Is this recklessness, he wonders - journeying all this way to what must inevitably be a cynical, perhaps even downright hostile reception? Probably. Yet Herman knows that sooner or later he must make known his findings and enlist some practical support if he is to confirm his place within Rascham’s Inner Temple and return Poppy to safety. And so, with the pledge, accepted by those at the Schloss of a swift return, he has been given leave by the treasurer for a week’s absence in which he might ‘set his financial affairs in order,’ and thus he finds himself this evening journeying to the remote retreat of Craigmull in order to take the momentous and audacious step of speaking face to face with none other than Poppy’s father, Hubert Peters.
Based on his discussions with Deborah, he knows the publishing magnate is often to be found here at weekends, even in the depths of winter - the climate in this particular corner of the United Kingdom being surprisingly temperate, a maritime climate as they call it, and rarely troubled by heavy snows, so Herman is reasonably confident of finding the man here this Friday evening, and if not this evening, then surely tomorrow.
And how good it is to be back to ‘normal’ as well - to be dressed once more in his English tweeds and ironed shirts. His voices have kept faith with him, too, those strange, disincarnate entities confirming that he is still in some sense being watched over, guided in his mission. ‘Be ever alert to danger,’ is the latest message, more like an omen, repeated as a persuasive whisper again and again during the past thirty minutes - a little disconcerting, perhaps, as he draws ever closer - yet all the while consoled and encouraged by the recollection of his conversations with Poppy.
Yes, she had been there that evening; she had come just as he has asked her, out there in her long woollen coat, gloves and scarf onto the veranda outside the refectory of Rascham’s castle keep. It was an evening like this, in fact, deeply silent and calm as they climbed up to a chamber in a tower adjacent to the main chimneys of the building, a warm place to sit and rest their backs and where, she had assured him, they could converse at length with little danger of being discovered, for she would often come up here alone, she told him, to look at the stars. And so, seated together on a bench set into the wall, with the moonlight reflected off the snow outside, and with fervent whispers of secrecy between them, she had told him her story and of just how she had come to be there in such an extraordinary and yet utterly isolated place.
It had, she said, been during the final days of her summer term at Heidelberg University when she had been introduced to the group - the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies - in one of the popular bierkellers the students frequented. A kindly and inquisitive young German woman named Frieda had befriended her and urged her to explore the teachings of the organisation and to read the books that drew them both ever deeper into the realms of millennialist philosophy. Of a similar age and outlook to life, they were both restless and searching for something new and more fulfilling - particularly attracted by the Society’s ethos of emancipation and the prospect of a culture in which women and men were treated as equals.
Together they went firstly to Köln and then München to attend meetings - many of these led by the same Dr. Gross whom Herman had visited in Bern and even, on one occasion, incognito, by none other than the treasurer of the Society, Herr Walter von Spiegler, and who, according to Poppy, is a man of far greater importance at Schloss Lethe than Herman had hitherto assumed. It was the first time Herman had heard his name in full - Walter von Spiegler - this knowledge being a privilege enjoyed only by advanced initiates, apparently, those of the Inner Temple. The secrecy was due, Poppy believed, to his being a prominent figure in the business world.
They encouraged her by telling her she was possessed of rare and very special qualities, and that she was destined to become a follower of a great spiritual master who was as yet unknown to the world. His name was also to be withheld from her until she came to the Schloss, upon which she was told to sever all ties with her past; to be governed by a vow of secrecy and to undertake the initiation procedure, similar to that which Herman had undergone himself not too long ago. She had progressed rapidly, been awarded her silver sash of the novitiate within a few days, and thereafter they had told her she had been selected for the special disciplines that would allow her to approach a yet more elevated and exclusive order of sisterhood to which she must aspire: the votaries and temple maidens of the Divine Rascham.
But it was at this point in their conversation when a pall of doubt and confusion had fallen over Poppy’s lovely young face. She explained then that, even quite early on, she had become prone to doubts and to moments of indecision, due in part to experiences concerning her friend, the same Frieda, who had been just a few weeks ahead of her in her training.
‘It was some months ago, shortly after my arrival here,’ Poppy whispered with a certain rapidity to her voice, as if she dreaded more than anything there might not be time to disclose all of her story. Already, it was almost the hour of ‘lights out’ in the dormitories and common rooms all over the castle. Movements would be curtailed; doors and windows bolted.
‘Frieda was actually at the advanced levels of training, prepared for ordination into the Inner Temple,’ she continued. ‘Dear Frieda. People used to think we were sisters, we were so alike. We used to exchange clothing and all sorts of things. She was about to undergo an initiation procedure as Temple Maiden - I am not sure what this entailed, exactly - but it was around this time when she just stopped speaking to me. It was so puzzling. Then one morning I overheard what sounded like an argument between her and our mentor, Frau Weiss - you know, the ogress who trains us and supervises our exercises. Frieda kept on crying - I could hear it. Shortly after this, she vanished. I never saw her again. Some say once you have been accepted, you stay with Rascham forever in the mountain. I’m not sure if I believe that.’
‘Tell me, Poppy,’ Herman had asked, as instinctively they huddle closely together on their seat, ‘after being here a while, do you have any of the privileges reinstated that we newcomers are denied? I mean, do you have access to any news at all from the outside world - any papers, letters - anything smuggled in?’
‘Why, no of course not,’ Poppy had answered with conviction, and leaving Herman in no doubt of her being unaware of the chalet fire in Bavaria, and likewise of the humiliation in the English press of her hapless mother. Perhaps it was as well she remained in ignorance. ‘We are protected here against everything that is irrelevant,’ she continued, ‘all the lies and falsehood; the propaganda of the press; the corruption of the politicians. Here at our retreat we listen to the voices of nature and open our minds to a much wider consciousness. Our mission is to assist Rascham in bringing order and justice to the Earth. We need to keep our thoughts pure.’
‘But have you never wished to communicate with your family, your mother and father, for instance - at least just to let them know you are safe and well?’
Poppy cast her eyes down then, a little ruefully. ‘I did send a letter out once, in secret, to Mummy soon after I arrived. I wonder if it ever reached her. I certainly never received a reply.’
Herman did not need to dig at all deeply into his experiences of the way things were run at the Schloss to speculate on the fate of any such letter, but these misgivings he kept to himself.
‘Do you think they would be worried?’ she asked, her face so close to his as she gazed anxiously into his eyes.
‘I am sure they are,’ he replied, stunned by her naivety. Did she really ever doubt that they would be?
There was clearly some deep manipulation taking place with the young woman’s thought process. It seemed clear, moreover, that Poppy’s dear friend Frieda, with an appearance, age and outlook apparently so similar to her own, may well have concluded her young life in the flames of the chalet in Germany last year. If the unfortunate girl had refused to become the Temple Maiden of Rascham, and refused to be deprived of her sight in whatever barbaric or perhaps even strictly clinical
way this was achieved, her death would have seemed the preferred solution for those in charge, maintaining the Society’s secrecy while providing at the very same stroke a convenient means by which to engineer Poppy’s ostensible demise. And suddenly their insistence on taking custody of all personal effects such as jewellery and passports began for Herman to take on a new and terrifyingly logical significance. Were these not the very items of Poppy’s found at the scene of the fire? Yes, of course. Whoever was in charge of recruitment and the silencing of discontent here was as clever as they were ruthless.
‘Anyway, may I remind you, you still haven’t told me how you know my name?’ Poppy had asked him then. ‘In this place, I am known as Penelope. Only my closest friends and my mother would ever have addressed me as Poppy.’
Agreeing to explain, he reached into his jacket to present her with the rolled-up canvas of her painting, the one with its background of Cologne Cathedral, and which had led to the discoveries that had eventually brought him here. ‘I suspect you might just recognise this. Am I correct?’ he said, unfurling the little painting and allowing her to take it - there being just sufficient light from the moon for her to recognise her own work. ‘I found it in Heidelberg,’ he continued, responding to her mystification. ‘Your mother journeyed there to clear the apartment of those possessions you left behind. Your mother is a friend of mine, and it is she who, as you rightly say, refers to you always as Poppy.’
A tear formed in her eye then, and she seemed most contrite. His explanation, together with this most demonstrable proof of his sincerity, was clearly bringing everything back to her, all the denial of her past they insisted on here, all her self-imposed and convenient forgetfulness.
And yet if it was true that by that stage in their conversation she was wavering just a little in her resolve, and that there might be at least some hope of her abandoning her new-found obsession and to return to the safety of the outside world, it was equally clear to him she would have already been primed for such an eventuality and of precisely how to resist it.
‘Poppy, I have to leave here tomorrow, just for a few days - something I have to see to back in England,’ he stated, rolling up the canvas again and returning it to the security of his jacket as if to emphasise the gravity of his announcement. ‘When do you anticipate being initiated as temple maiden? I trust it’s not imminent?’
‘Oh, heavens, no. I still have heaps of study and special training to do beforehand.’
‘Promise me then … that you will be safe if I go away,’ he urged her.
‘Safe - whatever do you mean?’ she answered, bewildered, but then irritable as well. ‘Whatever could make you say such a thing? I am not in any danger. Oh, I understand - this is you or whoever has sent you, trying to persuade me again to abandon my new life. Well, sorry, I am not even going to consider it.’
‘Poppy,’ he whispered patiently and, taking her gently by the hand, placed an arm behind her shoulder hoping to draw her closer to his side. ‘I told you earlier today, I have not been sent by anyone. I just want you to listen to what I have to say and …’
‘No ...’ she protested and tried to free herself, but he could see how the greater part of her wanted to stay, and to continue being held close for those few precious minutes remaining to them. Eventually, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed for one glorious moment of surrender.
‘So if no one has sent you, why else would you have come here?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Dear Poppy. Do you not know even now?’ he answered softly, raising her face to his. ‘I have come here to bring you your mother’s kiss.’
And before Poppy could even finish her gasp of astonishment, he did just that - softly, his lips upon hers, lingering, without any obvious demonstration of male passion, but for a time.
The cold night and the darkness vanished then as they entered their private space of pleasure and amazement - because to his surprise there seemed no end to the depth such a kiss might draw them into, should they allow it to continue. It was blissful until, all at once, her fears gaining the ascendancy, she disengaged herself, got to her feet and left the tower, not looking back. It had all happened so fast, he had no opportunity to protest or to pursue her. Poppy had vanished like some tantalising dream that no amount of will power could ever restore.
And so it is, with these poignant and yet immensely encouraging recollections playing upon his mind, that Herman’s attention is forced very much back to the here and now once again and the imminent conclusion of his journey. He alights at the village inn, deliberately some distance from his destination, and from here, after a little refreshment, takes himself on foot along to the gatehouse at the top of the lane, which would, according to his map, lead him down to the loch and to Craigmull.
It is almost completely dark by the time he approaches the sprawling Neo-Gothic edifice with its towering gables, mullion windows and ivy-clad walls - a bleak exterior, to be sure, with hardly a light showing anywhere - so that once again he finds himself wondering whether he has really taken leave of his senses coming here at all and at such an hour. No matter - Peters will either be prepared to aid him in his endeavours to bring Poppy home, or he will simply hand Herman over to the police - in which case he is prepared to tell all, anyway: to assist with a full inquiry. Either way, the whole thing will be resolved, and the poor man’s unfortunate daughter brought back from her dreadful predicament.
‘Have you practised your exercises this evening, Penelope?’ her tutor and mistress of meditation, Frau Weiss, inquires prior to retiring for the night, adamant as always that the young woman in her charge should succeed in everything required of her.
‘I have, Frau Weiss, thank you,’ Poppy replies, though without much enthusiasm.
‘Excellent. And are you making progress with the marble egg, manipulating it as instructed?’ the woman inquires further, taking a seat on the floor by her pupil’s side. ‘Remember, the honour of initiation into the sisterhood of the Temple Maidens means you must become greater than any mere mortal woman: a creature of grace, of strength and perfect co-ordination. As a mistress of the Tantric arts, you must also develop the muscles of the vaginal wall. You must learn to exert complete control over them. The egg is extremely important at this stage of your development, therefore, as is cultivating flexibility and rotation of the pelvis. These are the skills, the essential qualities of any devotee to the living god Rascham. You understand this, yes?’
Poppy nods her compliance. Although not entirely unpleasant at moments, the internal manipulation of the marble egg is one of the more tedious of the exercises she is compelled to undertake as part of her daily disciplines. ‘Is it really that important, though - to be able to hold this thing inside for hours at a time?’ Poppy asks as, emboldened by her position and rank - the senior neophyte at the present time, after all - she tosses the tiny polished stone into the air and catches it in her palm - just one of many frivolous gestures and manners of speech of late that are evidently much to the displeasure of her mentor.
‘Of course,’ the woman snaps back, endeavouring to speak patiently, as might a teacher to a particularly dull pupil, but failing, as she often does, to moderate her temper. ‘Remember, we are practising the genuine disciplines here - not just talking about them. We are schooled in the arts of the ancients and their knowledge of cultivating sexual pleasure - far more pleasure than you will ever have thought possible, I promise you. This, you will understand one day. But even then, it will not be for you as an individual to enjoy. You will dedicate your pleasure to Rascham. And when you are wedded to him, your moments of ecstasy are given to strengthen him and his purpose. This is your sacrifice, your good karma.’
‘Oh well … yes. I do understand, I suppose,’ Poppy replies vaguely, her voice betraying her doubts even after all these weeks of study. ‘It’s just that it all seems so terribly dreary at times, that’s all,’ she concludes with a long and somewhat exaggerated sigh of exhaustion.
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br /> ‘Poppy, tell me,’ the woman asks after a suitable pause of silent umbrage - her voice seems furtive, probing - ‘when you meditate and reach to your inner self, does your spirit not feel satisfied?’
‘Yes ... yes, it does,’ Poppy answers slowly, enjoying as she often does these sessions of discourse with the older woman, since they remind her, no matter how imperfectly, of her conversations long ago with her mother when they would sit together and discuss their experiences in all manner of things - though not, to be sure, ever anything quite as outlandish as she has been obliged to study here at Schloss Lethe!
‘Good. I am pleased,’ the woman replies in her typically robust yet persuasive voice - as if every word she might utter would naturally be imbued with immense significance. ‘But tell me also,’ she continues, ‘do you - er - sometimes feel a time might come when the inner experience might prove to be more vital, even more valuable to you than those perceived with your eyes?’
Poppy thinks about this for a while. ‘Are the visual senses really so very important?’ she asks herself - and this not for the first time. After all, Rascham has become great without the light of the day to illuminate his world. Such a paradox had often been mentioned in her tutorials. And this evening, therefore, in response to what she feels is wanted of her, she nods her assent - an assent not without a certain reticence, however, because she wonders why the teachings of her mentor are becoming increasingly focused of late on the limitations of the organs of perception - parts she had already been taught to overrule in any case through the use of meditation.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 33
