by Kim Wilkins
“Warder,” Neal said, “please ask for the current password.”
Mandy went from person to person, leaned close as the password was whispered to her. I couldn’t quite make it out, but thought they may have been saying “stardust”. It all put me in mind of Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven, and I was careful not to smile.
“The current password is known to all but one,” Mandy said.
“Sister,” Neal said, addressing me, “you are witnessing a great and secret tradition. Do you agree not to share what you see and hear tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, with all due circumstance. I was lying, of course. I thought I may never see these people again, so it hardly mattered what kind of promises I made.
Neal looked around at the others, waited a few moments. “Brothers and sisters, let us invoke the Higher.”
Much muttering and mumbling followed, accompanied by a thorough censing of the room in sandalwood, and a bit of water from a silver goblet being splashed about. They walked right and then left in a circular pattern, held hands, drew pentagrams in the air, called out spells, invoked deities long-since discredited, and paraded about like self-important extras in a B-grade fifties Biblical epic. I admit, I wholly admit, that I took none of it in the least seriously. I watched and I listened, and I drew my conclusions. Despite their ridiculous behaviour, and despite the studied seriousness they all cultivated, it was abundantly clear that they were having the time of their lives. This was a cubbyhouse gang for grown-ups.
As the ritual wore on, I started to consider my options. There was nothing sinister enough here to provide an angle for a Hallowe’en article; but this was an interesting group of people indulging in an unusual practice. Was it worth more than a two-thousand word piece in Foxy mag? An Irish anthropologist had once made a killing writing a book about the time she spent practising as a witch with a coven in Chicago. Was there a book in this? Could I investigate these people, learn what motivated them, write an interesting account that would sell well in hardback?
Two questions plagued me: was it ethical, and what kind of advance would it be worth?
“You have a lot to think about,” Neal said to me later, unwittingly hitting on the very reason I had become distant and quiet.
“Yes, I have,” I said.
“We’re very happy to have you as an initiate in our Lodge,” Chloe said, “but it’s loads of work.”
“You’d have to learn the godforms,” Deirdre said, blinking rapidly, “and the Sephiroth, and the Hebrew alphabet.”
I nodded. “It’s what I really want to do.”
“Neal is a great teacher,” Chloe said, sliding a proud arm around her husband.
“I’m eager to learn.”
“It’s decided then,” said Neal. “I’ll give you some reading material, and you can work towards your initiation. Welcome, Sophie. You’re one of us.”
I began to learn. This involved daily thought exercises and meditations. It meant beginning to understand the complex chains of correspondences which revolved around Hebrew letters and the ten stations on the Tree of Life. My contact with the “unseen” world up until this point was limited. My Catholic father and Protestant mother had dealt with the problem of religion by introducing me to neither faith and hoping I would one day choose a side for myself. I wasn’t even sure what star sign I was, given that some horoscope columns said that I was Capricorn, and some said I was Aquarius. I had a lot of information to fit into my brain, and it took up a lot of my time. Luckily, I have a good memory, so when Neal insisted on meeting me for lunch in Soho midway through the week, I could recite back to him some information about the Sephiroth and which pillars they were on.
“Good, good,” he said. “Your enthusiasm is paying off already.”
I curled some fettuccine onto my fork. We were sitting in a grubby trattoria on Old Compton Road. “How long have you been involved in the Lodge?” I asked.
“Let me see … four years with the Seven Stars, but before that I was with another group at Islington. I’ve been practising for ten years altogether.”
“You must have seen some amazing things.”
“Yes, of course. Spirits, magical workings, messages from angels. One working we did, in the early days of the Seven Stars, cured Chloe’s mother of cancer.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt.”
“I’d like to hear more about that.”
“We all have miraculous stories to tell.” He then proceeded to recount a few of them. I sat quietly and he happily filled the silence.
“Have you asked for a child?” I said when he had finished.
“A child?”
“For you and Chloe.”
He cast his eyes down, and I was afraid I’d made him sad. “Oh. Yes, we have done workings. But the Universe has other ideas, I suppose.”
“Chloe’s lovely,” I said.
“Yes, she’s a lovely woman,” he replied. I wanted to ask why he hadn’t invited her to lunch with us, but I suspected I already knew.
After lunch — he paid — Neal went back to the shop and I fought my way home through the crowds of tourists. I sat at the desk and wrote down everything I’d heard, spent a few hours working out possible chapter divisions, then plugged in my groaning old laptop and typed up another article I’d been working on about investments for single women. Not that I had any investments myself; I’d never expected to find myself single.
Neal and Chloe had me over for dinner the night of the next Lodge meeting. Chloe had a way with lamb and rosemary. I was debating whether to ease the top button of my jeans open and make more room when Deirdre arrived, bursting with a story to tell.
“We need to send out a warning,” she said.
“A warning?” Chloe asked, as she scraped leftovers into a plastic container.
Deirdre set her bag down in the corner and pulled up a chair at the table. “Yes, over the psychic network. There’s a Wanderer in town.”
I sat very still and listened. What was a Wanderer?
“No, really?” Chloe said, sliding into her chair.
Neal leaned forward on his elbows. “How do you know?”
“I know because I saw her with my own eyes and spoke to her with my own mouth.”
I dropped my head so they couldn’t see me smile.
“What happened?” Chloe asked.
Deirdre glanced quickly at me, unwittingly letting on that trusting me was still an issue for her.
“Go on,” Neal said.
“I was late for work, so I took the short cut through the cemetery. But when I hit Bunhill Row, I sensed a very strong psychic cry for help.”
“Deirdre is a Sensitive,” Neal said to me.
“I see.”
“I followed the cry down the first side street. It was coming from an old building marked for demolition. When I went up the stairs, I found an old woman sitting in a corner in darkness. I asked her what she wanted, and she said she had a story to tell.”
“What did you do?”
“I was wary, of course. I asked her what kind of a story it was. She said it was a story that needed telling, and then alarm bells started ringing in my brain. When I asked if the story came with a warning, she said yes, and I hotfooted it out of there.”
“Well done, Deirdre,” Neal said.
I was confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said.
“Have you ever heard about the Wandering Jew?” Neal asked.
I shook my head.
“The chap who was cursed to wander the earth forever telling his tale again and again until Judgement Day?” Chloe said. “You’ve never heard of him?”
Some vague impression of somewhere having read about the myth struck me. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean.”
“It’s a not uncommon psychic occurrence. There are those who find themselves under a burden to tell a story.”
“Why?” I asked.
Neal shook his head. “You never ask why. The story they
tell reveals why.”
“But why can’t we hear it?”
“Because,” Deirdre said patiently, blinking with her left eye, “once they’ve told you, the burden passes to you.”
This sounded so far beyond the limits of rationality that I almost laughed out loud. Founded on a fear of an implausible superstition, Deirdre had abandoned a needy old woman who probably had some fascinating tale to tell (most elderly people do). “And what happens if the burden passes to you?”
“You’re under a spell. A curse. Until you can find somebody else willing to hear the tale, you have to wander the earth alone.”
I considered all this information while they discussed the Wanderer.
“I’ll put a message on Lodge-list as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”
“Not everybody is on the Internet, you know. We’ll have to ring around all the shops, ask people to put up flyers.”
“We should do a cleansing ritual for you, just in case. The compulsion may still be clinging to you.”
“I knew I was safe bringing it into the Lodge. We’ll banish it.”
The conversation continued around me, things I didn’t understand. One question was bothering me. “How come this woman can’t find anybody to hear her story, when the world is full of cynics who have never heard of the Wandering Jew?”
“Only those who are Sensitive will hear her call,” Deirdre said, puffing up her chest proudly. “Only those who are already highly developed on the psychic plane can find her, and they understand the warning she gives.”
“Oh. I see.”
So, finding her meant years of psychic development. It was a good thing Deirdre had all but given me the address.
I never had a shortage of squash partners. I had already garnered something of a reputation at the Euston Sports Centre. What I love about squash is the speed, the precision, the gratifying thwack as I pound the ball with my racquet. I am very, very good at it. Every time I walked into the sports centre, one or two of the regulars would be upon me in seconds, demanding a rematch. I’d beaten them all: ex-champions, men twice my size, expensive women with expensive equipment. They simply didn’t stand a chance. The sweaty, rubbery smell of the sports centre was, to me, the smell of victory. I was addicted to it.
The only person who had ever beaten me at squash was Martin, which went a long way to explaining my adoration of him.
On Thursday afternoon, I had just finished wiping the floor with a wiry Asian man who swore he had once played for Singapore, when I spotted Neal waiting near the weights room. I was sweaty, badly dressed, had my hair scraped back in a ponytail, and probably smelled bad. How fortunate. Nothing like a dose of bodily reality to cure a man of romantic notions, especially a man with a pretty, clean wife waiting for him at home.
“Hi, what are you doing here?” I asked, loosening my hair and towelling it.
“I went to your place looking for you. The landlady said you might be here.”
“She was right. How did you get my address?”
“I thought you might like to go for a coffee.”
“I’m filthy.”
“Then perhaps we could just go to your place. I could wait while you have a shower.”
“How did you get my address? I’m not in the phone book yet.”
“My brother works for British Telecom.”
“Oh.” I tried to remember what kind of state I’d left my room in, and was fairly certain I’d filed away any evidence of my occupation. “I suppose we can go to my place, if you like.”
“I just wanted to go over some of the lesser rituals with you.”
I nodded. “Come on then.”
When we arrived at Hartley Manors I let him into my bedsit, sat him at my desk with my magic workbook for him to check, and disappeared into the communal bathroom for a quick shower. Hoping the whole time that he wouldn’t get curious and snoop in my files. I suppose most people aren’t file-snoopers. I certainly am.
“Well done, Sophie,” he said when I re-entered the room, freshly dressed in a white shirt and blue jeans. He held up my workbook in his left hand. “You’ve obviously been working really hard.”
“Yes, I try to do a little each day.”
“Is this your laptop?” he said, indicating my five-year-old Toshiba.
I nodded. “I think it’s on its last legs, but it does the job.”
“I have a laptop at the shop that I no longer use. You can have it if you like.”
“No, I’m sure mine will go the distance.”
“Really, I insist. Since we put the new computer system in, I haven’t even opened it.”
I shrugged. “Well, if you insist.” I had never had a problem with accepting gifts, even the ones that came with complex, unvoiced expectations. I figured I could sell my old laptop to some desperate student and use the money for my next phone bill. I switched on the electric kettle and made two cups of coffee. Neal rambled on for a few minutes about the new computer system and how it had improved the efficiency of their stocktaking. He needed very little encouragement to talk. I handed him a coffee mug.
“Mmm, lovely,” he said, after the first sip.
“I had a few questions about Deirdre,” I said.
“Deirdre?”
“Well, more specifically about the Wanderer she met.”
“What would you like to know?”
I sat in the windowsill, facing him. “Do you believe it?”
He nodded immediately. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
“You see, to me it sounds a little … incredible.”
He smiled. “You will see and hear many more incredible things in the months to come.”
“I don’t doubt it. What did she mean about a warning?”
“A Wanderer must warn you. That’s their curse, to need to tell you a story but to be unable to find a willing listener.”
“And why did we have to do a cleansing ritual for Deirdre?”
“Because the compulsion to tell the story can be so strong, it can be almost contagious. Deirdre may have found herself a few days later thinking obsessively about the story, wanting to return and hear it. She may have even passed it on to others she came into contact with.”
“Like us?”
“Yes, like us. But, as she said, it’s safe to bring it to the Lodge because we’re all believers. We all did the cleansing ritual, and we’re all aware of the dangers.”
“I see.”
“You’re curious?” He looked at me closely, and I could tell he was wondering if I’d been thinking obsessively about the story, if Deirdre had somehow infected me with the old woman’s malaise.
“Yes.” I smiled. “Not too curious, though. If you’re worried.”
“No, not worried. I think, though, that I should show you the LBRP.”
“Aha,” I said, scanning through my memory. “The Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram.”
“Yes, it will help if you find yourself in any psychic danger. Sometimes entering the world of magic and ritual makes you vulnerable. You should probably be doing it every day.” He put his coffee cup down on the desk. “Come on, stand up. I’ll show it to you.”
I did as he asked.
“Now, face east.”
“Which way is east?”
“Where the sun rises.”
I shook my head. “I’m not up at that hour.”
“That way,” he said, pointing towards the door. I turned around.
“Centre yourself.”
I took a breath, closed my eyes.
“You stand at the very heart of the universe,” he said. “There is a brilliant white sphere above you, a sphere of light. Reach up with your right hand, pull the light towards you, towards your forehead. And say Atah.”
They had taught me a peculiar way of saying these magical words, very far back in my throat like a slow, vibrating whisper. It always made me want to cough. I did as he told me.
“Draw the light down through your body with your hand. Say Malkuth.”
<
br /> I did so.
“Now, draw the light across to your right shoulder.”
I wasn’t concentrating properly, and touched my left shoulder by accident. I felt Neal grab my hand. I hadn’t realised how close he was standing. “No,” he said, “your right shoulder.” He moved my hand across firmly. For the next few passes, he kept his hopeful grip on my fingers, talking me through the ritual and standing uncomfortably close. He didn’t seem to realise what a dangerous game he was playing. What if I had been interested in his advances? What then of dear, childless Chloe in her pastel dresses? Not that I credited him with the nerve to go through with an affair. The thought made me irritated. I shook him off and took a step back.
“I’m sorry, Neal, I’m not feeling particularly centred. I’ll practise it by myself and show you at the next meeting. Okay?”
He backed off quickly, filled the gap between us with nervous chatter. “Yes, yes, practise it a while. It takes some time to get it right. Don’t rush, don’t rush.” And on he went, making excuses for not finishing his coffee, picking up his jacket, opening the door. He was gone in a flurry of embarrassment within twenty seconds. I hoped he wouldn’t forget about the laptop.
All the talk about the Wanderer must have got to me, because that night I dreamed of an old woman. She was holding out a key to me, and when my hand closed over it a flood of words and letters rushed into my head. They had scratchy edges which grazed the soft tissue of my brain. I cried out in pain and she said, “And you were so sure words couldn’t hurt anyone.” I woke up feeling unsettled — scared even — though I couldn’t exactly put my finger on why. I had never been troubled by nightmares, but I was still getting used to sleeping alone. I missed Martin so much in those moments waking from the dream — missed him with a pain which was physical — that I cried until dawn broke.
I have always liked to work in noisy places. Silence is too heavy with expectation for a writer. First thing the following Wednesday morning, I collected my notebooks and walked down to Soho, intending to claim a corner in a coffee shop before it started to fill with the day’s tourists. I found a dimly lit cafe playing Ella Fitzgerald, ordered a coffee and settled at a scarred table in a back corner. I assessed the other patrons. A few business types lingered over breakfast meetings, a group of Australian backpackers gulped down cappuccinos, and an earnest young couple shared their opinions on football teams. Everybody was smoking. Everybody. I wanted a cigarette so bad that my eyes watered.
