by Mark Frost
There was a lit taper in his hand; he’d caught himself nearly in the act. Curious: I’m standing square in the fulcrum of man’s eternal dialectic between faith and fear; are we beings of light, gods waiting to be born, or pawns in a struggle of higher forces vying for control of a world beneath their separate, unseen realms? Unable to commit himself to either side of that argument, Doyle extinguished the taper without lighting a candle.
With returning to see if Sacker had returned to his office an option of exceptionally limited appeal, the prospect of food and drink presented the preferred alternative; feed the body, quiet the mind. Then a visit to an individual uniquely qualified to lead him out of this metaphysical mire was in order: HPB.
chapter seven
HPB
ONE FULL STOMACH AND TWO HOURS LATER, DOYLE WAS SIT-ting amid a modest gathering of Transcendentalists at the local Grange Hall listening to H. P. Blavatsky hold forth from center stage. No lectern, no notes, she spoke extemporaneously, and even if the essential content and continuity of the lecture proved elusive in retrospect, the effect was undeniably mesmerizing.
“—there has never been a religious leader of any stature or importance who invented a new religion. New forms, new interpretations, yes, these they have given us, but the truths upon which these revelations were based are older than mankind. These prophets, by their own admission, were never originators. The word they preferred was transmitters. They never, any of them, from Confucius to Zoroaster, Jesus to Mohammed, they never said. These things I have created. What they said was, invariably, These things I receive and pass on. And so it is today.”
As her passion mounted, her eyes flashed liked sapphires. Blavatsky’s round, diminutive figure assumed protean dimensions, while her heavily accented English, broken and tentative to start with, flowed in a grammatically impeccable silver stream.
“There exists in the world today sacred wisdom which dwarfs our puny notions of history; I am speaking of books of ancient origin, vast depositories of them, hidden for centuries from the Western eye; the Northern Buddhists of Tibet alone possess three hundred and twenty-five volumes, fifty to sixty times the amount of information contained in the so-called Bible, recounting two hundred thousand years of human history. Let me repeat that: two hundred thousand years of recorded human history. ‘But that’s pre-Christian! What an assertion! She must be insane! She must be silenced!’ I can hear the venerable Archbishop crying out all the way from Canterbury.”
She cocked a hand to her ear, the comic effect of which did not elude her audience. Doyle glanced around the room and noticed that the Indian woman who had ridden up with him on the train was sitting one row over, smiling at HPB and nodding approvingly.
“What was the most devastating act the Christians took against their precedents? How did they begin their fanatical and systematic eradication of the Ancient Knowledge? Answer? The Gregorian calendar. So simple: Year One. Time begins with the birth of the Nazarene prophet—oh there were some mildly significant events before this, but the years run backward, you see, away from this Supreme Moment, into the void of insignificance. We men of the True Church, we’ll decide when time begins. And so with one stroke prove definitively that the writing implement is mightier than the saber.
“Do you see how damaging, how trivializing this decision is to all the history that preceded it? How this one act, born not of the traditional Christian pieties, but from the fear of unwelcome truths—that is, truths contradictory to the best interests of those currently in power—cuts human progress off from the most powerful spiritual resources it has or will ever have available to it.”
Bold talk in a Christian country. Doyle had to admire the woman’s verve and evident common sense. This was no fuzzy-headed mystic with her head in cloud-cuckoo-land.
“You have to grant them this. These early Christians. They were tenacious. Did their work well. They scoured the world for these Ancient Doctrines, and they obliterated them, almost entirely, in the Western world. The library at Alexandria, the last great archive whose contents straddled the pre-and post-Christian worlds, burned to the ground. Do you suppose this act of willful spiritual vandalism was an accident?
“This is why our travels, our work as Theosophists, must always take us to the East. That is where the knowledge is. From where it has always emanated forth. Fortunately, the Adepts of the East had the sound historical sense to conceal their sources from these Western marauders. Holy Crusaders intent on their own parochial destiny, oblivious to the true concern of man: human spiritual evolution. And so you ask yourself, why has this knowledge of the Secret Science remained hidden from the Western masses? Would it not be in the best interests of these alleged Enlightened Ones to share their secrets with the emerging civilizations? Let me ask you this: Would you give a candle to a child in a roomful of gunpowder? These truths have been passed down by spiritual leaders, from generation to generation, since time began. They remain secret because contained within are the keys to understanding the essential mysteries of life. Because they are Power! And woe betide us all if they should ever fall into the wrong hands.”
Her eyes rested on Doyle for the first time, then moved on.
“So this is our lot; even as we labor endlessly to bring these truths, in their reduced, acceptable form, before the court of public opinion we should not delude ourselves that our efforts will be welcomed in our lifetimes. Quite the contrary. We must expect to be rejected, attacked, ridiculed. No scholar or scientist will be permitted to regard our efforts with any degree of seriousness. It is simply our job to open the door, if only this much.” She held up two slightly parted fingers. “It will fall to each generation of fellow explorers who succeed us to open that door a little wider.”
Now she seemed to turn her attention directly to Doyle. He felt the force of her eyes as she held him benignly in her gaze.
“How is this to be done? you ask. Imagine you are a tourist, and you are traveling in a country that is very well known to you, a country in which you have spent your entire existence. You are familiar intimately with its roads, rivers, cities, people, and customs. It represents the sum of all you know, and so you therefore, quite naturally assume it represents the sum of all that is. Imagine then that while upon your travels, you have quite unexpectedly arrived at the border of another land. A land not identified anywhere on your most impressive collections of maps. This country is ringed, on every side, by insurmountable mountain ranges, so you are unable to see down into this strange land from your position. But you are determined to go there. You are enthusiastic. You have courage. You have, for lack of a better word, a certain faith. What must you do?”
Scale the mountain, Doyle thought. Blavatsky nodded.
“And remember,” she said, “when the path appears impassable, when your prospects are ruined, when even death seems imminent, you will have no other choice but to destroy the mountain. In this way, and this way only, will you enter the New Country.”
With this perplexity, her presentation was at an end. Applause was brief and polite. Blavatsky bowed slightly, a slight smile not without irony on her lips, which seemed to Doyle to say, You are not applauding me, because these are not truly my words, but I acknowledge the divinity and comedy of our collective spiritual-physical paradoxical condition and commend you for your recognition of it.
Most of the crowd drifted out, satisfied with their evening, some smugly dismissive, others self-congratulatory on the subject of their own open-mindedness, a few stimulated to greater thought that would result in soul-searching to last the better part of the evening, or even, for one or two, into the next day, before the blanket of routine muffled that restless stirring back down to the parade of days.
Knowing he must speak with the woman. Doyle lingered on the edge of the circle of acolytes who pressed in around her, hungry for more direct experience of the truths she was peddling. An assistant—Doyle presumed he was an assistant by his habitually clerical nature—male, early twenties, s
et up a table of HPB’s books nearby, offering the volumes Doyle was already familiar with at extremely reasonable prices.
The questions she fielded were earnest, if predictable, and she answered with wit and brevity that bordered on the discourteous. She was clearly not one of these charismatics Doyle had occasionally come across, whose express objective was to inspire a dependency, emotional and inevitably financial, among their faithful. She was, if anything, impatient with her standing as a figure of social curiosity and emphatically disinterested in the glamorous, self-aggrandizing aspects of the teacher-student dynamic. This is her gift, Doyle thought. She stirs the pot. What the individual does with the information there was not her responsibility. Sensible and pragmatic and not a little appealing.
“What do you have to say about the various religions?”
“Nothing. There is no religion higher than truth.”
Why do you think elders in other religions are afraid of what you are saying?”
“Bigotry and materialism.”
“Are you saying Jesus was not the Son of God?”
“No. We are all sons and daughters of God.”
“But are you saying he wasn’t divine?”
“Quite the contrary. Next question.”
“What about the Freemasons?”
“Whenever anyone asks about the Freemasons, I must say good night. Read my books, and to the greatest extent that you can manage, remain awake. Thank you.”
With that, she withdrew through a door at the side of the stage, and the remainder of the crowd dispersed. A short, nattily dressed woman with a monocle and walking stick appeared at Doyle’s side.
“Dr. Doyle?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Dion Fortune. HPB would like to speak with you. Would you come this way please?”
Doyle nodded and followed. The woman’s name was familiar; she was a founding member of the London branch of the Theosophical Society and an author of some note in the esoteric world. Doyle noticed the Indian woman lingering at the book table as Fortune led him through the door.
Her handshake was firm and cool. She looked him right in the eye with concern and warm support.
“I am most pleased to meet you, Dr. Doyle.”
Having vouchsafed the initial introductions, Dion Fortune took a seat by the door. They were in a cramped dressing room next to a rumbling furnace. A spacious, well-traveled satchel stood open on a table—HPB’s only luggage, her possessions and appointments were as utilitarian and utterly lacking in ostentation as her wardrobe.
Doyle returned the salutation, knowing he would feel remiss without telling her immediately of the events in London.
“Petrovitch is dead,” he said.
Her features hardened. She asked immediately for exhaustive, specific details. He recounted the tale exactingly, as well as his conclusions, finally producing the tin of poison tablets from his bag. Blavatsky examined them, sniffed them, nodded.
“Would you like to drink with me?” she asked. “I recommend something stiff.”
She pulled a bottle from her bag. Fortune produced some glasses.
“Vodka,” she said, offering him the first glass.
“I thought spiritual teaching argued against the use of hard liquor,” Doyle said lightly.
“Most spiritual teaching is hogwash. We must still move through the world as the personality into which we were born. I am a Russian peasant woman, and vodka has a most agreeable effect upon me. Na zdorovia.”
She downed the drink and poured another. Doyle sipped. Fortune abstained. Blavatsky dropped into a chair, slung a leg over one of the arms, and lit a cigar.
“There is more you would like to tell me, yes?”
Doyle nodded. He was grateful for the vodka, as it seemed to elicit a smoother recitation of his story. She stopped him only once, to ask for a more detailed description of the wounds and external arrangement of the organs of the fallen prostitute.
“Would you be kind enough to sketch them for me as close to memory as possible?”
Fortune handed him pen and paper, and Doyle complied, handing Blavatsky the result. She studied the drawing, grunted once, then folded the paper and dropped it in her bag.
“Please continue,” she said.
He guided her through the trip to Cambridge, his near encounter with God-knows-what in the Antiquities Building, and then showed her the altered book from his rooms.
“What could have caused such a thing?” he asked.
“Ectoplasmic detonation. An entity breaking through from the other side. This is what Petrovitch summoned me to see. Very bad. Of course, at the time I assumed they were after Petrovitch—perhaps they were, secondarily. Be thankful you weren’t home at the time. Go on, Doctor.”
Doyle’s mind spun. “Madame Blavatsky, what can you tell me about the Dark Brotherhood?”
The question prompted a veiled exchange of looks between HPB and Fortune that he was unable to interpret.
“Evil beings. Materialists. Enemies of holy spirit. You should read my work on the subject—”
“I have read your work on the subject, Madame.” Only too well, thought Doyle. “I need to know if you believe these beings are real.”
She knocked on the table. “Is table real? Is glass real?”
“It appears that they are, yes.”
“You have your answer then.”
“But are these beings people—I mean, are they in human form, or do they just swim indiscriminately around in the ether?”
“They are spirits who desire human form. They hunger, hovering around it, seeking entry.”
“For which, as you write, they require the cooperation of the living.”
“Cooperation and sacrifice, yes. They must be invited onto this plane through the enactment of rituals and so forth,” she said, somewhat disinterestedly. “Describe for me if you would this Professor Armond Sacker.”
“Tall, rangy. Midthirties. Prominent nose, high, intelligent brow, light eyes. Long fingers. Athletic.”
This prompted another look between his hosts.
“Is something wrong?” Doyle asked.
“As it happens, I’m to have supper with Professor Sacker this very evening,” she replied.
“But you know him then,” Doyle replied excitedly.
“For many years.”
“You know him well.”
“Very well indeed. That will be his step arriving outside our door even now.”
There were in fact footsteps outside the door, two sets, and then a knock. Fortune opened the door, revealing the young book clerk.
“Professor Sacker to see you, Madame,” said the clerk.
“Show him in,” she replied.
Doyle rose. The clerk moved away from the door, and Professor Sacker entered. HPB greeted him warmly with a kiss to either cheek.
“How good to see you again,” she said.
“And you, my dear, and you,” Sacker replied loudly.
Fortune welcomed Sacker familiarly as well and then presented him to Doyle, and Doyle shook the infirm hand of the stooped, diminutive, white-haired eighty-two-year-old man before him.
“Sorry, what was the name again?” asked Sacker.
“Doyle.”
“Boyle?” He was nearly shouting.
“Doyle, sir. Arthur Doyle.”
“Fine. Will you be joining us for supper then, Oyle?”
“I don’t honestly—I don’t know, sir!”
“Professor, please go ahead to the restaurant with Mrs. Fortune. I will be along to join you momentarily,” Blavatsky said, making herself understood by the old man without raising her voice. She signaled Fortune, who smoothly guided Sacker out of the room.
Blavatsky turned back to Doyle, reading the shock on his face.
“Listen carefully, Doctor,” she said. “I am leaving early in the morning for Liverpool and from there in two days’ time sailing to America. You must try to remember everything I tell you, which as you have ably demo
nstrated will not be difficult for you.”
“I’ll try. If I could ask—”
She held up a hand to silence him. “Please do not ask questions. They will only serve to irritate me. There is a great urgency in you, and I do not doubt what you have told me, but this is a most dangerous time for many initiates in many places, and my presence is promised elsewhere. I do not expect you to understand. Please accept that what I have to tell you will be of some use to you and move forward.”
“If I have no other choice.”
“Good. Optimism is good, Common sense is good.” She put out her cigar. “As mystics are to the occult, there are individuals known as sorcerers to Magick. Magick is the Left-Handed Path to Knowledge; it is the shortest way to the Englightenment we all seek. It has a higher cost. It seems to me that what the man who presented himself to you as Professor Sacker has told you was correct in many details: You have been made a target by a group traveling the Left-Handed Path.”
“Who are they?”
“This is unknown—”
“The Dark Brotherhood?”
“There are many names for that loose confederation of souls. Their hand is visible behind the sinister actions of countless factions around the world; do not mistake them for some benevolent protective order of lodge brothers. They are our counterparts in exploring what lies beyond, but their sole ambition is material power. They are exceedingly malicious and more than capable of ending your life, as they have done to my dear friend Petrovitch, who was, by the way, a highly advanced Adept who had been watching your progress with interest for some time—”
“My progress?”
She stilled him again and fixed him with her hypnotic gaze, which flared again with the persuasive power she had evidenced earlier onstage.
“You must not waver in your determination. It is your strongest asset. You must not fear, for that will let them in. Regarding all of these phenomena you have described, some of which I must admit are new to me—the blue thread, the strange state of your rooms, and so on—you must remember this: All of these manifestations they create mean absolutely nothing.”
