Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  If only it was that easy.

  She opened her eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’

  He reached out a languid hand and picked up a strand of silky-soft hair.

  ‘Minnaloushe. Such a pretty name. It suits you. It’s very feminine.’

  She smiled gently, amused. ‘That’s very sweet of you. But it’s actually a man’s name.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Yes. From the Yeats poem about a cat. Black Minnaloushe who wanders and wails, his pupils changing from round to crescent, his blood troubled by the pure cold light of the moon. It was my father’s favourite poem. He desperately wanted a boy after Morrighan and had the name all picked out. But he got me instead. Big disappointment. I got stuck with the name anyway. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have had his heart set on Cuchulainn.’ She laughed and pushed herself into a sitting position.

  ‘And Morrighan? That’s unusual too.’

  ‘Irish again, what do you know? From Irish mythology this time. My mum was from Galway.’

  ‘So you’re half Irish.’

  ‘Oh yes. Descended from fairies and pixies and beautiful witches.’

  ‘And the great John Dee.’

  ‘Yet another wizard.’ She stood up and brushed herself down. ‘It’s getting late. Morrighan will be waiting.’

  It was only when they arrived back at Monk House that he realised what had bothered him earlier that day when they had talked about John Dee. Dee’s diaries could be found at the Bodleian library, she had said. At Gabriel’s old alma mater. Except he had never told her he had been to Oxford. So the sisters had made some enquiries about him. Which meant they probably knew about Eyestorm as well. Of course, they already knew he was a remote viewer, but Eyestorm was not something he wanted to share. He supposed he should have expected that they would check up on him, but it still made him feel unsettled.

  ‘Gabriel?’

  He looked up to see Minnaloushe holding the door open for him. ‘Aren’t you coming inside for a drink?’

  He hesitated. For the first time, he was reluctant to enter. It was as if some interior seismograph was warning him of danger ahead. If he wanted to evade it, he should flee now.

  The moment passed. Inside the house a light came on and a moving shadow appeared against the lace curtains. Morrighan, engaged in some or other task.

  He was suddenly tired and aware only of how pleasant it would be to pour himself a drink and to stretch out on the sofa in the cool, high-ceilinged living room with its scent of roses.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m coming.’

  • • •

  That night he dreamed. It was the old familiar dream of the portal but with a difference this time. One moment he was still inside the vast circular space with its symbol-clad walls, approaching the door, which was pulling him like a magnet. As always he was sweating, shivering in anticipation of the moment when the door would open fully.

  And then suddenly he was not alone. A woman was standing with her back to him. Her hair was swept up underneath her broad-rimmed hat. She turned round and he saw it was Minnaloushe. In one hand she held a large black leather volume. In the other she was holding a wine glass filled with liquid that sparkled like the magic potion in a graphic novel. ‘Here,’ she said, holding the glass out at him. ‘Drink up. Good for you.’ But as he stretched out his hand to take the glass from her, she suddenly burst into flame, the fire enveloping her in a cocoon of light.

  And now he was standing on top of a tower and he and Morrighan were preparing for a jump. She was pressed against him and he felt the tautness of her breasts, her hips moving against his. As they stepped into nothingness she placed her arms round his neck and said something. He strained to make out the words: Perfect like flying, she said, her voice snatched away by the wind. Perfect like flying.

  But as they continued to fall—sky and earth merging into an insane blur—he realised he had misheard. Perfect like dying, she was saying, over and over again. Perfect like dying.

  SHADOWS

  ‘The search for enlightenment is actually like an addiction: the drug that enslaves us is the shadow itself.’

  —Akron, The R.H. Giger Tarot

  ‘I wanted to know how the human mind reacted to the sight of its own destruction.’

  —C.G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The second indication that the sisters were checking up on him came only a few days later.

  Gabriel had arrived early for a dentist’s appointment, only to be told by the sour-looking secretary that Mr Guiley’s car had broken down and he would be an hour late. Paging through a woman’s magazine did not appeal. A walk outside seemed a better proposition. But as he stepped into the street, he realised that the sky had turned sullen. A few stray drops of rain spotted the pavement.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should go back inside. He was standing on a busy street corner but to his right a quiet alley led off from the high street. The alley was home to three tiny shops: a florist, its windows filled with prickly cacti, a sad-looking coffee shop with metal tables, and a shop with a dusty sign peeping through an even dustier window. The Pagan Wheel. And underneath it were the words: Divinatory tools, wiccan art and other essentials for the magick life.

  Magic again. He was not a great believer in synchronicity but this was getting to be ridiculous.

  As he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled faintly somewhere above him. The man behind the counter lifted his head at the sound. He had a thin face with feral eyes and reminded Gabriel of an emaciated wolf. The backs of his hands were covered in tattoos—blue spiders weaving inky webs—as were his fingers. For a moment he stared expressionlessly at Gabriel before going back to his book.

  The shop was small but the shelves were packed. The paint on the walls was peeling and there were damp patches at the skirting boards. Among the clutter Gabriel also noticed three mousetraps with dusty bits of cheese stuck inside their steel jaws.

  He grimaced. If he had to confess to a phobia, it would be mice. Rats were in the realm of total hysteria. Where his fear of these rodents stemmed from he had no idea, but they represented his ultimate nightmare.

  There was a faint smell in the air. Sweetish, cloying. Gabriel wrinkled his nose in recognition. The scent came straight from his youth, but was one he did not encounter very often any longer. Marijuana. Someone in this shop had been smoking grass. Well, he thought sardonically, he shouldn’t be surprised. Mysticism and getting stoned have always gone hand in hand.

  He glanced over at the shop owner again. The man was still deep in his book. His elbows were resting on the counter and he had his head propped on his hands.

  On the far wall were two prints. One was in black and white and showed death—a grinning skeleton—holding an hourglass. The other was lavishly coloured and depicted a woman with flowing hair and swirling cape looking down at a sun clasped between her hands. The picture looked familiar: he had seen this image before. Then he remembered. The same image served as a screensaver on the computers at Monk House.

  He made his way over to the picture, ducking dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling. And there was no doubt about it: it was the same image. The flowing hair, the cape, the long white fingers wrapped round the golden sun.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘Excuse me…’

  The shop owner looked up and Gabriel was once again reminded of a wolf. It was something about his eyes.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Gabriel gestured at the print.

  The man closed his book deliberately.

  ‘This picture… what does it mean?’

  The shop owner moved out from behind the counter and came up to Gabriel. A bracelet in the shape of a snake was wound round the fleshy part of one arm, which was thin but muscled. His voice was soft and educated.

  ‘As you can see from the colour of her cloak, this woman is a witch.’

  Gabriel looked back at the picture. The cloak was green.
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  ‘The sun in her hands indicates she is a solar witch.’

  ‘Solar?’

  ‘Solar witches are practitioners of high magic.’

  Gabriel was starting to feel irritated. ‘As opposed to low magic?’

  The man did not react to the heavy sarcasm. ‘Magic can be separated into common magic and high magic. Common magic is the colourful side of magic—the kind that has always attracted the man on the street. Potions, incantions, sorceries.’ His voice sounded bored. ‘Women on brooms with pointed hats. Harry Potter books. TV shows. A lot of it is based on superstition and myth. Magic for the masses.’

  He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the glass-fronted cases filled with dowsing rods, daggers and jewellery. ‘Most of the stuff you see here is for dabblers in common magic. I have to make a living, yes?’ He lifted his eyebrows as if astonished at himself for making the admission. ‘But high magic… high magic is rooted in the Hermetica, the Kabbalah, and oriental mysticism. High magic is something else altogether.’

  Gabriel waited. The sky outside the window had darkened considerably and raindrops were spattering the window.

  ‘If you want to practise high magic, you’re in for a rough ride. You will have to undergo a purification process. At the end of it, your consciousness will be irrevocably altered. It is a rigorous journey, travelled by few. If I were you, I would not even think of attempting it.’

  Why the hell the man would think he’d want to attempt something that crazy was beyond him. Besides—Gabriel looked back at the picture—green was not his colour.

  ‘Would I have to wear a cloak?’

  The shop owner did not acknowledge his feeble attempt at humour. He looked at Gabriel expressionlessly.

  ‘During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, high magic was practised by secret societies and lodges. The Church tried to stamp it out, of course. It was considered the great heresy.’ The shop owner gave a curious one-shouldered shrug. ‘Practitioners of high magic were witches and wizards who sought to know the secrets of the universe. They were ready to look God in the eye without flinching. That takes a lot of guts, yes? The Church liked to keep the masses obedient. And scared. Alchemists had a rough time of it. If they were caught they died truly horrible deaths at the hands of their inquisitors.’

  He touched his forefinger to his lip as if in secret. ‘You know one, don’t you?’

  ‘Know who?’

  ‘A witch.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The shop owner smiled suddenly, his lips pulling away from his teeth to show very pink gums. ‘I think you do. I knew you’d been touched the moment you walked in here. I can sense her fingerprints on the tissue of your brain.’

  Even though he told himself the man was simply messing with him, Gabriel was conscious of a chill settling at the base of his spine.

  He tried to be flippant. ‘Does she at least practise good magic?’

  ‘There is no such thing as good or bad magic. Magic is amoral. It is the intent of the witch that is good or evil.’

  ‘Well, is her intent good?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The shop owner shrugged again. ‘I sense… ambivalence. So be careful.’

  ‘What is it you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying, don’t make her angry. Don’t make her feel threatened.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Magic has three functions.’ The shop owner ticked them off on his web-covered fingers. ‘To produce, protect and destroy. Even a good witch will sometimes make use of destructive magic in self-defence. So if this woman feels she needs to defend herself against you… well, watch out.’

  The tiny shop with its mildewed walls was crowding in on Gabriel. And for a split second he thought he saw something small and dark dart along one of the shelves. A mouse?

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Wait.’ The shop owner walked over to one of the glass cases and opened the hinged lid. Reaching inside, he removed a silver-coloured circle pinned to a felt board.

  ‘Here, take this. On the house. It’s an amulet.’

  Gabriel took the object from him. It was small but surprisingly heavy.

  ‘Iron,’ the man said as though Gabriel had asked a question. ‘A good metal for protection against witchery.’

  ‘I thought you said this kind of thing was common magic?’

  ‘Common magic has its uses.’

  Gabriel slipped the amulet into his pocket. ‘Thanks. But let me pay for it.’

  ‘No. It will be my good deed for the month.’ The shop owner smiled again, the pink gums enforcing the vulpine quality of his features. ‘And good luck on the journey ahead. You do not live the magic life yourself, but you are within its orbit. It will draw you in. Soon.’

  Gabriel looked at him, perturbed. The decaying shop, which suddenly seemed full of tiny moving shadows, and the proprietor with his heavy eyes were starting to feel menacing. The shop owner had settled himself behind the counter again and was reaching for his book. ‘The journey will test your sanity.’ He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as though there was nothing extraordinary about his words. ‘And once you start walking down that road, there is no turning back. You will start craving the rush. One can become addicted to madness, you know. Develop a taste for it.’ He looked down at the book in his hands, frowned, and turned a page.

  Gabriel waited but it was clear the shop owner had lost interest in him. ‘Shut the door tightly behind you, please.’ The man spoke without looking up. ‘It has a tendency to slip open.’

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, after the rain had cleared, Gabriel went for a run. As he started jogging down the Embankment the day was dissolving into blue dusk.

  He was running at a fast clip. Sweat was running down his forehead and he pushed his arm angrily across his face.

  He knew the reason for his anger. He was spooked. He had allowed himself to fall for the deliberately enigmatic warnings of a pot-smoking weirdo who probably enjoyed putting the wind up gullible customers.

  He did not believe in witches. He did not believe in witchcraft.

  And yet, and yet…

  Solar witches were witches in search of self-knowledge and enlightenment. He was unable to see how this quest could be construed as sinister or threatening. But somehow it had led to the death of Robert Whittington. Why?

  And how? There was little doubt in his mind that Robert had tried to become a solar wizard himself. And that this journey had involved walking through the house of a million doors. Maybe this was what the ‘game’ was that she kept referring to in the diary. But what exactly was the house of a million doors?

  One can become addicted to madness… Develop a taste for it.

  The writer of the diary was not insane. But—and he was facing up to this truth for the first time—some of the passages in the diary read as though the mind behind the words was calibrated too finely. As though the writer was inflamed with a vision of such fevered beauty, the heat might cause her to burn herself from the inside out.

  Had she snapped? Had her frantic quest for enlightenment somehow tipped her over into shadow?

  The thought was so unpleasant that he involuntarily slowed his pace to a walk. In front of him was a wooden bench. It was sprayed with graffiti and encrusted with bird droppings but he nevertheless lowered himself heavily onto the seat.

  He might be in love with a murderer.

  For a long time he simply sat there, staring at the river. The algae smell rising into the night air was strong here and foetid. He loved the river but every day the newspapers carried a roll call of horror. The broken-boned body of a jumper. A severed head bobbing on the water like a fleshy bowling ball. Syringes. Crack vials.

  Was he in love with a killer?

  Even more shocking: did he really want to know the truth?

  In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing in the living room at Monk House with its high shadowed ceiling, a sweating glass of granita in hi
s hand. Inside his chest a feeling as though his heart was being squeezed to dust. On that day he could have accessed the computer holding the file of The Promethean Key—and he hadn’t. He hadn’t had the guts. If the woman in the diary was the same woman who had pushed a boy’s head under water till he drowned, he did not want to know it.

  He felt cold. There was a chill in the air that warned summer was drawing to a close. It was time to go home.

  In the communal entrance hall of his apartment block he stopped to check on his mail box. It held two invoices—gas and electricity—and a mail order catalogue. He dropped the catalogue into the open bin provided for residents’ junk mail. It held some bus ticket stubs and a takeaway menu. Babbaloo. He recognised the bold lettering and distinctive logo. This restaurant was only three blocks away from Monk House. He was slightly surprised to see the menu here. This was not SW3 and, as far as he knew, Babbaloo only delivered locally.

  The entrance hall was brightly lit and the lamps on the landings should have been burning as well, but for some reason the stairs were dark. He hesitated for a moment before heading for the lift.

  Just before pressing the button in the wall to summon the cage, he looked up at the row of numbers in circles above the lift door. The very last circle was lit. It made him pause.

  The building had only eight apartments arranged over four floors. The top floor held one apartment only. His.

  The lift was open on the top floor.

  He stared frowningly at the lit circle surrounding the letter P. P for penthouse. Someone had taken the lift to his apartment and must still be up there.

  He turned away and headed back to the unlit stairwell. As he mounted the stairs two by two, holding on to the railing for support, he wondered why he was feeling so anxious. It could be anyone up there. The porter. A messenger. Even a neighbour—although the residents of the warehouse tended to keep themselves to themselves. Well, he would know in a moment.

  As he stepped onto the landing of the third floor, however, he heard the unmistakable whine of the lift starting up. It was on its way down.