Susan Wescott gave me a curious look, “Was the talisman pouch ever found?”
“Yes,” I said, “It turned up in the possessions of astronomer, Johan Philip Lansberge. The pouch was among his belongings when he died in 1632. A respected man of his time, Lansberge was a Protestant minister as well as being an astronomer and an astrologer. Lansberge also owned several original manuscripts by Paracelsus.”
Westcott said, “We need to find the history of our Dutch sailor, and see if he had any direct connection to Lansberge and the magic spells of Paracelsus.”
“That is a difficult job,” I said. “There are no recorded expeditions to the Pacific Northwest by Dutch sailors of the time. And to identify a particular sailor, and say he had knowledge of magick---Jensen, I am afraid that sounds like complete fantasy. There's no possible way to prove such a man ever existed.”
“Yes, yes,” Westcott frowned, “I know it's a leap, but I am trying to connect the magick writing of Paracelsus to the writing on the dead woman's bones.”
Susan Westcott said, “My dear, the writing on the bones does not need to come from the same source as the writing on the rune stones or the symbols on the astrolabe.” She continued, “The words of Paracelsus found on the bones and the symbols on her skull might come from a completely different source, having nothing to do with old Dutch sailors.”
Westcott replied, “Yes. You are right, of course---as usual.” He smiled at his wife.
“We will keep all the possibilities open,” I said, “ I hope we do find some record of our Dutch sailor. Maybe he came and stayed, and has living relatives somewhere in Washington State.”
***
The following day on the Evening News a murder was reported in Ballard. A fisherman had been knifed to death on his boat. The TV camera panned across the interior of the small kitchen; on the counter the police had displayed and labeled various items. There was a kilo of cocaine, two handguns, and a small leather bag. The leather bag looked exactly like the one in the drawing by the 16th century Dutch policeman. The reporter said the murder was a “drugrelated.”
Westcott called in some favors. His contacts among police detectives were every bit as useful as he had suggested. Within two days he brought me the dead man's talisman.
We compared the pouch before us to high-resolution images of the Dutch policeman's line drawing. The shape and texture of the bag was the same. Most noticeable was the imprint on the leather:
The two symbols were the same as those in the 16th century drawing, placed in the center, one on the front and one on the back of the pouch. I found the two symbols together meant: Eternal Life, the combined meaning of the alchemical symbols for ginger and burnt alum.
Westcott gave Susan the bag to have it tested for age and chemical content at UW. By the end of the week we had the results. This was, in fact, a 16th century talisman bag, mostly likely sewn together in Rotterdam around 1540. The herbs inside were freshly cut Pacific Northwest herbs. The UW chemist included a precise list of the contents. The chemist commented on the amazing durability of the leather.
The leather was supple and without cracking, as if it were made within the last 20 years. But chemical testing proved the leather was over 400 years old. Neither Westcott nor myself knew what to do next. If this was the same talisman which caused a murder in 16th century Holland, and later was owned by the astrologer, Lansberge in the 17th century, how did it arrive on a fishing boat in Ballard? How did it remain un-aged for 400 years?
What possible sequence of events could account for this bizarre artifact? Was it related to the present murder, and the bones of the girl? Each new fact made the events more supernatural and less believable. In short, I began to feel my chronicle of the mystery was becoming a work of fiction, rather than a true crime story.
Contacting local and national experts, Westcott determined this particular talisman bag had never been recorded or held in any museum. According to the experts, this was a new historical find, a very rare find. However, the auction value of the item was small, perhaps three thousand dollars on a good day. Certainly not worth killing anyone for. Perhaps the crime was drug-related and the bag was just part of a drug-dealer's collection of exotic occult crap.
Other paganist objects were found on the boat, all owned by the dead man. The usual sort: a small cauldron, pentacles, candles, a ritual sword, two ritual knives, incense burners, and erotic statuary, a God with a very large erect penis and a voluptuous Goddess, offering the viewer her round, firm breasts. I enjoyed that statue. Westcott slyly confiscated it for me.
Police detectives gave special attention to a photo album found on the boat. It showed the victim with various friends, and a few images looked like coven rituals. Efforts were made to identify the people in the album, to explore possible motives. If the murder was simply “drugrelated”, the kilo of cocaine would have been taken.
Westcott was allowed to borrow the photo album for a few days. Susan, was now helping us with our investigations. When he pointed out a picture of the dead man, Susan gasped. “It's remarkable,“ she said, “the Ballard fisherman looks like Jan de Bray's, Bacchus, a painting from around 1660. They could be twins. The rounded face, the pouty lips, even the color of his eyes is the same.”
I said, “Now we add reincarnation to our list of bizarre events? Where does this lead?” I turned to Jensen and asked, “Have the detectives made any progress with the coven. Was the dead man important to that group? Was he a High Priest or something?”
Westcott smiled, “It looks that way. They all considered him one step away from God. One young witch was interviewed, and through the sobs, she said the High Priest was the last incarnation of a line of Magi extending back to 500 BCE. The coven believed he was Immortal. The whole group is stunned by his death. They truly believed the man could not die.”
“Was there any friction in the group, any cause for murder?”
“No. They all loved him. They said the drugs were planted. None of them use drugs, and the High Priest did not use drugs. They could offer no explanation or any leads to who would want to kill him. They do say the killer must have been a powerful Magus, a sorcerer. No one else, according to the coven, would be able to kill the High Priest.”
“This makes no sense at all,” I sighed, “Even if we accept the presence of witches and sorcerers-- why would a sorcerer leave the talisman behind. He would know what it was and know its value.”
Westcott commented, “Maybe, it simply did not matter to him. Killing the High Priest was all the Magus cared about, and the cocaine and the talisman were not important.”
With a smile, Susan said, “Perhaps it's a sorcerer's revenge. Nothing was taken from the boat. The cocaine was probably planted to lead the police in a wrong direction. This makes me wonder what the High Priest did to the Magus.”
I could hardly believe we were having this conversation. A witch priest killed by a sorcerer. How does that fit into our version of reality? What else will we accept as factual, if we start accepting reincarnated High Priests and vengeful Sorcerers?!
Somewhere deep in my head, I started hearing Guiseppe Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata; again, growing louder, incessant and foreboding. Even accepting witchcraft fantasies did not provide an explanation for the tangible physical evidence: the inscribed skeleton of a young woman.
I poured a glass of Canadian Crown Royal, and swallowed it all in one frustrated gulp. Then, to make sure I got some sleep, I had a two glasses of Absinthe Marteau.
Chapter Three. Missing the Boat
How does one locate a powerful Magus who killed a reincarnating 6th century witch on a fishing boat in Ballard? How does one locate a well-educated crazy person, who killed a young woman, picked clean her skeleton and burned 16th century quotations onto her thighbones?
This kind of detective work is well outside my skill set. The FBI taught me nothing at all about witches or sorcerers. I have no generous publishers paying my bills, while I search for sorcerers or c
razy people. My publisher wants a fast-paced “true crime” novel to sell to a thrill hungry, bored audience. My publisher wants something with movie potential, or at least a flashy, sensationalized crime show to sell to The History Channel. What I am working on is very old news by tabloid standards, and barely qualifies as true crime.
Westcott has the luxury of being retired and very rich. He can dabble about in this mystery as long as he pleases. For me, economic necessity is howling at the door. How much time can any of us spend “searching for truth” when the rent is overdue and the electricity is being shut off?
My answer is: When one is broke, the only relevant truth resides in the next paycheck. With this noble philosophical ideal in mind, I tossed all my notes on the Bainbridge Affair into a box, and put the box in the back of my garage. I called up Westcott to thank him for his time, and told him I was going away for a few weeks (a complete lie, but I didn't want him pestering me, or worse, talking me into continuing the nonsense.) I was resolute. No more working for free, trying to solve problems few people even care about.
Too late.
My publishing contract was canceled due to my apparent inability to deliver the goods. The boss said, “Lowenstein, you're missing the boat. I wanted to give you a good chance to make some money, but the boat has sailed. You're sitting on the dock with your thumb up your ass. I'm not cutting you off completely. Give me call if you have something I can sell. Give me some solid true crime. Take my advice, stop dicking around with this occult bullshit, and give me some serial killer or gangster stories.”
Apparently, my inadequate truths are only valuable if they can be sold to somebody.
My main frustration with the whole affair, aside from not making a dime, was the extreme ambiguity of “the truth.” Granted, ancient historical details are impossible to know, the people lived too long ago and accurate records have not survived. What bothers me most is ambiguity of the present-- the decorated bones, the talisman pouch, and now a dead High Priest.
We assume after several hundred years of scientific methods, and current high-tech tools, “the truth” should be less ambiguous than it was for our ancestors. Again, I get a sensation of vertigo, leading me to conclude I have grown up and lived my adult life in an inadequate reality. The scientific methods and the high-tech tools do not adequately explain three tangible objects: the decorated bones, the talisman pouch, and the dead High Priest. Facts are missing, but also an accurate measure for reality is missing.
Perhaps the 21st century does not have accurate tools to measure reality. What if the witches are correct when they say their High Priest's personal identity, his soul and his memory were incarnated in a line of people back to 500 BCE? If modern science cannot prove such a lineage, does that mean the lineage is false? Or, does it mean modern science is inadequate? Likewise with the talisman bag. Science says it is about four hundred years old. But, the leather does not show the usual signs of aging. Science says very little about the decorated bones.
I toss these ideas around in my mind, as I prepare to earn some money. I am using my skills as a piano-player to provide music for the Most Worshipful Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of Washington. This is their One Hundred Fifty-fourth Annual Communication, this year meeting in Centralia, Washington. If these Masons were like the ones at the beginning of the 20th century, I could ask occult questions and get well-informed answers. Men like Albert Pike, A.E. Waite, Albert Ruess and Roy Matthew Mitchell were all involved in occult and theosophic practices.
Of the current Masons filling this hall very few have interest in non-provable things. Most are here for the good fellowship and a good meal. Nothing wrong with that, but it doesn't help answer my philosophic questions. I am fed an extraordinary grilled salmon dinner, and before the Grand Master of the State of Washington is introduced, I offer a short concert. I begin with eight minutes of solo improvisations, then present three Piano Preludes by Chopin. I close with the lovely Scriabin Prelude, Op.11, No.21. I am given enthusiastic applause, and compliments for my original piano improvisations. Later, I am given a paycheck, which at this moment, I value more highly than any applause or esoteric knowledge.
I watch TV until 1am, lulled by the repetitive versions of normalcy on all channels. Even the loud, irritating “News Channels” seem normal, and strangely comforting, compared to the occult realities that have encroached on my mind.
Around 2am, there is a knock on my motel door. I put on a robe and go to door. A young man introduced himself as David Stiles, and apologized for getting me up. Under his politeness there is a burning urgency, as if what he has come to tell me cannot wait a moment longer.
He asked, “Have you been investigating the skeleton found on Bainbridge Island?”
I nod, inviting the man to sit with me at the small table near the window. I offered him a soda, and he declined. Looking intensely into my eyes, he said, “I hoped speak with you and Jensen Westcott sooner. I planned to meet you both in Seattle, but I kept missing the boat.”
“I live on Orcas Island, and have not been able to take a ferry over until today. I need to say, I know who the woman was. She was a member of my coven.” He smiled shyly, “Yes, I am a Freemason and a Wiccan Priest.”
I said nothing. He continued, “Her name was Jennifer Seriano. She died from a serious allergic reaction to a bee sting. Within two hours her heart stopped beating.”
“She was hiking in the Olympic Mountains with two friends. She was taken to a hospital in Port Angeles, and her body disappeared from that hospital.”
The man was sincere and firm in these statements, I had no reason to doubt him. I asked, “How are you certain the skeleton is hers? Why did no one claim the remains?”
“I am certain the bones are hers because I helped clean the bones in preparation for the ritual. I did not take her body. I was called in later, by the witch who had the body. He wanted my help, because I knew Jennifer and loved her. You must understand. Jennifer is not dead. There was no murder.”
My first urge was to call the cops. But, that would complicate matters, and the man did not appear threatening in any way. I could not say he was sane, but he was not threatening.
“What ritual are you talking about?” I said.
“The ritual to reincarnate Jennifer into the womb of her mother.”
At that moment there was a sharp crack of glass. David Stiles fell forward onto the table with a bullet hole in his head. I hurried to the floor, but there were no more bullets. I glanced up to see one small hole in the motel window.
***
During the next two weeks my daily mood was stressed and frenzied, like the Infernal Dance from Stravinsky's Firebird Suite-- except without the lyrical string melody. There was nothing lyrical in my current situation. I spent a full week in a daily interviews with policemen, detectives, FBI agents and various journalists. To the journalists, I said “Yes, I was with David Stiles when he was killed. Now go away.“
I declined all further comments. The members of law enforcement were satisfied that I was an innocent bystander, but they did not believe the story I told them.
Westcott and I were both endlessly questioned about our knowledge of the bones of Jennifer Seriano. The FBI was particularly interested in our information about the Ballard fisherman. They told us his name was Frederick Hansen. He was a recognized authority on Magick and Witchcraft, a fisherman, and definitely not a drug dealer. The FBI believed the murders of Stiles and Hansen were related, but they would say nothing further about it. The FBI also told us to leave the case to the professionals.
While they could not order us to drop our interest in the matter, they strongly suggested we go no further. After they had driven off, Westcott removed the bug they had placed under his dining room table. He said that he and I should only talk to each other in-person from now on.
“For the next year or so, my friend, you can assume the FBI is recording all your personal conversations. Don't make it easy for them. Never use
a cell phone for anything important. And when you and I meet, we will meet where no one can hear us or read our lips.”
I had never before seen Westcott so deadly serious. He was no longer the jovial ex-lawyer I knew. He now felt we were both in danger, and the FBI was making the danger worse. Whatever conversations the FBI overheard, we could assume the murderers would also overhear. By keeping us under scrutiny, the FBI was inadvertently helping the murderers.
There was no doubt in Westcott's mind that Stiles and Hansen were professional hits, and the crime organization behind the hits would have easy access to FBI information.
“Now, I am more interested than ever, my friend. There are powerful people at work here, and they will kill anyone they feel is a threat to them. We have no protection except our own wits. So, we will continue. And avoid the FBI and other snoops, for the sake of our own lives.”
“How is Susan taking all this,” I asked.
“Not well. She has accepted a two year teaching position in London. That is probably safer for her than being around me.”
“Jensen, I can't get Stiles out of my head. The last words he said, he clearly believed, and moments later he was dead. What do you think he meant--- about reincarnating the girl into her mother's womb?”
“For now, I will take him at his word. He and some other witch-- perhaps, Hansen-- may have performed a ritual with the skeleton of Jennifer Seriano. If he said it was to bring her back to life, well, maybe it was. The fact is, whatever they did made someone, or some group of people, very angry. Angry enough to kill them. Angry enough to hire professional hit men to kill them.”
I said, “What exactly can we do at this point? Contact with the covens would not be safe, for us or for them. We can assume they will also be watched. Hansen's coven seemed, truly shaken and had no idea who could have killed him. I don't think they were protecting anyone, I really think they do not know anything more. Stiles seemed to be acting alone, apart from his coven.”
The Bainbridge Affair Page 2
