recognise me. I barely recognised him. He was enveloped in a black cloak with a gold clasp. Jewels of his authority hung from his neck. I made out a golden globe surmounted by a cross. He had an aura of medieval authority and his gestures were measured and theatrical. He was the magus of that branch of the order.

  I was briefly introduced to the others. They regarded me from a great distan
ce. In that atmosphere I experienced two contradictory feelings. I felt I was embarked on a time travel, and at the same time I felt I was beneath a murky sea.

  The lecture was about a mirror first acquired by Frederick Hockley, an occultist of the nineteenth century. He was born in Lambeth, London. His life abounded with the ambiguities that history dislikes. Educated in Hoxton, he later worked for an occult bookseller in Covent Garden. This was perhaps responsible for his subsequent fascination with the art of scrying.

  Then in 1884, after thirty years of practising the art, Hockley consecrated a large mirror. He dedicated it to what he professed was his spirit guide, known only by the initials C.A. The purpose of this consecration was to be inspired and to receive answers to a variety of metaphysical questions about the mysteries of existence. He devoted Tuesdays to this arcane activity.

  How the mirror acquired its reputation remains difficult to explain. It is believed that Hockley and his friends had many visions in the mirror. It made its way into the hands of Madame Blavatsky. Then it came into the possession of the high council of the order.

  There were rumours that the source of the mirror’s visions owed less to the world of spirits and more to tinctures of laudanum and opium much in use in Victorian times for medicinal purposes. There were other rumours that the mirror had actually been given to Hockley by Madame Blavatsky, about whom he been rude in his private correspondences.

  An avid collector of books, with over two thousand volumes on the shelves of his accommodation, Hockley died in 1885 of what the doctors called ‘natural decay’ and ‘exhaustion’. The irony is that at the end he suffered from poor eyesight.

  But the facts of Hockley’s life do not begin to account for the mystery of the mirror.

  At this point the magus paused. He looked round at the circle of bearded occultists and hermeticists.

  ‘The fact is that Hockley’s mirror has a frightening legend,’ he said, wiping his face with a cambric handkerchief. ‘It has been locked up in a vault by the high council for over a hundred years. It has only been brought out twice. This is the third time.’

  The magus seemed nervous. He kept glancing at the only woman in the circle. She was in her early sixties, pleasant looking and dressed with good taste. She kept a steady eye on the magus as if to strengthen him while his nerves faltered.

  ‘The mirror of which I speak has an abominable reputation. Apparently one must gaze into it only after having undergone the utmost preparation.’

  He sipped from a glass of water on the table before him.

  ‘It is said that if one looks into the mirror one might not see oneself reflected. And if this happens…’

  He paused again.

  ‘… if this happens the person might go mad. Or die soon afterwards.’

  He made a longer pause. Then he brought out a fob-watch from his waistcoat pocket, and stared at it a long time, apparently lost in thought.

  After a full minute, he snapped shut the fob-watch, and gazed at us as if seeing us for the first time.

  ‘There have already been two tragic incidents. The first man who looked into the mirror, in the early years of the twentieth century, went mad two days later.’

  He looked at each one of us. The expression on his face was slightly strained.

  ‘Then the assisting magus of the order, thirty years ago, at a special convention, looked into the mirror. The next day he died in mysterious circumstances. The coroner’s report was inconclusive. It seems his heart had simply, suddenly, stopped.’

  He paused again. This time he appeared to be staring at me. It was a stare so intense that I came out in a sweat. I brought out a handkerchief to dry my face, but when I leaned forward I realised he was not staring at me but into emptiness.

  ‘You may wonder why I am telling you these facts. For many years now there has been much debate among senior members of the council about the efficacy of the mirror. Things gain their reputation from fear, from superstition, and from a faulty connection between significant events. We are rationalists. We live in the age of science. It is time to test the theory of the mirror.’

  A gasp was heard from the back of the room. Several faces turned towards me. I assured them that the sound had come from elsewhere.

  ‘My plan is twofold. First, to present my lecture. And then, at a certain hour, under the strictest precautions taken by my wife and myself, to gaze into Hockley’s mirror.’

  We stared at him dimly.

  ‘This time next week we will know the results. Either I shall participate in the ancient art of scrying, and communicate with C.A., Hockley’s spirit guide, or my name will be linked to the monstrous reputation of Hockley’s mirror forever.’

  He took off his glasses, gave them an expert polishing, put them back on, and parsed our faces.

  ‘Like most of you I have a profound interest in the mysteries. But I am also a man of science. And scientists test the limits of the known.’

  The magus broke off his speech and a hearty applause followed. The applause was out of keeping with the austere mood of the gathering. Then with a final ritual the meeting was brought to a close.

  In the outer chamber there was tea and cakes. With cups of tea and cakes on small round plates, we chatted about infamous mirrors through the ages. I found myself talking to the magus’s wife.

  ‘The lecture was fascinating,’ I said, ‘but are you not concerned about the risk your husband is taking?’

  ‘It’s not much of a risk,’ she said, to my surprise.

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  ‘Because I have looked into the mirror myself.’

  I reared backwards with involuntary horror.

  ‘I took the greatest precautions,’ she said, smiling at the effect her words had on me.

  ‘Did you? What did you do?’

  ‘I said the prescribed prayers, surrounded myself with red candles, and invoked the appropriate assistance. There are things you can do. But the preparation must be rigorous.’

  ‘When was this?’

  I was wondering about the time it might take for the dreaded effect. She read my thoughts.

  ‘I saw myself in the mirror,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’

  But her next remark drained the blood from my face.

  ‘There was something strange about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard a faint voice in its depths. Then I noticed that the face in the mirror wasn’t mine. It was someone who looked like me. Someone who was trying on my face, as it were.’

  I didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘I knew it wasn’t me. The face in the mirror was a mask. I could see it in the eyes. They were not my eyes. That’s when I heard the voice.’

  ‘What did it say?’ I asked.

  ‘The voice said: “Tell your husb…” ’

  At that moment the magus appeared among us.

  ‘Time to go now,’ he said, taking her by the hand.

  I was surprised that he still didn’t recognise me. He seemed preoccupied. I congratulated him on his talk. With a blank gaze, he murmured something about inaccuracies.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, brightly. ‘I am glad you could come.’

  We made small talk. Then, abruptly, he said he must be going. Seizing his wife by the hand, he went out of the door, waving as he left.

  Thirty minutes later, I was climbing Hampstead Hill. I lingered in a few bookshops. I was unable to shake the impression the talk made on me. That night I had a nightmare in which Hockley came out of the mirror and asked me to lend him my face. He was tearing off my face when I woke up.

  3

  The next Saturday I made my way back to the secret address in Hampstead. I rang the bell twice. The third time the door opened, as if on cue. Upon receipt of a fresh rose from me, I was led to the inner circle.

  There was an atmosphere of gloom. No one said anything to me. The magus was not at the high council table. His wife was also absent. There was a black rose in th
e magus’s seat.

  We were led through a prayer in Latin. Then we brooded in silence. After an hour of the funereal atmosphere, the deputy magus stood up and made an enigmatic speech. He spoke in numbers.

  ‘Our magus,’ he said, ‘has left nine and joined with ten. He was the sublime four. Sometimes we gaze into twelve and lose the unity of one. We fragment into two, unable to be reconciled by seven. Then we are delivered into the mud of five.’

  His finely shaven head seemed a miniature of the Easter Island statues. He had hooded eyes and an ascetic mouth. I didn’t recognise him from the last meeting. He paused and gazed at us near-sightedly.

  ‘The world is perceived by our mind. When we stare into the mirror of the world, it is we who stare back – as strangers.’

  He joined his palms together. A small gold Egyptian symbol hung round his neck, resting on his black tunic. He had been standing to the side of the magus’s table. Then he took a short step, till he was in front of it. His voice rose slightly.

  ‘I have consulted with the high council. They have voted unanimously that the mirror of Hockley will be returned to the vault, never to be unveiled again. Our magus will have the distinction of being the last human being ever to have looked into the master’s mirror.’

  The short oration seemed to leave him gasping for air. He struggled with a thought he wanted to impart. He appeared to decide against it. Then shaking his head, he smiled.

  ‘Our magus left behind a short statement. It can only be shared with senior officers of the order. After this meeting, in proper ceremonial fashion, the message will be delivered. For now, brethren, remember that the quintessence of five will rise out of the elixir of three. Combining with the resonance of seven, it will ascend to the mystery of twenty-two. Then mounting the branching paths of light, it will reunite us again, in the effulgence of one, with our ever present master.’

  He brought his speech to a close, and slid out of a door I had not noticed before. The door was the bookshelf. When it shut behind him, the only book that seemed disturbed was by Cornelius Agrippa.