Authors: Mark Frost
Scale the mountain, Doyle thought. Blavatsky nodded.
"And remember," she said, "when the path appears impassable, when your prospects are ruined, when even death seems imminent, you will have no other choice but to destroy the mountain. In this way, and this way only, will you enter the New Country."
With this perplexity, her presentation was at an end. Applause was brief and polite. Blavatsky bowed slightly, a slight smile not without irony on her lips, which seemed to Doyle to say, You are not applauding me, because these are not truly my words, but I acknowledge the divinity and comedy of our collective spiritual-physical paradoxical condition and commend you for your recognition of it.
Most of the crowd drifted out, satisfied with their evening, some smugly dismissive, others self-congratulatory on the subject of their own open-mindedness, a few stimulated to greater thought that would result in soul-searching to last the better part of the evening, or even, for one or two, into the next day, before the blanket of routine muffled that restless stirring back down to the parade of days.
Knowing he must speak with the woman, Doyle lingered on the edge of the circle of acolytes who pressed in around her, hungry for more direct experience of the truths she was peddling. An assistant—Doyle presumed he was an assistant by his habitually clerical nature—male, early twenties, set up a table of HPB's books nearby, offering the volumes Doyle was already familiar with at extremely reasonable prices.
The questions she fielded were earnest, if predictable, and she answered with wit and brevity that bordered on the discourteous. She was clearly not one of these charismatics Doyle had occasionally come across, whose express objective was to inspire a dependency, emotional and inevitably financial, among their faithful. She was, if anything, impatient with her standing as a figure of social curiosity and emphatically disinterested in the glamorous, self-aggrandizing aspects of the teacher-student dynamic. This is her gift, Doyle thought. She stirs the pot. What the individual does with the
information there was not her responsibility. Sensible anc pragmatic and not a little appealing.
"What do you have to say about the various religions?"
"Nothing. There is no religion higher than truth."
Why do you think elders in other religions are afraid oi what you are saying?"
"Bigotry and materialism."
"Are you saying Jesus was not the Son of God?"
"No. We are all sons and daughters of God."
"But are you saying he wasn't divine?"
"Quite the contrary. Next question."
"What about the Freemasons?"
"Whenever anyone asks about the Freemasons, I must say good night. Read my books, and to the greatest extent that you can manage, remain awake. Thank you."
With that, she withdrew through a door at the side of the stage, and the remainder of the crowd dispersed. A short, nattily dressed woman with a monocle and walking stick appeared at Doyle's side.
"Dr. Doyle?"
"Yes."
"My name is Dion Fortune. HPB would like to speak with you. Would you come this way please?"
Doyle nodded and followed. The woman's name was familiar; she was a founding member of the London branch of the Theosophical Society and an author of some note in the esoteric world. Doyle noticed the Indian woman lingering at the book table as Fortune led him through the door.
Her handshake was firm and cool. She looked him right in the eye with concern and warm support.
"I am most pleased to meet you, Dr. Doyle."
Having vouchsafed the initial introductions, Dion Fortune took a seat by the door. They were in a cramped dressing room next to a rumbling furnace. A spacious, well-traveled satchel stood open on a table—HPB's only luggage, her possessions and appointments were as utilitarian and utterly lacking in ostentation as her wardrobe.
Doyle returned the salutation, knowing he would feel remiss without telling her immediately of the events in London.
"Petrovitch is dead," he said.
Her features hardened. She asked immediately for exhaustive, specific details. He recounted the tale exactingly, as well as his conclusions, finally producing the tin of poison tablets from his bag. Blavatsky examined them, sniffed them, nodded.
"Would you like to drink with me?" she asked. "I recommend something stiff."
She pulled a bottle from her bag. Fortune produced some glasses.
"Vodka," she said, offering him the first glass.
"I thought spiritual teaching argued against the use of hard liquor," Doyle said lightly.
"Most spiritual teaching is hogwash. We must still move through the world as the personality into which we were born. I am a Russian peasant woman, and vodka has a most agreeable effect upon me. Na zdorovia."
She downed the drink and poured another. Doyle sipped. Fortune abstained. Blavatsky dropped into a chair, slung a leg over one of the arms, and lit a cigar.
"There is more you would like to tell me, yes?"
Doyle nodded. He was grateful for the vodka, as it seemed to elicit a smoother recitation of his story. She stopped him only once, to ask for a more detailed description of the wounds and external arrangement of the organs of the fallen prostitute.
"Would you be kind enough to sketch them for me as close to memory as possible?"
Fortune handed him pen and paper, and Doyle complied, handing Blavatsky the result. She studied the drawing, grunted once, then folded the paper and dropped it in her bag.
"Please continue," she said.
He guided her through the trip to Cambridge, his near encounter with God-knows-what in the Antiquities Building, and then showed her the altered book from his rooms.
"What could have caused such a thing?" he asked.
"Ectoplasmic detonation. An entity breaking through from the other side. This is what Petrovitch summoned me to see. Very bad. Of course, at the time I assumed they were after Petrovitch—perhaps they were, secondarily. Be thankful you weren't home at the time. Go on, Doctor."
Doyle's mind spun. "Madame Blavatsky, what can you tell me about the Dark Brotherhood?"
The question prompted a veiled exchange of looks between HPB and Fortune that he was unable to interpret.
"Evil beings. Materialists. Enemies of holy spirit. You should read my work on the subject—"
"I have read your work on the subject, Madame." Only too well, thought Doyle. "I need to know if you believe these beings are real."
She knocked on the table. "Is table real? Is glass real?"
"It appears that they are, yes."
"You have your answer then."
"But are these beings people—I mean, are they in human form, or do they just swim indiscriminately around in the ether?"
"They are spirits who desire human form. They hunger, hovering around it, seeking entry."
"For which, as you write, they require the cooperation of the living."
"Cooperation and sacrifice, yes. They must be invited onto this plane through the enactment of rituals and so forth," she said, somewhat disinterestedly. "Describe for me if you would this Professor Armond Sacker."
"Tall, rangy. Midthirties. Prominent nose, high, intelligent brow, light eyes. Long fingers. Athletic."
This prompted another look between his hosts.
"Is something wrong?" Doyle asked.
"As it happens, I'm to have supper with Professor Sacker this very evening," she replied.
"But you know him then," Doyle replied excitedly.
"For many years."
"You know him well."
"Very well indeed. That will be his step arriving outside our door even now."
There were in fact footsteps outside the door, two sets, and then a knock. Fortune opened the door, revealing the young book clerk.
"Professor Sacker to see you, Madame," said the clerk.
"Show him in," she replied.
Doyle rose. The clerk moved away from the door, and Pro-
fessor Sacker entered. HPB greeted him warmly with a kiss to either cheek.
"How good to see you again," she said.
"And you, my dear, and you," Sacker replied loudly.
Fortune welcomed Sacker familiarly as well and then presented him to Doyle, and Doyle shook the infirm hand of the stooped, diminutive, white-haired eighty-two-year-old man before him.
"Sorry, what was the name again?" asked Sacker.
"Doyle."
"Boyle?" He was nearly shouting.
"Doyle, sir. Arthur Doyle."
"Fine. Will you be joining us for supper then, Oyle?"
"I don't honestly—I don't know, sir!"
"Professor, please go ahead to the restaurant with Mrs. Fortune. I will be along to join you momentarily," Blavatsky said, making herself understood by the old man without raising her voice. She signaled Fortune, who smoothly guided Sacker out of the room.
Blavatsky turned back to Doyle, reading the shock on his face.
"Listen carefully, Doctor," she said. "I am leaving early in the morning for Liverpool and from there in two days' time sailing to America. You must try to remember everything I tell you, which as you have ably demonstrated will not be difficult for you."
"I'll try. If I could ask—"
She held up a hand to silence him. "Please do not ask questions. They will only serve to irritate me. There is a great urgency in you, and I do not doubt what you have told me, but this is a most dangerous time for many initiates in many places, and my presence is promised elsewhere. I do not expect you to understand. Please accept that what I have to tell you will be of some use to you and move forward."
"If I have no other choice."
"Good. Optimism is good, Common sense is good." She put out her cigar. "As mystics are to the occult, there are individuals known as sorcerers to Magick. Magick is the Left-Handed Path to Knowledge; it is the shortest way to the Englightenment we all seek. It has a higher cost. It seems to me that what the man who presented himself to you as Pro-
fessor Sacker has told you was correct in many details: You have been made a target by a group traveling the Left-Handed Path."
"Who are they?"
"This is unknown—"
"The Dark Brotherhood?"
"There are many names for that loose confederation of souls. Their hand is visible behind the sinister actions of countless factions around the world; do not mistake them for some benevolent protective order of lodge brothers. They are our counterparts in exploring what lies beyond, but their sole ambition is material power. They are exceedingly malicious and more than capable of ending your life, as they have done to my dear friend Petrovitch, who was, by the way, a highly advanced Adept who had been watching your progress with interest for some time—"
"My progress?"
She stilled him again and fixed him with her hypnotic gaze, which flared again with the persuasive power she had evidenced earlier onstage.
"You must not waver in your determination. It is your strongest asset. You must not fear, for that will let them in. Regarding all of these phenomena you have described, some of which I must admit are new to me—the blue thread, the strange state of your rooms, and so on—you must remember this: All of these manifestations they create mean absolutely nothing."
"Is that true?"
"Not really, but I strongly advise you to adopt this attitude at once, or things will not go well for you. By the way, may I have this copy of my book? I should like to study it. They appear to have penetrated the skin and altered its molecular structure. If this is true, it is not good."
He handed her the book, gulping back the impulse to ask her why? She studied the book for a moment before placing it in her satchel and turning to him for another long look.
"When things appear darkest, you have friends unknown or unseen—"
"Professor Sacker—"
"The Professor Sacker you have met tonight is a scholar of ancient Mystery Cults. He is a sympathetic colleague of ours,
an academic with no direct knowledge of your lamentable situation. The fact that the man who contacted you used his name is of great significance, which I encourage you to investigate."
"What should I do?"
"What should you do? That is a most excellent question," she said seriously. "What do you think you should do?"
Doyle thought for a moment.
"I think I should visit Lady Nicholson's estate. Topping."
"A sound idea. You are in the grip of a most interesting dilemma, Doctor. I sincerely hope our paths may cross again someday. Do you have copies of all my books?"
"As a matter of fact, they were lost in the—"
"Please see the boy outside. He will provide you with new editions at absolutely no cost. I trust they may prove useful to you."
She turned away and began packing her satchel. Doyle suddenly remembered the talisman sitting in his pocket.
"Excuse me, Madame ... but what do you make of this?" and he showed her the metallic eye Sacker's imposter had given him. She took it from him, looked it over, tried to bend it, then bit down on it. It bore no marks, which drew a nod of approval.
"This is very good. If I were you, I would wear it around my neck."
She handed it back and closed up her satchel.
"But what does it mean?"
"It is a symbol."
"A symbol of what?" he asked, somewhat exasperated.
"It would take too long to explain. I must go now. I would invite you to supper, but I don't wish to unduly alarm the Professor. His health is frail, and we need him to finish his work before he passes on, as he is scheduled to do so later in the year."
"Scheduled?"
"Come, come, Doctor. There is more on heaven and earth and so on. Shakespeare was an extremely advanced Adept. I trust you've read him extensively."
"Yes."
"Ah, the English educational system. Give us a kiss. A blessing on your head, Doctor Doyle. Do svidan'ya."
A swirl of her cloak and she was out the door. Doyle's head swam. He spotted a large book on the floor beside her satchel, picked it up, and followed her.
She was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the young clerk. A short stack of her other works had been left behind on the table in the empty Grange Hall. He looked at the cover of the larger book in his hand.