“No, we won’t!” shouted Harvey. “We have to go back to the place.”
“The old Quinton place, you mean?” I demanded.
“Yes. You know. Where you live.”
“You guys go if you want,” I said. “Me, I must practise the Art of the Angle.”
“Paul, I didn’t want to tell you this,” said Benson seriously, “but I’m here for a reason. I got a phone call from Ellie. She seemed to be a little worried about you.”
“I know. She thinks I’m deteriorating.”
“She’s not,” Harvey told me. “Boy, is she ever looking great. She’s got a real deep tan because she’s been going camping a lot, and she’s got her hair cut really short …”
“Hold on, Harv.” I stumbled over to a large rock, somehow managing to dive onto it head-first, hobgoblins in close pursuit. I sat on my rock and broke into a sweat. “Is this Elspeth we’re discussing?”
“Your wife,” he nodded.
“Camping? As in sleeping in tents and not showering and eating beans from a can?”
Harvey nodded hesitantly.
“And she’s got a tan and short hair?”
“Fairly short,” acknowledged Harvey.
“BITCH!” I screamed. “Where’s my frigging watch fob?”
“Not as short as all that.”
“She probably goes camping with some German fucker named Rolf or something, doesn’t she? She probably even goes swimming, maybe even goes skinny-dipping because she doesn’t want any bathing-suit lines ruining her great new tan!” The concept of Elspeth with a tan baffled and enraged me. She’d long been timid about the sun, hesitant to even bare her arms on a hot summer’s day, fearful of a burn on her lily-white skin. Now here she was with a tan and a blond fellow named Rolf or something, and they probably spent weekends at a nudist colony playing volleyball.
“Not Rolf,” said Harvey.
“Huh?”
“The German guy’s name isn’t Rolf,” explained Benson. “I think it’s Helmut.”
“Oh, that’s nice to know, Harvey. I’m certainly glad that you’re keeping me up-to-date with my wife’s infidelities.”
“Hey!” Something occurred to Harvey. “Sara says to say hello.”
“Sara?”
“You remember, Sara. Small girl. With Lee and Sheila.”
“Oh. Right, Sara. So anyway, this guy Helmut, what does he do? I bet he’s an air-traffic controller or a fireman, isn’t he? No! I got it. He’s a cop! Right?”
“I don’t know,” said Harvey.
“Are you and your wife separated?” Esther asked ingenuously.
“Damn betchas,” I snarled. “Now I live out here, where I’ve become a piscavorous Nimrod, and she lives in Toronto and sleeps around with the Hitler Youth Movement.”
“Too bad,” pronounced Esther.
“I don’t mind,” I said. “I have reduced my life. I have made simple my heart.” I burst into tears furiously. I was through crying in a matter of seconds.
“We brought some stuff,” Harvey told me. “We thought we could go back to the homestead and cook you a good meal.”
“That’s all right, Harvey. When I reduced my life, eating was the first thing to go. No, I think I’ll just stay and fish, thanks.”
“I got some Irish whiskey.”
Irish whiskey was tempting, but I shook my head.
“I’ve got some doobies.”
“Good shit?” I asked.
“Very good shit,” he nodded.
“Then I don’t want any.”
“I’ve got some, um, cocaine.”
“Let’s go.” I jumped off my rock. Esther smiled at me warmly. She and Harvey linked hands and began to walk toward the car, their hips banging together, Harvey’s head nestled on her shoulder. I picked up my fishing gear and took one last look at the lake.
Where you going?
“Gotta go now. Me and my friends are going to cook up a nice meal, but don’t you worry, I’ll be back. If you thought Greg Opdycke was obsessed, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I have reduced my life and made simple my heart …”
Harvey touched me on the shoulder. “Paulie?”
“I’ll be right with you, Harvard.”
As soon as Benson turned away, Mossback jumped. He drove upward until his tail fin cleared the water. Mossback danced upon the surface, and for that brief moment I burned with the beauty of living.
Bedlam
Ontario, 1869
Regarding the community founded by Hope, we know the following: that it grew. And, we wonder, did Joseph expect it to do otherwise?
Joseph Benton Hope went fishing, and here’s the reason: there was bedlam back at the Phalanstery. Actually, the word Phalanstery could no longer serve; the Perfectionists now lived in a proper community, three big buildings and many smaller ones all lined out along the main street. Come to think, Hope reflected, he had authorized no building of a street, but someone had made one, lining the sides with skids and cobblestoning the narrow thoroughfare. Hope sighed and knew the answers he’d be given should he ask. Mr. Opdycke would explain that the road facilitated commerce; certainly horses and wagons came into the community constantly, either bringing raw materials or carting away the finished fishing gear. George Quinton would look miserable and twist his massive hands. “Sowwy,” George would moan, meaning that he had actually constructed the damnable road, likely without assistance from any of the other men. Hope estimated that there were perhaps forty able-bodied men (not counting Samuel and Lemuel McDiarmid, boys but massively constructed ones) yet when there was arduous labor to be done, everyone seemed to vanish except for the monstrous George.
Joseph was headed for the lake they called Look Out, walking down a rough and dusty lane. He realized that eleven years ago, when he’d first come to Upper Canada (Ontario, he reminded himself) the route to Look Out had been thick with trees, bushes and shrubbery.
Polyphilia was holding one of her exhibitions, which was one reason for the bedlam back at the community. Perhaps seventy people had come to witness it (from where, Joseph could not fathom) bringing their children with them, making a picnic of it. (Samuel and Lemuel would have a grand day, bullying all of these strange tykes, systematically beating the boys, pulling handfuls of hair from the heads of little girls.) The people were currently, Hope guessed, gathered in the main dining hall of the Fourieristic Phalanstery. Cairine and Abigal would be giving out little snacks. Ephraim, dressed in black, would be bellowing the Bible at the top of his breaking voice: “But there is a spirit in man: and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding!” Soon Polyphilia would be led in, dressed in a long white robe. Her face would be ashen, her golden hair matted and dulled by sweat. Polyphilia had lost an enormous amount of weight in the past while, and when seen nude was all bone, her ribcage sharply defined beneath paper-thin skin, her breasts virtually vanished. Polyphilia had taken to hiding this emaciated body beneath these long robes, robes that were emblazoned with images of the moon.
Polly would enter the dining hall with tiny, faltering footfalls. Everyone in the room would gasp and then fall silent, for there was something terrifying in the sight of Polyphilia, an intimation of demonic power. Martha would rush forward with a chair just as Polyphilia began to swoon.
Why is it, Hope wondered, that everyone was so caught up in this theatricality? Mary De-la-Noy, for example, always claimed a front row seat, and during Polyphilia’s exhibition, Mary’s bosom would start to pitch, at first subtly, then monumentally, and by the end of the ordeal Mary De-la-Noy would be exhausted. And Adam, of course, gave a running commentary on the proceedings. “Look there!” Adam would point energetically. “That candle was just lighted by one of our spirit friends! And what’s this?”—cocking one of his elephantine ears—“Do I hear a low wailing? Yes! Yes, indeed I do!”
“Ah, well,” said Hope wistfully. The reason he didn’t put an end to Polyphilia’s little entertainments was two-fold: 1) Hope had no reason to suppose tha
t these spirit beings didn’t exist— if one accepts a heaven, one need also accept its inhabitants—and 2) the exhibitions earned a lot of money. George Quinton circulated throughout the audience with a collection plate, and the people were inexplicably generous. Hope remembered the pennies and halfpennies the populace had given over, reluctantly, when he was a young preacher. Now, after an exhibition of Spirit Rapping, the average donation was fifty cents, often one whole dollar, sometimes even more! Hope acknowledged that there was an economic factor—this “inflation” that he’d read about—but he knew that there was far more to it than that. It had to do with the times. The world was spinning wildly, almost out of control; there were riots in China, upheavals all over Europe, and the United States of America had come within an ace of erasing itself from the face of the earth. So people turned away from all that, and looked for comfort elsewhere.
What really disappointed Hope was this: Polyphilia claimed that she could call out to the Heavenly Kingdom, that she issued an invitation to all in that Holy Realm to journey across the Spectral Divide and commune once more with the living. All well and good, Hope agreed, and the few times he’d gone to a Spirit Rapping he had hoped that, for example, Dr. Ben Franklin might choose to commune, or any of the great poets, philosophers and religious leaders. But none of that ilk ever deigned to traverse the Spectral Divide. Instead, the living were usually set upon by a horde of spiritual hooligans, who seemed to make the return journey from beyond the veil for no better purpose than to knock on walls, bang pots and pans, and light and extinguish candles. So Hope rarely attended these days. He preferred, more often, to go off by himself and pursue the Art of the Angle.
Joseph Benton Hope came to Lake Look Out. It was gentle and pristine, but Hope knew that the water was a touch murkier than it had been at the time of the Perfectionists’ arrival. Joseph Hope started assembling his gear. Hope had a ten-foot cane pole, the same kind he’d used as a boy. (Hope was a bit surprised that he remembered fishing as a boy—the recollection was dreamlike, and part of Hope doubted its authenticity. But Joseph seemed to recall standing beside a railroad pond, astounded that such stagnant, stinking water could contain living things—beautiful living things, even the catfish. Hope hadn’t recognized much in the world as beautiful—even the sight of Polyphilia’s erstwhile body, while engorging his penis, did nothing for Hope in his strange heart of hearts—perhaps had recognized nothing as beautiful except for those stupid, immigrant fish.) Hope tied the end of his line to the tip of his pole and rolled his wrist sharply, gathering the excess around the end like a ball of yarn. Then he tied on his hook and affixed a worm. Joseph Benton Hope gave out the short birdlike cry that served as his laughter, the irony being, of course, that he used none of Opdycke’s little niceties, even though they’d made him wealthy. (All of the Perfectionists were wealthy, because they shared all of the profits jointly. Mr. Opdycke received a larger share than did the others, but that was his private and personal knowledge.) Hope, now that his fishing gear was assembled, began his cautious approach toward the water’s edge.
Opdycke and his angling inventions were the other reason for bedlam back at the community. Mr. Opdycke had invited a number of prominent wholesalers to the community and was busy trying to convince them of the merit of the Opdycke product. Hope suspected he’d be successful. Opdycke would be dressed in a fine suit, his hair pomaded, his whiskers curled, and he’d offer these men whiskey. The businessmen would drink all afternoon (so would Opdycke, but without any sign of inebriation), and by the end of the day contracts would be signed.
Joseph Benton Hope reached forward and dropped the end of his line into the water. He immediately felt something, and he instinctively went to snap his wrist, but he contained himself. The fish had become wary of late, finnicky and hesitant to commit themselves to the bait. Hope allowed the tugs and nudges to increase in frequency and amplitude, and then he pulled sharply upward. Holding his pole in both hands, Hope threw the tip over his shoulder, high into the air. A fish broke the surface of the water, a small sunfish that flipped frantically, trying to throw the hook. Hope continued the backward motion of his pole so that he could land the fish behind him. Things began to happen too quickly for Hope to note accurately. Perhaps the fish threw itself clear, perhaps not; Hope tumbled backward, either by dint of this sudden release or because of the fury that erupted from the lake. Hope was still concentrating on his little fish—he watched it vanish. Only then did Joseph notice that the bass had disappeared into the maw of an awful and stupendous monster. Hope watched the Fish twist in the air (which the Fish seemed to do endlessly, somehow managing to suspend itself until its image was forever imprinted in J. B. Hope’s memory), and then it was gone.
It was little Isaiah, a strangely imaginative lad, given to flights of fancy and poesy, who said that the monster’s name was Ol’ Mossback. Isaiah was delighted by the story, and badgered his father constantly to retell it. Joseph Hope, of course, told it once or twice and then never again, so the tale had to be told by the boy himself. The other youngsters agreed that Isaiah told the story well, embellishing it with unlikely but frightening details.
“Ol’ Mossback,” Isaiah improvised one day, “is the same color of silver as the moon, because he’s a moonfish. That’s how come Father didn’t know the sort of fish he was, because Ol’ Mossback is a fish from the moon!” Isaiah had to watch himself, because if he terrified the others too much, he’d be beaten upon. Once he casually mentioned the probable contents of Ol’ Moss-back’s stomach, adding to the list such items as cows’ tongues and lizards. All was rolling along fine (indeed, the cataloging was one of his most popular inventions to date) until he mentioned kittens. At that point Sam and Lem McDiarmid rose as one, advanced on Isaiah, and boxed him stoutly on the ears (Lem on the left ear, Sam on the right). Isaiah’s hearing was never the same after that, and toward the end of his short life he was quite deaf.
Gregory Opdycke was a young boy when he first heard the tales, and although Isaiah soon had a wonderful story worked out (Ol’ Mossback was in reality a prince on the moon, but an evil witch had enchanted him, changed him into a fish, and thrown him into a lake on the earth), little Gregory’s reaction was, “I’m going to catch dat fish!” With minor variations, those were the only words Gregory Opdycke ever said for the rest of his life.
Magick in Theory and Practice
Hope, Ontario, 1983
Wherein our Young Biographer Proves himself to be the Vessel of Strange Theory.
The homestead was full of books and empty bottles. All the shutters were drawn, and all the rooms were dark as midnight, despite the sunshine in the great outdoors. Lopsided candles set up here and there did the best they could.
Harvey Benson gave me a withering look. “Where are the other inmates, Paulie?”
I bent over and picked up one of the many volumes on the floor. It was The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I set it down on top of a huge pile of books (the uppermost being the Rev. Dr. I. J. R. McDougall’s The Lecher) to show Harvey that I wasn’t totally negligent in my housekeeping duties.
The kitchen table was the worst, a foot deep in smudged and stained pages, dog-eared books and dirty glasses. Esther wandered over curiously while Benson proceeded to make coffee. I stood still and wondered about the whereabouts of this highly touted Irish whiskey.
“What are you working on?” asked Esther, sitting down at the table and touching my pages.
“Hope,” I answered.
“As in the emotion, or the town?”
I smiled cryptically.
“As in Joseph Benton Hope,” explained Harvey while puttering. “He was a religious leader who settled here with his followers. They were what they called Perfectionists, and they thought it was all right to sleep with each other’s wives.”
“Not a German among them,” I added.
“They all lived in a big house …”
“A Fourieristic Phalanstery.”
“… that�
�s still standing in town. It’s a tavern now. The Willing Mind.”
“Wow! Can we go there?” asked Esther.
“Surely,” answered Harvey.
“No,” I said, “we can’t go there.”
“Why the hell not?” demanded Professor Benson.
I shrugged. “The draft sucks.”
“I lived in a Free Love Commune,” announced Esther, “back when I was sixteen or seventeen. Out in B.C. It was okay. We did acid and fucked a lot. But,” Esther shrugged, “that got pretty boring after a while.”
“I was at Woodstock!” Benson piped up proudly.
“I was in the movie,” said Esther. “I’m one of the people skinny-dipping. I was so wasted, though, I don’t remember hardly any of it. Freaked me out when I saw the flick, boy. There’s my bare-naked ass, fifteen feet across.” Esther shook her head wistfully and started sorting through my reference books.
“I went skinny-dipping at Woodstock,” Harvey lied, “and I screwed some chick right in the middle of the crowd.”
Esther nodded vaguely. “People fucked a lot back then.”
The coffee was brewing merrily. I scowled at the chirping little percolator. Benson went to his satchel and took out a bottle of Jameson. “Your fave!” he said to me, holding up the whiskey.
Esther tried to be friendly. “Is that your favorite, Paul?”
I nodded and whispered, “Booze.”
“Well?” demanded Benson. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
“Do you understand,” I said suddenly to Esther, grabbing another chair and pulling it up to the table, “that Hope and his followers existed in the last half of the nineteenth century?”
“Wow!” exclaimed Esther. “Far out.”
“And do you know what else?” Harvey butted in. My trick worked; he was distracted. I pulled the bottle of Irish whiskey out of his hand. “Joseph Hope was murdered by one of his followers,” Benson went on eagerly, “and the guy was hanged.”
The Life of Hope Page 23
