“From the time I was in high school, I always had an interest in weird shit, “ he said, “I never felt I was getting the whole story in science class or in history class. For one thing, most people's view of the world is too tidy, compartmentalized, as if everything can be filed in tidy packages and labeled accurately. I never found that to be true. Our human experiences have too many variables, trying to label them accurately can turn into a form of lying.
We try to reduce the experiences to something generic to make them more understandable. And that reduction is a convenient lie. Also, some experiences cannot be explained by science, nor social or psychological theory. They exist and operate by different rules. I know this sounds far-fetched, but witchcraft uses types of psychic energy not recognized by modern science, just as nuclear reactors use energy not recognized by 17th century science.
Anyway, when I signed on with Hansen's crew I found we were having long and very enjoyable discussions far out at sea about the nature of reality. Hansen had done much thinking on that subject and, as a witch, he had done many experiments, rituals which he claimed worked.”
Westcott could not have been more pleased with this turn in conversation. He was devoutly skeptical, but he knew Thomas was intelligent and perceptive, and could provide some firsthand information on Hansen's activities. He bought Thomas a few more beers.
“What kind of magick was Hansen up to, before he was killed?” Westcott asked.
A sad expression contorted Thomas's face. “Damn, he was such a good man. I miss him. To answer your question: about a month before he was killed we were up in Alaska, a good fifty miles out, on a calm night, drinking some vodka. I asked him how his pagan religion helped him in his daily life. He turned to me and said, 'Derek, it gives me courage to do things other people would call crazy.' And I asked him what he meant by that.
Hansen said right then he was running a double-con, on a mobster and on a kind, wonderful, honest woman from Orcas Island. The woman's daughter had seen a hit man kill a U.S. District Attorney while she hiking in Olympic National Park.”
“The hit man chased the girl, but she was a lot better in the woods than he was,” Thomas laughed, “ The city-slicker hit man had on expensive leather dress shoes, nothing good for climbing! Anyway, she got away, but he had seen her face and it was only a matter of time before he found her. The girl was terrified. She did not want to bring trouble home, so she did not go home, and did not call her parents. She was a member of coven up on Orcas, and she went to her High Priest, some guy named Stiles. Stiles and Hansen cooked up a plan to make the mobsters think the girl was dead.
When anyone asked, the parents told them their daughter had disappeared. They kept the whole thing quiet, not filing any police reports or posting missing person ads. Stiles told them to keep it quiet, because he had a plan to get their daughter back from the dead. Stiles and Hansen invented a reincarnation ritual and told the parents that it was real. They also told the mobsters the ritual was real. That's why that skeleton turned up on Bainbridge. Hansen planted it there, as a way to prove the girl was dead.”
The bad guys bought this story for awhile. But, then somehow they found out the daughter, Jennifer, had a twin sister, named Abby and learned Abby's grave had been robbed. Then they knew the skeleton on the beach was not Jennifer's ; the skeleton was Abby's.”
Thomas took a long drink and continued, “Hansen told me this double-con solved two problems at once. It kept Jennifer's parents safe and kept them from looking for Jennifer. It made the bad guys think Jennifer was dead. Even though the con didn't work very long, it bought enough time for Hansen to take Jennifer up to Canada, and set her up with some of his friends in the Lower Mainland. Jennifer is probably still up there, safe and sound. And, her mother thinks the baby in her belly is the reincarnation of Jennifer.”
Westcott shook his head in amazement. “That's one hell of a story, Mr. Thomas! Did you tell any of this to the police or the FBI?”
Thomas laughed long and hard, “Hell no. I was in prison at the time for tax evasion. The cops never called on me, and I didn't feel they could do anything worthwhile. From where I sit, Jennifer is safe and her parents are full of hope for their new child. It's the best thing under the circumstances. The FBI may or may not catch the hit man. There is no reason to put Jennifer or her parents in danger.”
Westcott nodded, “I have to agree with you on that. There are probably other ways to get the guy, and the men who hired him.”
***
I had a wonderful time with the witches of the Coven of Aleutian Seals. They were some of the friendliest, most happy and honest people I have ever met. I asked Mrs. Seriano about her baby and she touched her belly tenderly.
“I am so blessed with this child. I have lost two of my three children, both my twins. Abby died a few years ago, and Jennifer died on February 12th this year.” Mrs. Seriano continued, “I don't know if you believe in our religion, Mr. Moriarty, but we believe in reincarnation. A few of our Elders know how to control and guide reincarnations. This is an ancient mystic ritual. Our High Priest with the help of another High Priest performed that ritual with Jennifer's body, and Jennifer was reincarnated into my new baby on February 13th . Of course, she will not be physically born for awhile, but I have Jennifer inside me again.”
I found I was crying uncontrollably by the end of her story. True or not, this version of reality meant everything to her. I have no reason to mess with the sincere convictions of other people, especially when those convictions are valuable to their lives.
The next morning I left Orcas Island and returned home. Westcott told me the chronicle of Derek Thomas, and we agreed we were much closer to the truth than we had ever been.
Chapter Six. A Family of Witches
At Cambridge, Susan Westcott found her teaching commitments involved much less time than she had anticipated. This gave her two or three days each week to pursue her own outside interests. The fact of Frederick Hansen's physical similarity to the Bacchus painting of 1660, prompted Susan to explore the historical documents relating to the Haarlem Painter's Guild. The painter who posed for Bacchus was Astor Hansen, and Susan spent many weeks tracing the progeny of Astor Hansen.
A merchant's daughter's diary mentions Astor moved to Paris in late 1710. She records her melancholia in great detail, the anguish of losing her favorite lover. Church records indicate Astor raised two sons and a daughter in Paris. The youngest son, Isaac, became a famous mathematician and an astronomer, spending most of his career in Budapest, and dying there in 1794.
There are no further records of the other siblings. Isaac was also an respected astrologer, and wrote several books on planetary conjunctions. His most famous book, however, was Puissance lunaire (Lunar Power,) detailing the spiritual energy cycles of the Moon throughout the Lunar Year. The book presents charts to aid magicians and records when specific types of lunar energy were available, to be drawn down for casting spells or adding power to talismans. Isaac's only son, Philippe, studied biology and astronomy in Budapest. He was offered a post at Oxford University, and accepted the position in August, 1810.
Though not of royal blood, Phillipe was well respected as a scientist and socially gifted to the extent his name appears on the guest lists of most royal houses in Britain between 1812 and 1830. Philippe had five children by five separate Duchesses, being married to none of them.
Susan was delighted to discover a family tree for the Duchess of Birmingham, which included Phillipe's youngest son, Harold. Further research revealed, Harold became the Mayor of Ipswich, Suffolk in 1875. Harold had one son, Nathaniel, born in 1876. Nathaniel's name is found in various police reports throughout his youth and early manhood. He was constantly in trouble until he entered a monastery in 1902. That way of life clearly did not suit him, as he disappeared from the monastery after having a torrid affair with a bishop's wife.
Nathaniel later settled in York, where he earned a living as a printer's assistant. Late in life, h
e had a romantic interlude with a 23-year-old school teacher, producing a son, named Benjamin Casterbridge, born in 1935. Susan traced a long, parallel family lineage leading to Frederick Hansen. She had to make a large diagram to keep all the names and places clear in her mind, but that fact remained, Benjamin Casterbridge, now 76 years old, was related by blood to Frederick Hansen. By a pure stroke of luck, Susan found Benjamin Casterbridge listed in the Cambridge phone directory, as B. Casterbridge. She called him up.
“Mr. Casterbridge, I am Susan Westcott, a visiting professor and researcher at Cambridge. I have been studying the family history of a Dutch painter, Astor Hansen. It appears you are a distant relative of Astor Hansen.”
“I am indeed, young Miss,” the man's voice was strong but revealed, a tiredness or fragility beyond his age. “How might I help you?”
“I would like to know if you are aware of another branch of your family, perhaps distant cousins, in the U.S.. In particular, a man in Seattle named, Frederick Hansen.”
There was a long silence. Susan could hear music in the background, as if Casterbridge had the radio on. For two whole minutes, she listened to Rachmaninov's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, the 18th Variation, one of Susan's favorite romantic pieces.
“Mr. Casterbridge, are you still there?”
“Yes, Miss. You have startled me with the extent of your knowledge. What is your interest in Frederick?”
“I find he is an author on occult subjects. I wish to know if there are other painters or astronomers, or other practitioners of astrology in your family, and if you might refer me to their works.”
“My ancestors were a strange bunch, and so was Frederick. Are you aware he died recently?”
“Yes, I read a notice in the Seattle paper. Did you know him?”
“We never met in person, but we exchanged letters several years ago.”
“Perhaps you and I can meet to discuss your questions? I do have several books in my library from Frederick, and others, as well as a few research works of my own.”
“Mr. Casterbridge, that is a wonderful idea. Thank you very much for the invitation. I am free on Wednesday afternoon, if that is convenient?”
“That will work well for me, young Miss. Do you have a pen handy? I will give you directions.”
***
Later that week, Susan wrote in her journal, a wonderful description of the home, character and interests of Benjamin Casterbridge:
“Benjamin Casterbridge lives in a red brick cottage covered with ivy and moss. He came to the door in green button-up sweater, blue jeans, and slippers. He looked older than his 76 years, as if his life had been difficult and sapped him of vital energy. Regardless, there was a sparkle in his eyes, an enthusiasm, an alertness, and more than a little charm.
When I entered his home he took my coat and hat, placing them on the standing rack by the door. He turned back to me and took both my hands in his, raised them to his lips and kissed each hand tenderly. 'You are the most lovely woman to cross my threshold in years, welcome,' he said. His smile was warm and fatherly, as if I were a favorite daughter returning from college.
His home was small and tidy, though it could use a good dusting. Various items, books, art objects, and scientific instruments filled the shelves and tabletops in most every room. But, each item was deliberately placed and the overall effect was tidiness rather than clutter.
'I keep all my tools close at hand,' he commented, 'One never knows which tool will be most effective in the pursuit of truth.'
I found that statement intriguing, but I let it pass, as I followed Casterbridge down a long corridor to his study. The corridor walls held portraits from various time periods, pencil drawings, etchings and paintings. All the faces looked familiar, I concluded these were his ancestors.
We sat in large, maroon leather wing chairs, one on each side of the fireplace. He scooted his chair close to mine, and took my right hand between his hands.
'Where should we begin?' he asked.
I wanted to know his view of occult sciences, and I realized looking around the room, this was a subject close to him. An antique celestial globe, a modern globe of the Moon, astrological charts, several different Tarot decks and many, many books decorated his study. On his desk , held in an ornately carved wooden stand, was a convex disk of thick dark glass. I could not accurately say the color of the glass. At times it appeared smokey black, but when I glanced back a moment later, it appeared deep purple and fluctuated to shades of ultramarine.
Casterbridge noticed my gaze and said, 'Yes, young Miss, that is my scrying glass. Don't be surprised, I have practiced the arts of scrying and divination for over fifty years. Some say I am a Master of these arts.'
I asked about his correspondence with Frederick Hansen. He told me their letters were detailed discussions of magick spells. They compared notes about which spells worked best in specific situations, at a particular phase of the Moon, or during a particular solstice or equinox.
'You see, my dear, in magick we draw power from within our own psychic energy fields and also from external sources. We draw down the moon, as it were. In some cases, I draw energy from the ancient strength of trees or stones. On rare occasions, when needed, I raise chthonic spirits, those energy beings living deep in the earth. I find them a bit slow, but very powerful.'
These statements seemed fanciful to me, but he spoke them with simple sincerity, in a casual tone of voice, which suggested the things were as normal for him as a bowling ball might be to the rest of us.
I asked, 'What are your goals, when you are casting magickal spells?'
He smiled shyly, and replied, 'Most spells fall into five categories: Health, Wealth, Love, Protection, and Power. I am particularly good with Health and Protection spells. Most often, I cast spells for the benefit of other people, though sometimes I have specific needs, and cast a spell or two for myself.'
I continued, 'What questions do you ask of divination; what to you learn from scrying?'
'Again, mostly I help other people to explore the divergent paths of their future. I offer them various possibilities, the most likely outcomes or events. Much like a scientist, I use a specialized and intuitive form of probability theory. Scrying is my favorite occult art. Each time I approach my glass I learn something new about the art and science of scrying, as well as the particular issue at hand. The images I see in the glass can be past, present or future. They might be from any location on Earth, as if viewed from remote cameras. I control those remote cameras with my mind. Curiously, I have never been able to scry away from planet, Earth. I cannot see images on the surface of the Moon, or Mars, for example.
Using the non-existent remote cameras, I search around to find the specific images I need and the information I need. Most often, I visit places in the present, looking to learn something from other occult practitioners. I have viewed a monk in a cave in India, and an aboriginal shaman at work deep in the Australian desert.' He laughed, 'I think of scrying as my omniscient, eternally connected, eternally free Internet.'
I had never before heard such a concise and confident description of occult practices. These were normal occurrences in his world, a world somewhat distant from accepted scientific thought and theory. In short, I was in awe. My previous skeptical attitude towards occult arts faded and was replaced by admiration, as I listened to the genial Mr. Casterbridge.
Suddenly, a dark expression came over his face, as if struck by a painful memory. He said, 'My dear, I have not mentioned the darker uses of my art. I rarely venture into those dangerous waters. However, when I learned Frederick was brutally murdered, I resolved to find the killer and deal out justice, witchcraft style. I will offer no mercy. I need no presentation of evidence, no trial and no judges. When I scry the event and learn the identity of the killer, that is my evidence. I have reached a level of Mastery that gives me 100% accuracy. I know this sounds irrational to any outsider, but I am telling you the truth.'
This monologue shocke
d me, both in its intensity and its implications. Casterbridge was saying he could see the murder of Hansen in his scrying glass and identify the killer. Then, by some other means, he would punish that person. The confidence in his voice made me believe he had done this sort of thing before, dealt out justice, witchcraft style.
When I gathered my composure enough to speak, I asked, 'How do you create an effective punishment?'
Casterbridge opened a nearby drawer and took out a crudely sown cloth doll. He looked me straight in the eyes, with a calm, chilling smile, 'I do it the old-fashioned way. I stick needles into poppets. For this one perhaps, I will also use a razor knife and fire.'
He continued, his voice changing to a chant-like rhythm, 'Yes, my dear, I know the uses of black magic. A member of Frederick's coven has visited an FBI storage locker, and sent me some items. I have here a cigarette and a few strands of hair belonging to the killer.' 'I will make certain they are authentic, and if so, I will use them in my magick. Before you called, this was my plan for today: Find the killer, and work some witchcraft. You are welcome to stay if you wish to watch.'
This was simply beyond belief. A terror had risen in me. I looked down at my trembling hands, and felt beads of sweat coursing down the back of my blouse.
Casterbridge looked at me, and his face returned to the fatherly expression I had seen earlier.
He said, 'Would you like a cool glass of water, my dear? You look pale.'
'Yes, please,' I whispered.
With surprising quickness, he left the room and returned with some water. 'Here you are,' he said. 'Now, please tell me. Do you wish to stay? I would like to have a witness for this event. In fact, I could use your assistance.'
'What would you like me to do?' I asked.
'I would like you to view the scrying glass while I work on the poppet. I want to know which methods are most effective.”
The Bainbridge Affair Page 4
