The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  "That's great."

  Was he mocking me? Or was paranoia really creeping in?

  He pointed a finger. "Don't mind me mentioning it, but you're gonna have to watch those weeds in the garden. Let 'em get a hold and they'll overrun."

  I followed his pointing finger and swore under my breath. I hadn't noticed them before, but now I realized there were thin green tendrils spreading through the flowerbeds, a disorganized network of infiltrators, and the more I looked, the more I found.

  "Nature has a way of sneakin' up on you," Kinsella confided, and I nodded at his homespun philosophy. "I could get on over anytime, bring a coupla helpers, and give you a hand there, Mike. We'd clear the mothers in no time."

  "That's okay. I'll make a start tomorrow. It'll give me something to do."

  "You not writing?"

  "Uh, I've had other things on my mind lately."

  "Well, the offer stands; just call on us any ol' time."

  Midge was coming back through the gate, Mycroft following, two others behind. It was beginning to look more like a deputation than a friendly visit. Mycroft waved a hand in my direction as he approached and I realized the two figures accompanying him were Gillie and Neil Joby.

  As he drew nearer, the Synergist leader examined the cottage—somewhat intently, I thought, like a surveyor searching for faults. And when he was only a few feet away

  I had the feeling his composure was not quite as placid as his demeanor indicated. It was in his eyes, you see—they were too active, never settling on any one thing for long. Even when we shook hands he couldn't stop himself looking past me into the cottage. Then, not yet having said a word, he lifted my left hand and examined the fingers and lower arm, turning it over to study the other side. The rest of this amiable bunch gathered around and all but oohed and aahed.

  They were making me so aware of my supposed debt to Mycroft, I wondered if I should offer a fee.

  Mycroft fixed his gaze on me. "The human will with the Divine Spirit, Mike," he said quietly by way of an explanation for my unmarked arm.

  "And a little help from that stuff you soaked it in?" I suggested.

  "A sterilizing fluid only. I hope our intrusion isn't inconvenient?"

  I shook my head out of politeness.

  "Won't you come in?" piped up Midge. "We've been on our own since the weekend and some new conversation might be refreshing."

  I was dismayed by the barely-concealed barb; that wasn't like her at all.

  "That would be very nice," replied Mycroft, needing scant persuasion. "This is rather impromptu, otherwise we would have bought some wine."

  "We still have a bottle unopened that Hub gave us on his last visit," said Midge. "We'll drink that, unless you don't enjoy your own brew."

  Her small joke was appreciated by the group, Midge laughing with them. I suppose my grin was rather sickly.

  She pushed between Kinsella and me, inviting Mycroft to follow, and he prepared to do so. But he faltered. He stood on the step and abruptly stopped. I'm sure, although the light wasn't too good by now, that he paled, just momentarily.

  "It would be of great interest to me if I could see around the outside of this wonderful place before entering," he said quickly—almost too quickly. "These steps look fascinating."

  Fascinating? Worn stone steps?

  "Perhaps we could then use the other door," he added, and gazed up appreciatively at the white walls. He clanged the bell hanging outside for fun, and his brood dutifully chuckled.

  Midge came back out and if her smile was anything to go by, the troubles of that week had evaporated. I began to wish I had some of Mycroft's charisma.

  "I'm glad you like Gramarye so much," she said, flushed.

  He touched her shoulder for a moment. "It's a house of great joy."

  Midge glanced uncertainly at me and I kept my mouth shut.

  "The steps might be a little bit slippery, so please be careful," she warned them.

  Mycroft promptly linked his arm in hers. "Then we'll rely on each other." He said it lightly, but his eyes were unblinking and serious.

  "I'll, er, take the less scenic route," I said as they mounted the steps. "I'll bring the wine and some glasses up, okay?" They ignored me, Midge engrossed in pointing out Gramarye's charms. "Carry on, Jeeves," I muttered to myself.

  "Hello, Mike." Gillie hadn't followed the others. Instead she stood on the path, long, patterned skirt and matching gypsy shawl blending in with the garden behind. She wore open-toed sandals, thin leather thongs tying around her ankles. As she came closer, I noticed she was wearing the tiniest amount of make-up, just enough to enhance her already pretty face. "Can I help you with the wine?" she asked.

  "Sure, if you don't want the Cook's Tour of the grounds."

  "I feel I know Gramarye well enough by now. It's the most peaceful place I've ever visited."

  "Not lately it isn't." The words came out before I could stop them.

  She frowned and I smiled back at her.

  "Domestic problems," I explained lamely.

  "Oh. Then we've come at a bad time."

  I sighed, still smiling. "No, maybe we needed some extra company about now." I didn't add that even so, Mycroft and his clan wouldn't have been my first choice. Still, Gillie was a little different from the rest of them; I liked her simple gentleness. She'd have been very fashionable in the flower-power era.

  "Let's hustle wine, shall we?" I said, turning away and going inside.

  Gillie followed and stood on the threshold, the darkness in the kitchen now that nightfall was so close making her hesitant.

  "I'll get the light," I said, and crossed the room to flick the switch. I shivered; a chill was settling with the darkness.

  Pointing to the sideboard, I told her that glasses were kept in the cupboard beneath. I went to the larder next door and took out a bottle of wine. Gillie was putting the glasses on the table when I returned.

  "I'll open this down here," I said, pulling out a cupboard drawer and reaching for the corkscrew. "The wine's not properly chilled, but I don't suppose anybody's gonna mind. D'you brew much of this stuff at the Temple?"

  "Enough for ourselves, but not to sell in bulk. We don't have a license for that."

  I got to work on the cork. "Don't mind me asking, but how do you make money for your organization? Those baskets and things can't bring in much."

  Her answer came easily, like the cork I was pulling. "Mycroft is a very wealthy man in his own right. He once owned a huge manufacturing company in the United States that had subsidiaries in many other countries."

  "Yeah? What did he make?"

  "Toys."

  "You're kidding me."

  She shook her head, enjoying my surprise. "His company produced dolls, puzzles, building blocks—all kinds of things for the very young."

  "Ah, so that's why he's so interested in Midge."

  She stared at me blankly.

  "As an illustrator of children's books," I went on. "In a way, they're in the same business."

  She gave a small laugh. "Oh, I see what you mean. But Mycroft renounced all commercial attitudes toward life once he founded the Synergist Temple. He's fond of telling us how the world's children helped him reach his Chosen

  Children, his Fosterlings, by providing the financial bedrock."

  "But the Temple still has to make money to survive, doesn't it? You still make trinkets to sell."

  That amused her. "Not enough for us to live off, Mike. They provide a small amount of revenue, but we really use selling as a way of meeting people, of letting them know of the movement."

  "Then how . . . ?"

  "I told you: Mycroft is a wealthy man, the sale of his business and its subsidiaries ensured that. And of course, just as Mycroft himself donated everything he had to the Temple, so have his followers. Anything is welcomed and rejoiced over, even if it's only a few pounds. Fosterlings will give up any material possessions to cleanse themselves before our Temple."

  That sounds
like a good deal for Mycroft, I thought, sniffing at the open bottle to disguise any expression of cynicism. Still, it appeared that he'd ploughed his own wealth into the sect. I was curious, though. "What did you give up, Gillie?"

  "Oh, a few pounds, hardly anything at all. And I was welcomed as much as anybody else."

  "No, I meant, what did you give up? Your home, your family?"

  "Outside influences have to be rejected if an Adoptive is to fully embrace the doctrine."

  A nice bit of jargon, that. "An Adoptive?"

  "That's what we're called at our initiation."

  Her finger circled the brim of one of the wine glasses on the table. I could hear footsteps and muffled voices over our heads, the others obviously having entered Gramarye through the door on the next level.

  "You don't see your family any more?" I persisted.

  "There's no need to. I quit college to join the Synergists, and I don't believe they've ever forgiven me for that. They did their best to prevent me, Mike, and all they succeeded in doing was to sever family ties completely."

  "How can you say that about your own parents? Christ, they must have been worried sick, probably still are."

  She looked uncomfortable, as if the conversation wasn't going the way she'd planned. That didn't deter me.

  "How about someone like Kinsella?" I asked, changing tack. "How did he become a Synergist and what did he throw away?"

  "It isn't like that. We don't throw away anything—we give in order that we receive."

  Even better jargon.

  "So what did he give?"

  "We don't know what others bring to the Temple. Only Mycroft and his advisers are aware of that."

  "His financial advisers? So he employs accountants."

  "Yes, just as other churches do. As any large or moderate-sized organization has to."

  If the counter was meant as a rebuke, it was put very mildly.

  She moved closer and her fingers touched my wrist. "Are you interested in our Temple, Mike? Is that why you're asking questions?" She sounded hopeful and her fingers felt warm.

  "Not interested enough to join," I replied.

  Her hand slipped away, but her eyes peered intently into mine. "You'd find a great deal of happiness with us," she said. "You'd gradually become aware of many things that others aren't privileged to understand."

  "What kind of things?"

  Now she averted her gaze. "I'm only a Fosterling. Only the Selected have the authority, and the right, to instruct."

  "Kinsella?"

  "And others. I could help you, though, Mike. Each Adoptive is allowed a spiritual companion." Her fingers found my wrist again, but this time there was pressure, a firmness in her grip. "We could talk at any time about matters that needn't relate to the essential doctrine. I could meet you . . ."

  Don't think I wasn't tempted. She was an attractive girl, and lately I'd been feeling something of an outcast as far as Midge was concerned. And the steady but soft firmness of her grip implied there was more than just talk involved, that being a "spiritual companion" meant other aspects were included in this special relationship. Or was it all in my own imagination?

  "You're nice, Gillie," I said after a pause, "but I can only take one spiritual companion at a time, and she's upstairs at the moment. Grab a coupla glasses, will you?" I lifted the bottle and gripped the stems of three wine glasses between my fingers.

  If she felt rejected she didn't show it, and again I wondered if I hadn't imagined the come-on.

  "I understand what you're saying," she said, holding a glass in each hand, "but if you ever do feel a need . . ."

  She deliberately left the rest unsaid and naturally my imagination continued to indulge itself. She turned away, but not before smiling at me with her eyes, not mockingly, not even seductively, but as if she understood a lot more than I did. Probably she was right.

  "Tell me one other thing," I said, bringing her to a halt. "Why here?"

  She looked puzzled.

  "Why did Mycroft base his Synergist Temple here? He's American, and from what I gathered when I was at the Temple, so are quite a few of his followers, so why bring his organization all the way over to England?"

  "Because this is the—"

  "Gillie."

  The voice was calm enough, yet the girl's head spun around as though she'd been lashed.

  Kinsella stood on the bottom stair, hands inevitably tucked into back pockets. He was smiling amiably, but I thought I detected just a hint of irritation filtering through his expression.

  "We were wondering what had happened to you both," he said agreeably.

  "On our way," I responded, holding the wine and glasses aloft. "Gillie was just filling in on some of the Synergist background, although I've gotta own up, I'm not much wiser."

  "Well, the man himself is under your roof, Mike. Mycroft can explain better than any of us. But you know we've never wanted to thrust any of this down your throat before, that's not our style."

  "I'm not that curious. Just making conversation."

  "Sure. Lemme give you a hand with those glasses."

  "I can manage. You lead the way."

  Kinsella glanced around the room as if looking for something before retreating up the stairs.

  Again I asked myself what it was about Gramarye that made him so nervous.

  "The limits of the human mind are those imposed by ourselves."

  Mycroft looked from face to face, examining the effects of his statement on both the initiated and the uninitiated— the latter being Midge and myself. He was seated in the round room's only armchair, while Midge and Gillie sat on the sofa, with me on the sofa's arm; Kinsella and Joby lounged on the floor, sipping wine and watching their leader intently. A single lamp lit the room and outside the windows there seemed to be nothing but blackness.

  "Civilization itself has served to dull our minds' intrinsic faculties," he went on, "the new material and scientific knowledge increasingly diminishing our self-knowledge. It's not by chance that the child without so-called matured wisdom has a greater psychic capability than the adult."

  "I understand what you mean," I said, "and it's hardly an original theory." (I didn't mind being rude—we'd already sat through nearly twenty minutes of Mycroft's proselytizing and I was steadily becoming bored.) "But look, knowledge tells me I can't fly: not believing that, or being unaware of it, doesn't alter the fact."

  "No, Mike," he replied patiently. "SW/-knowledge informs you that you can't fly. But in even that, you've learned to think merely in terms of your physical body, and not of your consciousness. Ultimately there is nothing that can restrict your own psyche. The force that's within us all— the psychic energy, if you wish—cannot be bound by the physical aspects of our lives. Unless we, ourselves, dictate otherwise."

  Somehow he no longer looked so bland. Maybe the shadows cast by the lamp gave depth to his features where none had been apparent before; or maybe it was the intensity in his eyes.

  Midge spoke up, and I noticed she was hugging herself as though cold. "If this energy is there inside every one of us, why can't we reach it? Why can't we use it?"

  "First we have to discover the ability within ourselves. We must become fully aware of the source, must realize and accept its presence. And we have to learn to control and keep fettered all knowledge that isn't relevant to our true selves. For that we need guidance." He smiled indulgently at Midge, but to me it was like the grin a spider saves for a fly. Why was it that the more I saw of these people, the less I liked them? Could be, I mused, that I had a natural antagonism against anything that smacked of fanaticism. And for all their quiet, amicable ways, the Synergists had that fanatical air about them.

  "The Synergist Temple," Mycroft continued, his language becoming less matter-of-fact and more high-flown by the moment, "is no more than a foundation in which we seek our truth, where both the conscious and subconscious minds learn to combine with the omnispirit that governs us all, the spirit that exists within ye
t is apart, is individual yet is greater than the individual."

  My eyes were beginning to glaze over. This was worse than Sunday sermon (as far as I could remember).

  I stole a glance at Midge, and her face was serious, her eyes fixed on Mycroft's.

  "How is it achieved?" she asked, and I shifted awkwardly on the arm of the sofa; she was spoon-feeding him all the right questions. "How does a person learn to combine with this spirit?"

  Mycroft let his smile wander among his followers, and they smiled back as if they shared the secret. "It takes time," he said, returning his gaze to Midge, "and it requires a great deal of humility. Adoptives must surrender their thoughts, their wills. They must let the Founder have responsibility for all they do."

  Even Midge, in her present state of blind fascination, blanched at that.

  "That's asking a lot of someone, isn't it?" I remarked.

  "The rewards are impressive," he countered smoothly.

  "What would they be?"

  "Oneness in spirit."

  "Sounds terrific."

  His flicker of annoyance was barely discernible.

  "A regeneration of the mind's powers."

  I nodded as though checking off a list.

  "A harnessing of earthly thaumaturgic potency."

  Now that did sound impressive, whatever the hell it meant. I felt it only right that I should ask.

  "Unless you subjected yourself to each stage of the Synergist development," he said by way of an answer, "you could not hope to understand. Would you acknowledge now, for instance, that vast sources of power lie beneath our feet?"

  I caught some anxious expressions directed at him from the others in the room, but Mycroft remained impassive.

  "Of course," I replied. "Everybody accepts there's huge energy resources in the earth. There's nothing astounding about that proposition."

  "I'm referring to a power much more intangible, Mike, but equally real. Something incorporeal, yet vast in its reserves. And we, mankind, have almost—almost— forgotten how to avail ourselves of that force."

  Self-knowledge, oneness, regeneration, potency, thaumaturgic (thaumaturgic?), intangible, incorporeal (always a good one), and now of course, mankind—all those profound (and cliché) words you find in books on religion or the occult which sound great but leave you scratching your head wondering what it's all about.