The Angel of the West Window Page 22

  I felt that she was under my control, but she just shook her head with a tortured expression. If I can establish rapport, I said to myself, the name must come. But Frau Fromm remained silent; for the first time her eyes slid away from mine. I saw that she was resisting but at the same time seeking spiritual comfort from me. I tried to calm my excitement and withdraw my influence from her – turn my will away from her so that she would come of her own accord. She made a jerky movement. And when she suddenly pulled herself together and slowly put out her foot, I had no idea what it meant. Then she started to walk and passed slowly in front of me, making a gesture as if she were searching, resisting, and it moved me deeply, tore at my heart, so that I was gripped by an irrational impulse to draw her to me, to comfort her, to cry with her, to kiss her like a long-lost lover – like my true and lawful wife. It took all my power of will that I did not do what I had already done in my imagination.

  Frau Fromm walked round the chair, in which I usually sit when I am working, and proceeded towards the opposite end of the desk. Her movements were like those of an automaton, her eyes those of a corpse. When she opened her mouth, her voice sounded utterly foreign to me. I did not catch everything she said, only this:

  “Are you back again? Go away, tormentor! You cannot deceive me! – I can sense you – I can see your snake’s skin, black and silver – I am not afraid, I have my orders – I – I ...”

  Frau Fromm had reached the left-hand end of the desk. Before I realised what she was doing, her hands suddenly leapt forward like a cat’s paws and pounced on the Tula-ware box that Lipotin had given me from Baron Stroganoff and which I had so carefully placed along the line of the meridian.

  “Now I have finally got my hands on you, you silver-black snake,” hissed Frau Fromm, and her nervously trembling fingers felt their way along the inlay work of the box.

  I wanted to leap up and tear it from her hands. I could not rid myself of the strange superstition that it would somehow disturb the cosmic order if the box was not left in the appointed alignment. This childish delusion took hold of me with a force akin to madness.

  “Don’t touch! Leave it where it is!” I imagined I was screaming, but all I could hear from my throat was a hoarse, stifled cry in which the words remained unarticulated.

  The next moment Frau Fromm’s restless fingers had gathered at one point on the smooth silver surface – it was like spiders coming together, like sentient beings suddenly attracted by the scent or sight of their prey and descending on the same spot. They clambered over each other, pushed and shoved, scrabbling at the same place with hungry movements until suddenly a spring gave a quiet click: the Tula box lay open in Frau Fromm’s hands.

  Immediately I was beside her. She had become quite calm and held the open box out toward me on the palm of her outstretched hand in a gesture expressing disgust or horror at an ugly or dangerous beast. Her features bore a look of triumph and joy, and an inner radiance which I found difficult to interpret, but which affected me like the entreaty of a love too timid to declare itself.

  Without a word I took the box out of her hand. At that she seemed to wake up and her face expressed bewilderment, anxiety. She knew how strictly I insisted that nothing on my desk should be touched, nothing moved from its place. Nervous, incomprehending and at the same time triumphant, she looked me full in the face, and I knew that one word of reproach in that moment would have driven her for ever from me and from my house.

  The warm surge of mysterious affection which had flooded my innermost being stopped me from speaking the harsh word that was on the tip of my tongue. It was all the matter of a second.

  Then I examined the Tula-ware box: on a neatly stitched cushion of green satin, faded and threadbare with age, lay John Dee’s Lapis sacer et praecipuus manifestationis, that had been given to him in the last days at Mortlake by the Green Angel of the West Window: Bartlett Greene’s polished coal which John Dee had burnt in the fire and then received back in such miraculous fashion from the world beyond.

  After the very first glance there was no doubt at all for me: the gold stand John Dee had described so minutely, the precious setting of the gleaming black dodecahedron – it all corresponded: I held in front of me the gift of Bartlett Greene and the Green Angel.

  I did not dare to let the lid of the box fall shut; my fate, which was in my hands, might have been closed to me, as it was to John Dee, all those years ago, when he threw the gift of the red and white spheres out of the window.

  I have no time to lose, I said to myself, I am in the light and – I know, whilst my ancestor, John Dee, was feeling his way in the dark.

  Carefully I lifted the marvellous crystal from its disintegrating cushion, meticulously checking the screws of the stand which held the smooth and gleaming piece of coal in place, and placed the miniature work of art in the middle of the desk. Then a mysterious movement began: the crystal started to tremble and oscillate about its axis; it appeared that at its poles it was not fixed, but could turn on the pins of the jewelled frame. As if searching, the coal gradually set itself in alignment with the meridian! Then it came to rest.

  Frau Fromm and I watched the spectacle in silence. Then I took her hand in mine and said:

  “I thank you, my friend and helper.”

  Pleasure flickered across her face. Suddenly she bent down and kissed my hand.

  A bright light shot through me for a brief second. Without knowing what I did – without intending it – I said, “Jane!” and took the young woman in my arms, kissing her gently on the forehead. She bowed her head. A sob came from her breast and, as the tears gushed out, she stammered something I could not understand; then she looked at me in bewilderment – shame – horror and fled the room without saying another word.

  The evidence, the proof is piling up. In the light surrounding me, why should I deliberately continue to grope around in the darkness of doubt. The past has become present! What is the present but the sum of the past in a moment of consciousness? And because the spirit can call upon this consciousness – this recall – at will, so the present is ever there in the stream of time and the flowing weave can become a broad tapestry spread out for me to contemplate; and I can point to the spot where a particular thread in the weft marks the start of a new design in the pattern. And I can follow the thread, knot by knot, forwards and backwards; it does not break off, it carries the design and the meaning in the design; it is the essence of the tapestry and has nothing to do with its temporal existence.

  Here I stand, with my eyes opened, and I recognise myself at a nodal point: I am the reawakened John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill, who is to complete a design of fate – I am to join the ancient blood of Hywel Dda and Rhodri Mawr to the blood of Elizabeth, so that the design on the tapestry shall be completed! There is only one question left: what is the significance of the living threads drawn by other shuttles which are interwoven with mine? Do they belong to the plan of the tapestry or are they part of the infinite variety of the other patterns created by Brahma?

  Frau Fromm – how foreign, how inappropriate the name now sounds to me! – is part of the weave. That it should have taken so long before I realised! She is Jane, John Dee’s second wife – – – my wife! Fits of giddiness keep pulling me down into the abyss of the mystery of consciousness outside the bounds of time.

  Ever since she was born into this world Jane has pursued a path closer than mine to the boundaries of the dream that is our life, always ready to wake from it. And I – I? – was it not only when John Roger failed that I was called?! Was John Roger also – John Dee? Is John Dee everywhere? Am I nothing more than a mask? A shell? A trumpet, which sounds as the breath passes through it, but which is blown by a mouth outside, beyond. But – no matter: I experience it as present reality, and that is what it is. I must cast off this shroud of thought! A clear eye and a firm hand! I shall not repeat your mistakes, John Dee. I shall not follow you in your defeat, John Roger. I shall not let myself be deceived by earthly b
eings, and even less by ones from the other world. I shall know who Princess Shotokalungin is before the sun has gone full circle in the sky.

  I can tell a mere messenger from One who would seal my fate – can I not, friend Lipotin?

  I spent a long time staring at the facets of the black crystal but, to my disappointment I must admit, there was not a hint of the smoke, mist, cloud – not to speak of images – which are reliably reported of magic mirrors and crystals. In my hand the coal remained a piece of coal, beautifully worked and polished, but a piece of coal, nonetheless.

  The thought naturally occurred to me that perhaps Jane – I mean Frau Fromm – might have the power to draw the secret from the crystal. I have just called her. She is nowhere to be found. She has gone out, it seems. I must wait patiently until she returns. – – – –

  Hardly had the echo of my shouts for Frau Fromm died away, than the telephone rang: – – Lipotin! Was I likely to be in? He had something interesting to show me. – Yes, I was staying in. – Good. With that he hung up. – –

  I had not many minutes to admire the timing with which “fate” sent its next actor on stage, nor to wonder what Lipotin might have for me, before there he was on my doorstep and in my study – remarkably quickly, considering the distance from his shop to my flat.

  No! – He had telephoned from nearby, he said; the idea had suddenly occurred to him, it was an impulse, pure chance that he happened to have on him the object he was sure would interest me.

  I gave him a pained, doubting look, and said:

  “Are you a ghost, or are you real? Be honest! You can tell me! You can’t imagine how fond I am of ghosts; it’ll only make our chat all the more cosy.”

  Lipotin was not at all put off by my rather odd joke, and there was a smile in the corners of his eyes as he replied:

  “This time I am perfectly real, my friend. How else could I bring you such a ... find!?”

  He dug into one of his many pockets and held out his hand towards me. In his fingers he held a small red ivory sphere.

  I was thunderstruck – almost literally, as I felt a shock run through my nerves from the back of my head and down my spine to the tips of my toes.

  “The sphere from St. Dunstan’s grave!” I stammered.

  Lipotin grinned his most cynical grin.

  “You are dreaming, my friend. You seem to have a thing about red balls. Have you just had bad luck at billiards?”

  With those words he put the red sphere back in his pocket and looked as if nothing had happened.

  “Excuse me,” I said, in some confusion, “certain things have been happening, certain ... give me the red ball, please, I am interested in it.”

  Lipotin seemed not to hear me; with an inquisitive look on his face, he had gone over to my desk and was now staring intently at the coal crystal in its gold setting.

  “Where did you get that from?”

  I pointed to the open Tula-ware box.

  “From you!”

  “Aha! Congratulations.”

  “What for?”

  “So that was what was inside Stroganoff’s last possession? Remarkable!”

  “What is remarkable?” I insisted, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

  Screwing up his left eye, Lipotin said:

  “Beautifully delicate workmanship! Bohemian. One is almost reminded of the celebrated goldsmith of the Emperor Rudolf, Jaroslav Hradlik from Prague.”

  Prague? Something within me responded to the name, but I said to Lipotin in irritation:

  “Lipotin, you know very well that at this precise moment I am not at all interested in your expertise in the field of arts and crafts. This object is more important to me – –”

  “Yes, yes. Just look at the excellent workmanship on the stand.”

  “Stop it, Lipotin!” I commanded angrily. “As you seem to know everything, tell me instead how to use this thing you have lumbered me with.”

  “What do you want to do with it?”

  “I cannot see anything in it”, I answered brusquely.

  “Aha, so that’s it!” said Lipotin in feigned surprise.

  “There! I knew you understood what I mean.” I crowed. I felt as if I had all the cards in my hand.

  “Easy!” mumbled Lipotin, plucking the inevitable cigarette from his lip and casually tossing the glowing end into my wastepaper basket, something I found extremely irritating. “Easy! It’s a magic crystal; a scrying glass, as they say in Scotland.”

  “Why Scotland?” I interrupted, like a judge conducting a trial.

  “Well, it certainly comes from a place where they speak English,” said Lipotin and pointed a languid fingernail at a finely engraved inscription, half-concealed by late Gothic tracery, running around the claws of the stand. I had missed it until now. It was in English, and ran:

  “This ancient and noble stone, full of magical power, once belonged to the honoured master of all occult wisdom, the unfortunate John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill. In the year he was called to his Maker, 1607.”

  There – as if I needed it – was documentary evidence that John Dee’s most valued possession, which he held higher than gold and all the riches of this world, had found its ordained way to me, his appointed heir and executor of his destiny. This discovery removed any last lingering doubts as to Lipotin’s inner identity. I put my hand on his shoulder and said:

  “Well, old messenger of the mysteries, won’t you tell me what you have brought this time? What is the point of the red sphere? Are we going to transmute lead? Are we going to make gold?”

  Lipotin turned his foxy face towards me and, in a calm, deliberative tone, gave his evasive answer:

  “So you have already attempted to use the coal? And you couldn’t see anything?”

  He refused to listen to me. As so often, he obstinately went his own way. No matter; I am accustomed to it. You have to go along with it, otherwise you cannot get anything out of him. I replied coolly:

  “No. I can’t see anything in it, however I go about it.”

  “I’m not surprised.” – Lipotin shrugged his shoulders.

  “And how would you go about trying to see something in the crystal?”

  “Me? I’ve no ambition to be a medium.”

  “A medium? Otherwise it’s impossible, you think?”

  “The simplest way would be to become a medium,” Lipotin answered.

  “And how does one become a medium?”

  “Just ask Schrenck Notzing.” A malicious smile played about his lips.

  I ignored his mockery. “To tell you the truth, I, too, lack both the desire and the time to become a medium. But did you not just say that to be a medium is merely the simplest way. What would be less simple?”

  “To give up the whole idea of crystal-gazing.”

  I had to change tack. “Your paradoxical mind has got it right again; I am unwilling to give up the whole idea. Certain circumstances lead me to believe that there are images fixed – that is the expression occultists would use, I presume – upon the faces of this coal, images of the past, let us say, which are not without their importance for me ...”

  “Then you will have to take a risk!”

  “What kind of risk?”

  “Of being being deceived by – let’s call it your own imagination. Using hallucination for the purposes of clairvoyance often becomes a kind of spiritual drug addiction. Unless ...”

  “Unless ...?”

  “You pass over.”

  “What do you mean.”

  “You leave your body behind.”

  “How?”

  “With this!” Lipotin had the red sphere in his hand again, rolling it between his fingers.

  “Give it to me! I have asked you for it once.”

  “Oh no, my dear sir, I cannot hand the sphere over to you. I have just remembered why it is impossible.”

  I was becoming annoyed: “What’s all this nonsense again?”

  Lipotin put on his serious face. “You mu
st forgive me. There is one small detail I had forgotten. I see that I owe you an explanation. This sphere is hollow.”

  “I know.”

  “It contains a certain powder.”

  “I know.”

  “How on earth do you ...” – Lipotin feigned astonishment.

  “Stop all this play-acting. I have already told you that I know precisely what booty Master Mascee took from St. Dunstan’s grave! Now give it to me!”

  Lipotin retreated a step.

  “What is all this about St. Dunstan and Mascee? I can’t understand a word of it. This sphere has nothing at all to do with the venerable Mascee. It was given to me as a present, many years ago. By a monk of the red-hooded order in the caverns of Ling Pa on the mountain of Dpal bar.”

  “Are you deliberately trying to annoy me, Lipotin.”

  “Not at all; I am completely serious. You don’t think I would try to pull the wool over your eyes?! – It happened in the following way: several years before the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War I was on a special mission for one of my patrons in northern China, on the border with Tibet; the purpose was to obtain some fabulously valuable Tibetan temple pictures: ancient Chinese silk paintings and the like. But to the point: first of all, it was essential I gain the friendship of my putative business partners before there could be any question of a deal; of, amongst others, the remarkable inhabitants of Dpal bar skyd. They are a sect that call themselves the ‘Yang’. They have the most bizarre rituals; it is very difficult to find out anything about them. Even I, fairly well-informed as I am about magic in the Far East, did no more than scratch the surface. They have special initiations and one of the initiation rituals is the ‘Magic of the Red Sphere’. Just once they allowed me to attend the ceremony – how I managed to attend, is irrelevant. The neophytes perform the rite of thurification with a powder that is kept in red ivory spheres. There is no point here is going into the details of how they do it, but the rite is led by the abbot and it enables the young monks, who have newly been admitted to the order, to achieve ‘Yang Yin’ or to experience the ‘Marriage of the Perfect Circle’. What they mean by that is another thing I was never clear about, and it is something I prefer not to talk about. They claim that inhaling the red smoke enables them to ‘step out’ of their bodies and cross the threshold of death; there, through marriage with their female ‘other half, which in their earthly existence almost always remains hidden, they acquire unimaginable magic powers such as personal immortality as the wheel of birth comes to a standstill; in short, they achieve a kind of divine status which is denied other mortals as long as they are ignorant of the secret of the blue and red spheres. Clearly there are ideas behind this superstition which appear in graphic form in the Korean coat of arms: the male and the female principles in an intimate embrace within the circle of immutability. – But, of course, you are more familiar with all that than I am.”