'Are you saying I will have the ability to see?'
'Exactly so,' he said. 'You will be able to see the killer's reactions as I stick needles, or cut the poppet.”
'I thought special talent or training was needed to use a scrying glass. I know nothing about it.'
'I will teach you all you need to know. But, first you must agree to participate of your own free will. If I manipulated your will, the scrying glass would not work for you. That is a fact of science.'
I was too curious to refuse. 'Yes, Mr. Casterbridge, I am willing to help you with this magick.”
An hour of preparation followed. Casterbridge cleared a space on the stone hearth in front of the fireplace. As the night was turning cold, he lit the logs, and the flickering firelight intensified my growing tension. I physically felt that some form of energy was gathering in the room, something I could not identify. My fear was replaced with heighten perceptions. I heard every sound, and smelled every scent. I felt my vision become more acute, more sensitive to light and shadow, more aware of subtle differences in color.
I watched as Casterbridge's nimble fingers sowed strains of hair to the head of the poppet. He sowed the butt of the cigarette into the poppet's mouth. When this was done, he moved to the scrying glass, and began to hum low, resonant tones. Looking over his shoulder, I could see nothing in the glass. The dark, swirling colors in the glass shifted in rapid succession, but I saw no images.
After twenty-minutes, he said, 'There. I have seen it clearly. I saw the murder and I saw the murderer's face. I looked some minutes back in time, and saw strands of his hair fall to the floor. These same strands are now on the poppet. I also saw him put out his cigarette in a potted plant on the porch. The same cigarette we have.'
He paused. 'We are ready. Come sit in front of the glass. Are you comfortable?'
'Yes,' I whispered, 'What should I do?'
'Clear your mind of all outside thoughts...'
'Focus your eyes in the center of the glass and calm your mind. Let you mind rest on the swirling colors of the glass, let the colors draw you in.'
'You will begin to see abstracted images in the center of the glass. Let your eyes and your mind rest on those images.'
The sensations he described were true to my experience. My mind reached a point of absolute calm as my eyes focused on the moving shapes and colors in the glass. The physical sensation was not intense staring or squinting, like trying to read small print. The act of looking was relaxed, but entirely focused on the abstract images. Soon, the images came into focus, as if a lens had been adjusted. I saw the killer's face.
The man was sitting on a bench by the ocean. He was the only person on the small rocky beach. The sun was setting behind the man's back, behind trees which surrounded the beach. In the back of my mind, I told myself this was the Atlantic Ocean. He was facing east. The view shifted, circling slowly around the man, so I could see him from all angles.'
Casterbridge said, “Are you ready, my dear?'
'Yes,' I said, ' I see the man clearly.'
A moment later the man convulsed, as if stabbed in the stomach. I glanced quickly away from the scrying glass and saw Casterbridge thrusting a long needle through the poppet's belly. He moved the needle back and forth, thrusting the full eight inches of metal into the doll, then pulling it out and thrusting again.
Looking back to the glass, I saw anguish on the man's face. The man was now laying on the ground clutching his stomach with his arms. He remained this way for a few minutes and then suddenly stretched out his arms and legs, as if he were being pulled in two directions. His hands and feet remained together, as if they were bound, and he struggled to change position, but he remained stretched out, as if on a rack.
Again, I glanced at Casterbridge. He had bound the poppet's hands and feet. He raised a razor knife, the blade sparkling in the firelight, and sliced away a piece of cloth from the poppet's chest. He threw the piece of cloth into the fire.
Looking into the glass, I saw the man screaming.
Casterbridge continued to slice one and two inch pieces of cloth from the poppet and toss the pieces into the fireplace. I watched the man in the scrying glass, as his screaming continued. After ten or fifteen minutes, the man appeared limp, he was no longer able to scream. He lay on the sand, eyes wide open in terror looking up at a full white moon.”
***
At this point, Susan's journal ends. She said later it was too painful to remember any more details. She could not bring herself to write anything else about the scrying experience. While reading her vivid descriptions of Casterbridge's witchcraft, I had pumped up the volume on my iPod, listening the The Witches Sabbath, from Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. I had inadvertently hit 'repeat' so I had been listening to that track for half an hour. To bring myself back to the real world, I switched to Bach's Solo Cello Suite No.6, the Gavotte and Gigue. Yep. Bach always brings back at least a small portion of my sanity.
Chapter Seven. Skylark Cloudfeather
Through Derek Thomas I located one of the female witches from Frederick Hansen's coven. I asked her out. We went to see, The Secret Life of Dentists, at the Lynwood Theater on Bainbridge Island, and then had dinner at Rosie's up on the hill. Her name was Skylark Cloudfeather Croninberg, raised by a trendy, Born Again, New Age, Native American-wannabe Jewish family in Long Island City, New York. She had converted to Wicca in her mid-twenties while attending San Francisco State University.
Skylark was tall and slender, with raven black shoulder-length hair and had striking emerald green eyes. At first, I thought her eye color relied on contact lenses. But later that evening, after close examination in her bed, I was pleased to learn the emerald green was natural. She had several other natural qualities which I truly appreciated.
Skylark had been initiated into Hansen's coven three years ago in the strict Gardnerian way: nude and blindfolded, with her hands tied behind her back. Her strict First and Second Degree Initiations included ritual flogging. The Third Degree was the one Skylark found most spiritually beneficial. The Third Degree included The Great Rite, that is, ritual sex with the High Priest, while the coven watched.
She told me few covens followed the strict Gardnerian rituals any more. Nudity was still popular, referred to as 'skyclad', but ritualized sexual intercourse and flogging were both considered unnecessary by most 21st century Wiccans. The Gardnerian ways seemed a bit old-fashioned and were often replaced by less overt expressions of sexuality and spiritual sincerity.
I did enjoy the visualization of Skylark, bent over nude in the center of a Sacred Circle, surrounded by purple-robed witches, her lovely bottom being lightly scourged with a whip. Her lovely bottom itself was more than enough to convince me the Mother Goddess offers miraculous and generous gifts to mankind!
From Skylark, I learned Frederick Hansen did, in truth, possess magickal and psychic powers. She witnessed two events in particular which offered evidence of Hansen's skills. The first occurred at a Spring Equinox ritual in 2009. Toward the end of the Sabbat, the High Priest (Hansen) held up his phallic wand, and the High Priestess (Skylark) kissed the tip of his wand. Then she gave him the Eightfold Salute. This involved kissing the mouth, nipples, knees, feet and genitals of the High Priest (a ritual tradition Skylark thoroughly enjoyed.) She recited the Spring Liturgy: 'May the power of the raised wand burst seeds into moist furrows. Blessed be this handsome wand.' The High Priest responded: 'Bless these seeds, generous Lord and Lady. Let the power of the gods flow through this wand into the sacred cup, causing all to be fertile.' At this point, the High Priest touched the tip of his wand to the wrought silver chalice on the altar, and said, 'So Mote It Be.' The Great Rite usually concluded this Sabbat, followed by a feast and a good party. On this occasion, before Hansen and Skylark performed the Great Rite, Hansen made a request:
“Brothers and Sisters of the Goddess, as you all know our sister, Rachel, has been fighting pancreatic cancer for the past two years. Her doctors
say she will die. I tell you, I am not willing to let that happen. When Skylark and I perform the Great Rite, I want each of you to focus your psychic energy on our joined genitals. Use our bodies as a means to concentrate your mind and your energy.
When we have raised our collective power to its peak, direct your energy to heal the cancer in Rachel's body, will your healing power into her body to destroy all the cancer cells. Please cast your energy at the moment of my orgasm.“ He paused and smiled, 'You will be able to tell when that is... ”
This is apparently, word for word, what Hansen told his coven, and they willingly compiled with his wishes.
The following day Rachel went to her doctor for a full round of tests. All the cancerous cells were gone from her body, and new healthy cells had begun to replace the damaged tissue. The doctors had no explanation. One said, “I can only call this a miracle. There is no scientific way to explain this sudden healing.”
The second demonstration of Hansen's powers was far less dramatic. Skylark told me her poodle, Buffy, was often harassed and tormented by a pitbull living next door. No amount of discussion with the pitbull's owner had resolved the problem.
At least once a week, when Buffy was in Skylark's backyard doing her business, the pitbull would squeeze under the fence and chase the frantic poodle to exhaustion. The pitbull never tried to bite Buffy or harm her. His game was to chase her until she was too tired to stand up. When Buffy had collapsed on the ground, in exhaustion and terror, the pitbull always returned to his own backyard. Hansen had a solution for this canine problem. He performed a brief spell-casting, no more than five minutes in duration. Working with two candles and a variety of herbs, as well as his favorite phallic wand, Hansen chanted several phrases in Latin. He never told Skylark what the words meant. What Skylark described next, I imagined as a goofy cartoon, with Boccherini's Minuet as the bouncy and playful soundtrack.
Two days after the spell-casting, Buffy went into the backyard to relieve herself, and within moments the pitbull commenced his usual game. He raced toward Buffy, but Buffy paid no attention. She continued to pee as if nothing dramatic was going on. The pitbull charged, full force, at Buffy and crashed into an invisible wall, some energy-field six inches away from Buffy's body.
The pitbull was stunned and fell over. When the dog regained his senses, he got up and carefully sniffed around, walking several slow circles around the calm poodle. From time to time he poked his nose close to Buffy and each time his nose pressed flat against the invisible barrier. Regardless of the angle, the pitbull could not get any closer than six inches away from Buffy. Then the fun began. Buffy, turned toward the pitbull, face to face, and snarled-- the cutest little snarl you ever saw. The pitbull began to tremble and darted toward the fence, scrambling furiously to get away. But, Buffy was quick and out for vengeance. She dug her teeth into the pitbull's hind leg and drew blood. The pitbull howled, and eventually shook loose to escape under the fence. From that day forward, Buffy was never again troubled by any dog, cat, or raccoon in the neighborhood.
Chapter Eight. For Art and Money
I decided it was time to write the book, the novel which would make me famous and pay all my bills and fill my bed with adoring women. I know such things are possible, and the DNA of my imagination is no less virile than Stephen King's or Ernest Hemingway's.
I took all the notes I had gathered since the Bainbridge Affair began, and sorted them into two piles. The first were pages of with artistic potential; the second were pages with money-making potential. I left a space between the two piles for pages which fit neither of those two categories.
This was not an easy job. My notes were in a wide variety of formats, loose pages of paper, pages from my desktop printer, quick sentences written between the staves on music manuscript paper, napkins, and even notes on the back of a carpet-cleaning ad I got as junk mail.
My scribbling on the carpet-cleaning ad made me smile, as I remembered an odd event with a famous American composer. When I was in my twenties, I sent a score of Elliott Carter's Third String Quartet to the composer, with a note asking for his autograph. He autographed the score, stuffed it back into the same envelope, and re-mailed it. The score was returned to him, as he had drawn arrows to tell the post office he wanted the package returned to the sender. He did not change the position of his own mailing address, and the post office did not understand his cryptic arrows and handwriting.
Elliott Carter got the score a second time, on the same day he received his junk mail. He scribbled a note on the back of a Roto-Rooter ad: “Why am I getting this back?! One autograph wasn't enough for you?! Well, here's another one!” And he signed his name on the under his scribbling. A few days later, I got the two autographs for the first time, and laughed my ass off.
The unique exchange told me many things about Elliott Carter. It led me to think further about the relationship between art and our daily lives. Sometimes, there is no relationship at all. Sometimes artists are so far removed from the needs of most people, they cannot even mail a letter.
Other artists are able to change the world forever, creating works which meet the needs of hundreds of thousands of people. After I was kicked out of the FBI, I lived in Santa Barbara for awhile and played guitar in the local clubs. I also composed one piece for classical guitar, which I called, Fantasie, as a tribute to the Elizabethan lute-player, John Dowland. A famous guitarist, Michael Lorimer, who lived in Santa Barbara at the time, learned my piece and performed it at a few of his concerts. Michael Lorimer had studied with the man who single-handedly invented classical guitar, the master, Andre Segovia. Before Segovia, the guitar was an ugly step-child, used only by a few serious composers, and thought of as a folk instrument, like a concertina or a harmonica.
Later that year, when Segovia performed in Santa Barbara, and he stayed at Michael's house. On Michael's bookshelf, there was a framed picture of the two together in Michael's backyard. I had gone backstage during intermission at that concert, and stood ten-feet away from Segovia. A handsome, friendly and very large stage-guard politely told me the maestro was not to be disturbed. I stood for a moment looking at Segovia. He looked up and smiled at me, then looked back down at his guitar.
True artistic accomplishment does occur in our world, from time to time. It is rare and immeasurably important. In Segovia's case, his artistic achievement also had popular appeal, and made money. Sometimes, true artistic accomplishments make no money during the artist's life time. Sometimes, true artistic accomplishments are entirely forgotten, or pass unnoticed by most people. We only know of Johann Sebastion Bach because Felix Mendelssohn, at age 20, brought Bach's music out of obscurity by conducting the St. Matthew's Passion, in Berlin in 1829. That work had not been performed since Bach's death in 1750. A full-scale revival of Bach's music began, and Bach was at last recognized by the concert-going public as one of the greatest composers of all time.
In sorting my manuscript pages, I tried to guess what would interest readers enough to spend their money. I found my two piles were equally divided, with only six pages in the ambivalent middle pile. I noticed the writing style of my artistic pile was nothing like John Grisham or Barbara Cartland. I also notice J.K. Rowling has sold more books than Leo Tolstoy. True crime stories are never as popular as romance, thriller, detective or fantasy fiction. I decided to throw out the truthful pile, the artistic pile, and re-write my Bainbridge Affair story as complete fiction. I not only changed the names, I made up lots of stuff that never happened. I distorted reality left and right, and invented scenarios which tightrope the edges of credibility. I created an entertainment, with no pretense of artistic value.
After all, the whole point is to make some money, not to be a great literary figure no one has ever heard of. As an entertainer, I find I am free from ego. The level of my own artistic accomplishment is no longer relevant. Who would have imagined that writing crime fiction could have the same psychological effect as Zen Buddhism? I no longer have a need to
prove anything to anybody, not even to myself. If my writing creates a pleasant distraction for a few readers, that is enough. I do not to be on anyone's bestseller list (though I wouldn't object to the income caused be being on the New York Times Bestseller List.)
Having, at last, decided the extent of my literary intentions, I spent two weeks on my laptop, at all hours of the day, sometimes ten to fourteen hours each day, building page by page my riveting masterpiece, my magnum opus, my legacy to future generations! The new version of my story had little to do with the skeleton and witchcraft case Westcott and I were working on.
The new version of the Bainbridge Affair, I re-titled, The Inevitable Consequence of Ambition. My new characters had no morals whatsoever. They went after whatever they lusted for: money, girls (or boys, or sheep), drugs, power and grand venues for their vanity. The idea of being useful to the needs of any other person on the planet, did not occur to them. Only their own needs were important. All other people existed to serve their needs. They lived their entire adult lives creating environments to glorify themselves and to satisfy their various cravings. In short, they became mutants. No longer human at all.
This was the heart pounding, edge-of-your-seat thriller I pitched to my publisher.
Chapter Nine. Whacking Guido
I don't know if his name is Guido. He didn't say, but Westcott and I decided the man I met would not get away with three murders. We also would like to arrange some vengeance on the people who hired Guido.
To protect Jennifer and her parents, going to the police was not an option. This one would have to be a righteous vigilante justice. We spent several days discussing scenarios, ways to lure the killer and his bosses into a trap. We agreed Jennifer would be brought in to positively identify Guido as the man who killed the U.S. District Attorney. And then, well... we would think of some appropriate punishments.
The Bainbridge Affair Page 5
