Magician and Fool 1999764676, 9781999764678

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Magician & Fool by Susan Wands ISBN: 978-1-9997646-7-8 All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of the publication may be may be made without written permission. No paragraph or section of this publication may be reproduced copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended) Copyright 2017 Susan Wands The right of Susan Wands to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 A copy of this book is deposited with the British Library

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i2i Publishing. Manchester. www.i2ipublishing.co.uk

Rider-Waite Tarot Deck®, known also as the Rider Tarot and the Waite Tarot, reproduced by permission of U.S. Games Systems, Inc., Stamford, CT 06902 USA. Copyright ©1971 by U.S. Games Systems, Inc. Further reproduction prohibited. The Rider-Waite Tarot Deck® is a registered trademark of U.S. Games Systems, Inc. Copyright © 2017 by Susan Wands

All Rights Reserved.

To Robert Petkoff, for believing

Table of Contents Part I – Finding Magic Seeking the Crown of Bruin Darling of the Gallery Girls Injurious Magic of 1888 Crowley Brewery Lyceum Canvas Magic Woodman & The British Museum Corsican Brothers Magic Dedi, First Magician Part II – Battling the Curse Guardians to the Magic Ellen Terry's Curse Aleister & Martha Pratt The Golden Dawn Commences Auditioning for Magic The Knights Templar Lyceum Electricity Three Witches Part III – Tarot Incarnations Secrets of the Vault Bohemian Nights Aleister's Possession

Ahmed & Pamela Eight-pound Crown Devil Incarnate PCS - Magic Saving the Fool About the Author Acknowledgements Book 2-High Priestess and Empress

Cast of Characters: Pamela Colman Smith – a natural empath and gifted artist with second sight and a connection to the other side Maud Gonne – Six-foot-tall English heiress who takes up the Irish National cause Mrs. Corrine Smith – Pamela’s mother and parlor actress, sickly Mr. Charles Smith – Pamela’s father, an accountant and traveler William Terriss – dynamic, sexy, leading man, physical and robust Henry Irving – tall, Shakespearean actor/manager of London

&

classical

leading

Bram Stoker – Theatre manager and author of Dracula Ellen Terry – leading lady of the Lyceum stage and star of her day Aleister Crowley – ambitious man, determined to lead an occult sect Mr. Crowley – Aleister’s wealthy preacher father, brewery owner Mrs. Crowley – Aleister’s repressed and cruel mother

Reverend Champney – headmaster at boarding school who tortured Aleister Martha Tabram – kitchen maid who worked for Mrs. Crowley Dr. William Woodman – Egyptologist and original founder of the Golden Dawn, pompous, of great physical size Dr. Felkin – Corner ‘Chief’ of the Golden Dawn, a dandy, manipulative, vain and extremely competent Alfred Edward Waite – Golden Dawn ‘Chief’, a teacher and poet, wordy Samuel Mathers – A stuttering linguist and master of languages, appears dull Ahmed Kamal – Egyptian scholar and antiquities expert, living in London, very intelligent with secret powers Florence Farr – a sexually liberated actress and Golden Dawn leader, assertive and proud Ada Leverson – an author, society woman and sponsor of Pamela’s, flamboyant writer Annie Horniman – an heiress and theatre producer, Golden Dawn leader, overbearing Susan Strong – an American opera singer and Pamela’s sponsor, feminine and ambitious William Yeats – a poet and Golden Dawn aspirant, dreamy and verbose

Mina Bergson – a beautiful poet and artist, working up the Golden Dawn ladder, shy Satish Monroe – a black actor with magical powers, magnetic and charming Edy Craig – Ellen Terry’s daughter, pragmatic and an aspiring theatre producer, with a pronounced lisp Part One Finding Magic Seeking the Crown of Bruin “The handsome young Nera, using his walking stick to steady himself while his wee white dog weaved in and out at his side, came out of the thicket of trees singing as he walked up the pathway, his songs echoing down the mountainside. Wearing a light flowered tunic that belonged more to the Renaissance than to the eighteenhundreds and carrying a white rose, the symbol of pure desires, he stopped at the mountaintop and looked around at the magnificent view; the dog was panting at his feet. As he peered down at the ground, it was as if he were looking for something, a pathway forgotten somewhere in the dirt. Where the path split in two, his little dog started pawing and yipping, and the young man went to see what the dog had discovered. ‘It’s an entrance to a cave!’ Nera exclaimed.” Pamela Colman Smith, seven years old, was seated, on the bedroom floor as Maud Gonne sprawled across the bed. At just fifteen, Maud was almost six feet tall and her head extended past the twin bed’s solid frame; propping herself up on one hand, she hovered over her young friend, and continued to elegantly gesture

above her. Maud was the daughter of Captain Gonne, a friend of Pamela’s father, and they had been living in Ireland for the past two years. Now they were here in Manchester for the week. Maud had a slightly put-on Irish accent for her stories, which she had claimed she had heard from an Irish fairy herself. Mounds of wavy, red hair piled on top of her head, Irish lace sleeves, the scent of violet perfume and a diabolically tight corset contrasted with Pamela’s wild, dark hair flying around her face, and her plain cotton dress, wrinkled and spotted with watercolor paint. Pamela watched her storyteller, her own dark eyes full and solemn as she sat playing with the hem of Maud's dress trailing off the edge of the bed. To have the unobstructed attention of her glamorous friend and hear an Irish Fairy tale in the bargain was almost too thrilling and her brain buzzed and hummed in pleasure at Maud’s voice. But, of course, Maud could hardly get through her story without Pamela interrupting every few minutes. “And it was here at this entrance of the Fairy mound cave, that the bold Nera, on returning to Cruachan, saw the fairy hosts flying into the cave. And these are no ordinary Aes Sídhe, no fallen angels or limbo world fliers, but angels the ancestors worshipped. These are the Aristocratic Kings and Queens of the Fairy World – as beautiful as any human, with tiny wings or magical flower stalks; they fly with the speed of hummingbird and the strength of an eagle. Now, these fairy-mounds of Erinn that Nera spied are always opened about Halloween.” “Hallow Eve, that’s tonight!! The thirty-first of October, 1885! Fifteen more years and we’ll be living in the 1900’s!” “Hush, Pamela, let me finish the story. And brave Nera followed after them, creeping through the mouth of the cave and saw before him the handsomest warrior fairies flying over a beautiful land. He tried to keep up with them, leaping from cliff to cliff, until he came to their king in the síd.’ ” “Maud, what’s a síd?” “The Fairy Kingdom. How many times have I told ya? Once he was taken into this land, the fairy magic of resetting time was cast on

him, he no longer knew how much time he spent in this land of enchantment. Then he fell in love. Love makes all things speed up time or slow down to an agony pace. But it was when he saw this beautiful fairy, daughter of the King, he knew she was his intended. So, in the síd he remained and was married, and madly in love with his fairy wife. She it was who revealed to Nera the secret hidingplace in the síd, in a mysterious well, of the king's golden crown.” “Why would the fairies hide a crown in a well?” “Would you look for a crown there? But he began to pine for his human family and on the following November Eve, the Hallow Eve, Nera escaped the Fairy world, determined to go back to his human people to tell them of the sights that he had seen in the Fairy Kingdom. ‘But how will it be believed I have gone into the fairy world of síd?' he asked his wife. 'Take fruits of summer with thee,' said his fairy spouse. So, he took wild garlic, primrose and golden fern and left the fairy world and his fairy wife.” “Why?! Why would he leave his fairy wife?” “Sure, don’t you know, he wanted to brag to his fellow humans about how special he was to have been living in the world of enchantment, with plates of fairy gold and all the wine and music one could ask for. But, wouldn’t you know, if there’s one trait the fairies won’t stand for, it’s bragging!” “He’s a braggart!” she said softly to herself in the revelation. “And when he was out of the Fairy Kingdom, his friends and family didn’t believe him. And so badly did he want to show his friends the crown and gold, that on the following November Eve when the síd of Cruachan was again open, and the fairy world was open, Nera sneaked back with the black hosts of exile, the human traitors, and they plundered the síd, taking away from it the crown of Bruin out of the well. And they killed some of the Fairy family before escaping. But Nera was forced to stay with his fairy wife in the síd by the King and his army and so the fairy world closed up on him again. Nera is now closed up in the Fairy Kingdom and may only come out once a year. And he roams the earth looking for the murderers of his fairy family and for his friends and family. He yearns to boast of his life in the síd, but because time has stood still, he doesn’t

understand that many years have passed and his people are all gone. His people in the Fairy Kingdom and in the human world.” Pamela rose from the floor and flung herself into Maud’s arms, snuggling against her dress. “His fairy wife must have had a word or two with him. He goes away for a year and then brings back the human traitors? All so that he can show off?” Maud kissed the top of Pamela’s head. “That’s the story! The fairies have the magic to make any world you might want, just to keep you there and if you cross them, well! You pay the price! And my family now tells this story each feast of Samain, Hallow Eve.” “But you’re English, not Irish!” “We both be English but tonight, it is for us the other world opens up – English or Irish – during the feast of the dead before the time of the church.” Maud looked down at the seven-year-old, seeing the images of flying fairies dancing in her head. There were a great many stories she had told Pamela over the years: The Other Side where the whole underworld of the Fairy Kingdom lived. But it was the story of Nera, the fool, that Pamela loved the most. “And is Nera still there in the síd?” “Sure he is. Until tonight – Hallow Eve, when the síd of Cruachan opens up, Nera comes out to try to find the murderers who stole the crown of Bruin. He’s searching for them tonight!” Pamela looked out the bedroom window at the lowering sun. The Hallow or what Maud called Samain, was almost here. Nera was out there somewhere and the thought thrilled her. Maud stood and took a small pair of iron scissors from a sewing bench and placed them on the windowsill. “Fairies hate iron. We’ll keep these scissors here to make sure that they don’t make off with ya!” Pamela jumped up and stood on the bench and looked out with her onto the twilight settling over the neighboring homes; the calls of parents to their errant children echoing through the cobblestonepaved streets. Withington Road was just now coming alive with men arriving home from work. Downstairs, the rustle of the servants

preparing for the evening meal rang up through the staircase as her father was greeted at the front door. Pamela’s mother was preparing for her part of the evening’s entertainment when she was to tell fortunes in the parlor. Her preparation involved taking a very long, hot bath, which was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. The Smiths ran in a very artistic set in this industrial city, as her father was the accountant for an Arts and Crafts design firm, Nicholas, Culshaw and Company. His job meant the Arts and Crafts artists were usually at their house for supper. In a short time, there would be supper in the kitchen with the staff, Pamela out of the way for the night’s activities while Maud would prepare her toilette for the evening. Pamela was not invited to the supper table in the formal dining room, but she might briefly attend the entertainment portion of the evening, depending on her mother’s mood. She would recite a story or sing a quick song and then be ushered out by the maid while her parents sat beaming at her from across the room. Later in the evening, she would hear the guests below her bedroom, singing with the piano and other instruments, the room pulsing and throbbing with laughter. Still later there would be shouts from the guests playing parlor games and guessing contests. A world of excitement rang out only two flights down from her bedroom, but it might as well have been an ocean away. She felt a heavy dread in her chest, as she knew the time was coming when she would be excluded from the evening’s festivities. Maud called her over to the vanity and motioned her to sit to begin the attempts to tame her hair, Maud’s Irish accent now replaced by the somewhat refined English accent she was born with. “You look like you’ve been pulled through a bush backwards. Let’s tame this before the Boggart sees you.” The Boggart was the malicious spirit that attached itself to the household and according to Maud it was especially disruptive when hair wasn’t brushed, baths weren’t taken and toys weren’t put away. But mostly the Boggart would pinch Pamela when her hair was flyaway since her hair was the bane of her mother’s existence. While her mother and her grandmamma had fine brown hair with some

blonde near the temples, Pamela’s hair was black, thick and curly, refusing to lie in the neat buns and piled knots that were the fashion of the day. Maud managed to coax fat sausage curls that would last at least until after dinner. But her mother’s fringed bangs, curled by hot tongs, were a beauty standard not to be embodied by her daughter, no matter how skillfully Maud arranged the abundant hair which seemed to have a mind of its own. Usually it was tied up in braids and pinned on top, the simplest way to style and hide it. She remembered a time parading in the streets of London with her mother and grandmamma and seeing the damp, fog flatten their styled hair to limp, pinned plaits while her own hair exploded like fecund dandelions in the humid air. She remembered a passerby exclaiming, “That’s a fine head of hair,” but seeing the reaction from her mother, she could tell that the meaning was that it wasn’t a fine head of hair. “Her parents are from the Caribbean, I take it?” added one woman and her grandmamma snapped, “They are Americans! As I am!” These remarks confused Pamela very much. “How did you learn how to talk like the Irish?” Pamela asked the slender, towering girl standing behind her, curling her hair. “We’ve been stationed in Dublin for the past two years, so you start to sound like those around you.” “Where will you live next?” “Paris. Remember that’s where your father took you as a baby to meet the Aunt.” “Counting the seizures?” “Yes, you remembered! Comtesse de la Sizeranne.” In 1879, When Pamela was a baby, her father, Charles Edward Smith, had taken his family to Paris to visit Maud and Captain Gonne. The Charles Smith family came from distinguished stock in New York, his father being a man of great esteem and wealth. Some twenty years before the civil war, Pamela’s grandfather had pulled himself out of complete poverty to become a lawyer, a senator, an entrepreneur and finally, mayor of Brooklyn. This pull also afforded Mr. Cyrus Porter Smith the luxury of keeping his son, who was nineteen when it ended, out of the Civil War. Cyrus Smith had also

invested in the Brooklyn City Rail Road, and he had high hopes for his son to inherit his great many dreams and businesses. But Charles was not ambitious, he was dreamy and distant and always seemed to be somewhere else. “Really, Charles, an accountant?” When his father took him to task for not applying himself, he asked his father, “Where should I apply myself? You are everywhere, Father.” However, he was not everywhere forever, for he died the year before Pamela was born, leaving Charles to take his inheritance and move to England with his wife. And if ever there was a person Charles seemed to respond to, it was his wife, Corinne. Corinne Colman, a fashionable and lively person, loved storytelling, séances and picture games. She could read palms, recite full passages from Charles Dickens and shout out the answers before anyone when the parlour games were in full swing. Full of fun, always artfully made up with tints and creams, she captivated Charles with her love of entertainment and entertaining. The year after the Civil War ended, they married. It was remarked that Charles was a polite but somewhat dull man who loved to be around those more animated than himself, which meant even the sullenest, sleeping cat had more charisma. But Charles’s father thought he married beneath himself and suspected that Corinne was much older than she claimed and refused to endorse the alliance. Corinne was so incensed over her father-in-law’s treatment of her that she kept her maiden name on her calling cards, making sure the ‘Boston Colmans’ were not forgotten. They moved to London to “make something of themselves.” They first lived in Pimlico, a middle-class neighborhood in London, but now lived in Manchester, where Charles still worked as an accountant. At the unheard-of age of thirty-two years, Corinne gave birth to Pamela. The child’s full name was Corinne Pamela Colman Smith, but she was always known as Miss Pamela Colman Smith to the outside world and ‘Miss Pamela’ to her parents. But if Pamela was a late-in-life gift to her mother, she was not an especially cherished one. Even with two servants and a nursery

maid, neither of Pamela’s parents really had time for her. She was tutored at home and had an art instructor, Mr. Miggons, and that was enough attention for any child, according to her mother. Her artwork presented was usually met with a cool eye and a pointed remark. Once she overheard her mother saying that Pamela’s drawings should have “been mailed to Brooklyn and shown to her grandfather’s family to prove there is a little talent in the Colman Smith Family.” Corinne’s own mother was a published author of children’s books in America, so it was impressed upon Pamela that she came from an accomplished family, at least on her mother’s side, according to her mother. To be noticed by her parents took work and application. Her father, usually distracted and unfocused, would always look up surprised when she entered the room and say, “Oh, Miss Pamela. Where is your mother?” Sunday was the only time when Pamela joined her mother and father socially, to accompany them to church. They attended the weekly service of a new collective called the Swedenborgians. Emanuel Swendenborg had been a well-respected scientist in Sweden in the eighteenth century. At the age of fifty-five, he had had a vision of Jesus, who had convinced him to devote his life to theology. He went on to write many books about his visits to Heaven and Hell. While in Heaven and Hell, he had had conversations with angels, devils, and spirits of the departed. Through astral travel, he had also visited the planets Mercury, Jupiter, and Mars, and the Moon, where he spoke with humans who became angels and humans who were evil enough to become demons. Some of the trances in which he experienced astral travel “lasted a day,” he wrote, “others a week, and yet others for months.” When he talked like that from the pulpit, Pamela could hear a low buzzing sound travel from one ear to another and feel her arms try to rise up, as though ready to join the legions of Swedenborgians bobbing around planets, like drunken bumblebees finding strange, new nectar. As her wrists started to rise up, she knew to stifle the urge to fly, for her mother would give her a look out of the corner of her eye, imperiling the condition of the outing.

Even though Swedenborg had died a century ago and his books were in Latin, there was now a craze for his mystical form of religion, and when a Swedenborgian group assembled in Manchester, Pamela’s mother was determined to belong to it. This new religion believed that the devil was not a separate entity but the personification of human evil and that after death, one would become an angel or evil spirit, depending on the sort of life one had led. One belief which especially appealed to Pamela was the idea that after death, a person’s mind would fall asleep for three days in “the world of the spirits.” Her mother explained to her that after dying, a person would awaken and encounter spirits who would help with the transition to the afterlife. She pestered her mother for days afterwards as to the process. “How big are the spirits? What color are they? Will they have fancy clothes or wings?” In her mind, they were a combination of Irish Fairies, angels with wings and possibly, dragons or ponies, for she was very fond of the neighbor’s horse. And it wasn’t until the fat, old horse, Temperance, died that it occurred to her that her mother was talking about being taken away perhaps in the same manner as Temperance was, roughly loaded onto a cart and carried off. After imagining such a horrific end, she ran into her mother’s room, where she found her mother being laced into a corset by the maid. When the young girl sobbed to her mother that she was worried she would leave her for other planets, her mother replied, “After three days, I will be dancing my slippers off, so don’t mourn for me!” Pamela stood open-mouthed, watching the bustle cage strapped around her mother’s posterior and the beautiful, blue calico dress, the same color as her mother’s eyes, slip overhead. Her oval face framed by tight curls, the dainty slipper peeking from underneath the sapphire-blue, pleated skirt. She was a vision. The skirt lifted slightly and a small, hopping jig was performed in front of the bedroom mirror. So, there it was. Heaven was a big ball where her mother would be dancing until the sun came up. Corinne had been born in Boston before the Civil War, so this idea of heaven certainly didn’t seem to come from the Colman side of the family. But Pamela’s mother prepared for this heavenly state by being constantly in motion amid a whirlwind of social activities and

group get-togethers. And the only thing about Pamela guaranteed to get a concerned reaction was the state of her daughter’s hair. Maud and her family visited every two or three years, and she was the sister Pamela never had. In her bedroom, Maud stood behind her, finishing the spinning and pinning of her hair before the vanity mirror, while shrieks from one of the parlor maids were heard coming up the stairwell. One of them must have opened the front door to the ‘guise dancers,’ villagers who would appear in masks on this night at the houses in town to frighten the children. “It sounds like the maskers are about it now on this Samain,” Maud mused excitedly as she looked at Pamela in the mirror. Pamela looked back at her, totally unimpressed with the improved styling to her hair. “Maud, why does Nera look for the murderers on Samain?” “As the story goes, it’s one of the nights of the year when the other side comes through.” “And magic is out tonight?” “Magic is out every night. Tonight all mortals can touch it.” “Touch magic, where? Can you? Touch it?” Maud put the brush down and stared out the window. “Well, I’m not saying I can do the magic, but we can imagine more what the magic is like tonight.” “How? How? Oh, I’m frightened!” She grabbed Maud’s hand, keeping the brush from yet another dip into her hair. “Ah, my fairy sister. You must never be frightened of anything. Not even death.” “Is Nera afraid of dying while he’s out looking for the murderers of his Fairy family?” “No, he’s the best part of a fool taking chances. He doesn’t know any better. Well, let’s pretend to be Nera stepping off the cliff and see, shall we?” Maud ran and jumped on the bed, standing near the edge, ducking her head slightly to keep from hitting the low ceiling. In a very exaggerated style, she posed as Nera in the Kingdom, slowly jumping from one cliff to another, one foot dangling off the bed.

Delighted and laughing, Pamela made her way to kneel before the bed, grabbing Maud’s stationary foot, anchoring her to the bed. Maud made whistling sounds as though she were flying in the air like a bird, laughing, as Pamela tugged on her foot until she fell on the bed. They tussled and screeched and laughed. Then Pamela claimed, “My turn!” and after she clambered onto the bed, Maud held Pamela by the foot as she pretended to step off the cliff. Pamela suddenly became frightened and looking back at Maud she cried, ”What if I really fall?” Maud softly urged her, “And what if you really fly?” She loosened her grip on her ankle. “Fly!” Pamela fell off the bed onto the soft rug, both of them laughing as she landed. As Pamela sat up, she jerked as though she were having some sort of spasm. Behind her eyes an image froze – the blond, young man was looking up, his dog leaping at his heels. She heard the sounds of far-off music. She opened her eyes and looked down at the dried smudges of watercolor paint on her dress. Still in front of her, as she sat on the floor, a tableau played out in midair. Nera. Nera was in the air – swirling like a cloud before a storm. Nera’s yellow boot rose from the side of the path towards the cliff’s edge. Her eyes darted back and forth from the image of the young man on the path and the watercolor stains on her dress, feeding the tableau, as music such as she had never heard started to play. Uilleann pipes and a harp tinkled an airy, slow song, the phrases lilting in an upward pattern. Maud’s face appeared over the edge of the bed and looked down at her sharply. “What is it, child, what is happening?” It hit Pamela in the face first, the stronger shade of yellow. A young-chick yellow painted the sky, now matching the pair of yellow boots walking on the path, one foot up, the other planted on the ground. It was the yellow shade that her art tutor, Mr. Miggons, had chided her for overusing. She loved to use it in everything. In his Scottish accent, he had called her “Miss Sunnyside up” and implored her to use other colors. But here it was, the yellow she loved. As music pulsated, an inked image of the Fool formed an outline in front of her. It was the young man, he had one arm stretched out holding a

rose, yellow, turning to white. The other arm balanced a pole with a bag tied at the end, yellow, then red. His Renaissance tunic sported pale yellow sunflowers, which began to sprout to a vivid blaring yellow on his chest while the insides of his sleeves began to bleed, a bright red. White mountains, white sun, white dog all sketched themselves into an outline and grouped themselves alongside him, the mountain path becoming dark as the music became more frenetic. The tableau froze in the air, the music momentarily slowing. She stood, shook her head and reached out where the tableau had hung in midair. She then raced to crawl back on top of her bed to fly again. Maud switched places and sat on the floor, watching her. Pamela raised both arms for balance and slowly lifted one foot off the bed, as her Fool did. There was no tableau but in her mind’s eye, Nera again came to the spot on the mountain pathway. Maud then lay down on her back, both hands behind her head as though she were watching clouds going by, whistling the sounds of flying as Pamela teetered above her. Pamela looked up and out the window saw the last rays of the sun starting to dip out of sight. The music in her head played even more loudly, and in time she felt herself lift her other foot off the bed. The blood inside her body was warm and churning. She reached towards the last rays of the yellow sun with both hands outstretched. Nera also lifted his other foot off the cliff. She moved forward, lifting her other foot in unison. Pamela cried out, “Look out, Nera, my Fool!” Looking down, she saw she was floating in the air above an astonished Maud. An hour later, Maud and Pamela were still waiting outside Mrs. Smith’s boudoir, as Pamela’s mother luxuriated in her eucalyptus bath, said to be good for the lungs and the cheeks. She knew better than to burst into the room, for few things were as sacred in the house as Mother’s bath time. The maid, Mairead, had been running up and down the stairs with heavy buckets of hot water. The kitchen had used most of the hot water heated downstairs on the stove earlier for the preparation of tonight’s meal and that left the tiny Mairead to lug endless buckets of scalding water up four flights of

stairs to pour into the soaking tub for Mrs. Smith. The walk from the garage where the butler had set up a temporary burner to the bathing room was an ordeal, but Mrs. Smith’s bath was not to be delayed. Maud sat with her back flat against the hallway wall, her long legs stretching almost to the other wall, listening to the sounds of the exhausted Mairead struggling with the huge bucket as she trudged up the stairs. She made sure to curl her long legs up under her so the girl could get by. Not a word was said between them. Then there was the last trip, where the plain, grey wool dress came into view, but this time Mairead carried the hot tongs and ribbons for hair dressing, so the girls knew the bath session was almost done. “Do you think she’ll believe us?” Pamela asked Maud throwing herself down next to her friend. She lay on her back and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Have you ever told her if something like that has happened to you before?” Maud asked kindly. “Well, I’ve told her about when I hear music, I see the colors. But she said that’s just a family thing and not to talk about it in public. I thought everyone saw colors when they heard music, but now I know it’s just me. I’m strange.” Maude reached over and clasped her hands. “Thank the gods, you’re unique. You’re blessed, Pamela. You have real gifts! It’s a family thing!” “It’s a family thing? You think my mother feels those things sometimes too?” “Who knows? Your mother certainly sees the world differently than most.” The sounds of laughter and drawers being opened and shut came from behind the closed door. Maud and Pamela stood in expectation and lined up to enter. As Mairead opened the door, a small cloud of steam escaped and she looked up, surprised to see the two girls still standing in the hall. She was holding clothes to be washed in one hand and a pail full of lotions and ribbons in the other. She wore the pleased look of someone who had dined with a king.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, closing the door firmly behind her. “Pamela wishes to have a quick word with her mother and I’d like to be there too. Something amazing has just happened,” Maud blurted out, talking down to the short, defiant girl. Behind the door Pamela’s mother, her voice relaxed and low, called out, ”You don’t need to come in, just tell me what happened through the door.” Pamela went to the door and bent down to talk through the keyhole just in time to hear the click of a lock. “Mother, please! You have to let us in to tell you. I flew! I actually flew in the bedroom. Maud was there. She saw it!” Mairead turned white and looked at Pamela with wide eyes and scurried down the hall to the staircase. Maud leaned against the door and loudly called to Mrs. Smith, “It’s true, Mrs. Smith, she flew right above me. It didn’t last very long, but she flew sure as I’m standing here!” There was a moment of silence and then a sigh, “Maud, I’m going to let you in for a quick talk. Pamela, I’ll deal with you in a moment. Now don’t tell that story to anyone else. Maud, come in.” The sound of the lock turned again. Maud looked at Pamela’s face, full of hope and earnestness. Maud crossed her fingers to give her the signal that she would try her best, and then she turned the ornate glass knob. Once the door was shut, Pamela slid down, straining to hear the conversation between Maud and her mother. But I flew! Pamela thought to herself. I don’t understand why Mother doesn’t want to hear about it. She slumped to a sitting position and pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear. The maid, Maud, everyone had more access to her mother than she did; a lump formed in her throat. Then an urgent undertone murmured in the next room, and blue/black chalk-like bubbles came up in her throat. Just as she tasted an acrid, flat taste in her mouth, she noticed something bat-like poke its head out of the keyhole and in one graceful swoop, fly out of the small

opening and disappear down the hallway, skimming along the ceiling until it turned the corner. What is that? she wondered. Is it something that was taking a bath with mother? She stood, scanned the hallway and ceiling. Nothing. She ran down the length of the hall and stood at the corner where the east wing of the house had a row of small bedrooms. Nothing. The window at the end of the hall was shut tight and in the dim light she could not see anything on the ceiling. A slight fear came over her and she looked every which way, prepared to bat whatever it was away. Whatever it was that came out was now gone and nowhere to be seen. These visions happened frequently to her and no one knew why or how. She had learned to accept them but sometimes it was jarring to see things when she was alone, as she had no way to prove that she had witnessed these strange apparitions. The household regarded all the qualities that she felt were special about herself as terrible, freakish secrets. No one in the family or the help were to know anything about her unusual reactions to things. No paintings or drawings were to be made around anyone but her teacher, Mr. Miggons, lest Pamela talk about all her experiences. Her mother said that her abilities to see feelings and taste colors were “…Odd to a few people, strange to most and terrifying to everyone else.” Finally, the door handle turned and Maud stepped out. Pamela jumped up, ready to talk with her mother when Maud pulled the door closed. “What? Can’t I go in and tell her? Doesn’t she believe us?” Pamela cried. Maud put her arm around her and walked with her to the stairs to climb up to her bedroom, tears falling down Pamela’s cheeks. “Now is that any way for the sister of a fairy to behave?” “It is! It is when the Fairy Mother doesn’t believe her!” Pamela said through the hot tears melting down her face. Maud pulled Pamela to her, gently lifted her head up and kissed her on the forehead. As she wrapped the girl under her arm and they made their way up the flight of stairs she whispered, “Pamela, your

mother has a very hard time believing you are as special as you are. She has problems of her own and she’s worried if people hear of this they might shun her… erh, you.” Pamela stopped on the stairs and looked up at Maud. “But you believe me, Maud! You saw! You saw me fly!” “Yes, darling, my fairy sister. You flew!” She embraced Pamela and smoothed some of the wild hair dancing around her head. “Your mother said if we don’t mention a word of what happened, not even to your father, we both would be allowed to stay up and come into the parlor tonight after dinner.” Pamela’s eyes filled up again. “I can’t even tell Father what happened?” Maud stroked Pamela’s face. “But she did say this: tonight, you may present your miniature of the Theatre Royal Manchester for the artists to see. I am to sing a song, she said. If we agree never to mention it.” “Never?” “Well, never to other people.” “And you get to sing!” “Ah, my Pamela. I have to sing for my supper. But I’ll show them. I’ll sing in French so they won’t know a single thing I’m singing.” They arrived back at Pamela’s bedroom, her flushed face still roiling with tears streaming down her face. “I know you flew. I saw you fly. You flew brilliantly!” With that, she took her finger and pressed it between Pamela’s two eyes. “What do you say, Pamela? Our secret?” Startled, Pamela looked into her eyes, took a deep breath, the burning trails of tears cooling, and softly whispered, “Yes. Our secret.” “And whenever you need me or my help, always remember, you have a gift, you must find it, just as Nera looks for his treasure.” Maud tapped on her forehead lightly once last time. “You fly!”

Later that night as Pamela lay in her bed, listening to Maud sing her fifth song as the piano thumped along, Pamela thought back on the day and the day’s magic. The room was dark, with no candle or lamp lit, but she had cracked her door open so that the gaslight in the hallway spilled in. Her presentation of the miniature theatre went well, but she could tell her mother was not pleased to have her still in the room after the initial ooh’s and ahh’s. Father was surprised as she explained the structure of her theatre model, and in the beginning, he looked almost worried. But when the designers stood to inspect her work, he saw their avuncular pride in her and he relaxed and smiled at her. The two main designers of the firm, Mr. Nicholas and Mr. Culshaw, made a big fuss over the detachable roof, the four stone pillars in the front, and the cantilevered windows on the side with the arched tops. The real theatre had been built in 1845 during the height of the Victorian shoebox style, and it was classical and hardy. The designers themselves were theatregoers and it was they who had given her a postcard of the Theatre Royal Manchester. She had used that as a model for the miniature and loved putting in all the little touches. She used all her mother’s hatboxes to construct the arches for the box seats and the tiers in the balcony. In fact, Pamela claimed every scrap of cardboard or hatbox in the household so that she might use it in her masterpiece. It had been a big success. The Theatre Royal Manchester glowed on the low table next to her bed. If it could pant after the showing it got tonight, it would, thought Pamela. She reached out to pat it, hearing another gale of laughter rise from the party downstairs. She got out from underneath the blanket and knelt on her bed, trying to hear what was happening. Tomorrow Maud would have to tell her everything that went on. She gazed out her window and saw wisps of clouds stretching past the pearl-pitted moon and thought of all the magic on the other side trying to press itself through to this side tonight. She wondered if Nera was still out there looking for the thieves who stole the crown of Bruin. Then it occurred to her to try to fly again. She gathered her nightgown around her so that her legs were free and waddled to end

of the bed. Dropping her nightgown’s skirt, she held out her arms and lifted one foot off the bed’s edge, circling it. Taking a deep breath, she heard the clock strike two. She tried to lift the other foot off the bed but fell in a clump on the floor, rolling towards the wall, knocking her little bedside table to the floor. The miniature theatre was now underneath her, the main part of the building between her arms, the roof section on top of her head. She lay there for a moment and then started to laugh. Collecting herself, she sat up and saw the roof. Before she knew it, she was crying, holding the mangled roof. She gathered the main body of the theatre on one side, and cradled the remains with the other so that she was sandwiched in between the two parts of the Theatre Royal Manchester. I’ll spend tonight inside my own theatre, she consoled herself and crawled into her own bed. There, she curled up and held both pieces of her theatre as tenderly as a broken doll. Sleep came to her as sweet notes of beige; it tasted like cream and soothed her hot tears. The scarlet seats from the miniature theatre beckoned her thoughts to come and sit and escape into their own private dreamland. Darling of the Gallery Girls “Don’t you think, Guv’nor, a few rays of the moon might fall on me? Shines equally, you know, on the just and unjust.” A voice rang loud and clear from the dark space of the unlit Lyceum Theatre stage as the focused limelight hit only one of the men standing on the stage. The stagehands standing on the side in the wings chortled that the handsome actor, William Terriss, was completely in the dark while the star, Sir Henry Irving, basked in his spotlight. Henry Irving, six foot two inches tall in a shoulder-length black wig and black mustache, wearing black satin breeches with white silk stockings, an embroidered beige vest, red jacket with black lapels

and a white fringed sash, glared at the darkened area where Terriss was speaking. His reaction was to light his cigarette and blow the smoke into his beautiful circle of limelight. His face seemed to be set in a cold fury. Then he quickly burst out laughing. Directing the limelight operator, he boomed, “Let us now share limelight. Can we refocus, please?” The members of the theatre company sitting in the house also burst out laughing. It was rare to see their leader react like this. Terriss was one of the few who could talk to the Great Man that way, and it seemed Irving loved his frankness, for he always called him by his last name, Terriss. He was also one of the few men that Henry would socialize with outside the theatre’s walls. This production of the The Corsican Brothers had Henry doublecast as the just Corsican Brothers, twins Fabien and Louis, while Terriss played Chateau-Renard, villain. In this scene Louis was dueling with Chateau-Renard in the forest of Fountainbleau as a light snow fell on the ground and on the huge tree that had been built for the stage. As the Great Man allowed the limelight to be shared, Terriss came into view, wearing the Chateau-Renard costume of a blond wig, elaborate cravat, lace-cuffed shirt and handsome frock coat. He gently began to parry with Henry for their upcoming duel, singing softly under his breath. Terriss had to slow down his lunges on the Lyceum center stage during this sword fight so that the center spotlight could hit both of them. William Terriss, ‘Breezy Bill’, was the sort of wandering spirit who couldn’t be held down to one profession or one partner. The acting profession barely held enough challenges for his athletic derring-do. Whether it was challenging the backstage hands to climb ropes to the top of their moorings or picking up the burliest extra to carry him around like a child during a scene, he was irrepressible. The ‘Darling of the Gallery Girls’ had been a tea planter in Bengal, sheep farmer in the Falkland Islands, midshipman, and horse breeder in Kentucky. Terriss was willing to chance all, living his life to the fullest. His luxuriant head of hair, tall athletic build and sincere genial manner made him popular wherever he might go and he might go at any moment. Overnight he would shut up whatever place

he was living in and decide to move on to the next land of opportunity. Although his father was a barrister and his brother a surgeon, they never seemed to expect him to be more than what he was – an adventurer. He wanted to live life to its utmost while exploring the world. After crossing the world several times, from South Africa to the American South, he came back to London with his wife and child and decided to move from dabbling in amateur theatrics to becoming a respected actor. And because of his real-life experiences, he was unafraid to leap from banisters, jump through windows, and throw himself into the most violent of stage sword-fighting. One day he showed up at the theatre soaking wet, and as he entered, Ellen Terry, the resident leading lady, teased him, “Is it raining out there, Bill?” He only smiled back at her and went on his way to prepare for their performance. Only later did she find out he had just jumped into the Thames River to save a girl from drowning and had had no time to go home to change his clothes. He was awarded several medals for bravery for these sorts of deeds; he was an excellent swimmer, runner and boatman. After he started to play heartier leading roles – Robin Hood, Romeo and other physical-type roles, he became a true theatre matinee idol. His photographs were all in demand at the souvenir shops, selling almost as well as Irving’s. His restless, roving spirit had driven him to undertake many professions with little or no success and he had learned what it was like, “to want a friend with a warm heart and a ready hand.” So, he vowed he would be that friend, and in this group he set the bar for companionship. He brooked no nonsense, whether the person was of the leisure class or the working class, but proved to all what it was to be a true friend. Henry Irving had been under contract at the Lyceum Theatre for eight years with the American-born Hezekiah Bateman. When Batemann died, Henry took over managing the Lyceum as general manager, leading man and producer. However, it was not all good feelings, as the widow Batemann took all the sets, costumes, furnishings and her not-so-talented daughter to her new theatre, the Sadler’s Wells. That left Henry to start from scratch and build his

company from the ground up, so the warm-hearted William Terriss was a good contrast with the sternness and directorial stance of ‘The Guv’nor’. The actors William Terriss and Ellen Terry, an actress Henry had been in love with for years, became part of the magic of Henry Irving’s Lyceum Theatre company. They would help it shine for more than twenty years. Where William Terriss was all sunny disposition and a man’s man, Henry Irving with his bowed legs and handsome but long face, had an exacting demeanor like a choirmaster. The sword-fight choreography displayed both men’s characteristic tendencies. Terriss’s advances were like those of an unbridled dog, full of energy and attack. Henry’s movements were more elegant and studied, with a sudden display of back and forth just when his adversary turned his back. Now the stage was properly lit, and the sword fight continued as Henry switched to his secret sword, the one the fight master, Mr. Bertrand, an award-winning swordsman, had given him to celebrate his progress. This had a cavalry hilt, outfitted with an épée blade; it was solid, yet flexible enough for the most complicated of moves. For a month, both men had been coached by the exacting Mr. Bertrand. Terriss had his own sword fashioned after the Armoury of the Council of Ten in Venice, a showy sword, the hilt designed to form a heart pierced by an arrow. As the villain Chateau-Renard and the hero Louis squared off, kicking snow out of their way, Chateau-Renard charged and then jumped up to a tree branch. While swinging from the branch, he kicked Louis down to the ground with his oversized boots. Louis rose from the snow and with a grand leap up, stabbed his enemy, Chateau-Renard, as he dropped down from the tree. Henry then stood over Terriss’s body and made a sign of the cross. The company in the house broke into applause as the actor playing dead playfully took the sword imbedded in his chest padding and handed it to Henry. “Here, I know how you are about this sword.” Henry looked down at him, “Had enough moonlight, Terriss?”

At the tavern afterwards, Terriss and Henry joined the group of men sitting around the remains of the fire in the hearth. This was the height of the craze for beards that resembled that of the Prince of Wales or the old-fashioned ‘doorknocker’ beard of Charles Dickens. The actors with their shorn chins stood out from the group but were welcomed in the late evening hours to sit and eat. Despite Henry running the Lyceum Theatre, William Terriss, was the lifeblood of the particular gathering from the beginning. Surrounded by half a dozen men, Breezy Bill Terriss told of his disastrous adventure in America trying to breed racehorses. The remains of a chop or a pie lay in front of most of them as they smoked, listening in rapt attention. “Yes, it was quite the ‘vacation’. Tattersall had convinced me to go with my wife, and with our little Ellaline, just a year old. We made the voyage and settled in a place called Lexington. On my arrival, I thought to join a Masonic Lodge and it’s a good thing I did, for after a while I found that I had spent every last dollar saved to start the business. I became quite good at working a rope but I could not master the art of making money at this and after a while, I realized we were down to our last dollar, not even enough to get home in steerage. A Mr. Oliver at the Masonic Lodge heard of my misfortunes and asked to see my skill at roping a horse. I went out to the paddock and he picked out the most uncivilized horse of them all. I managed, however to rope the beast and at that, Mr. Oliver gave me fare to travel steerage back with the words, “Pay me back when you can, my boy. Godspeed and God Bless You.” Walter Joyce teased, “And you never saw him again.” Terriss replied, “I haven’t seen him yet, but you can be sure I will someday. I took the little money I had saved back here and sent all I borrowed from him within twenty hours on our arrival. What a man! That’s a lesson learned, I tell you!” Henry added, ”And that is the best of brotherhood, to be of service to one another.” Walter Joyce joked, “Would that be a request for a good review for your Corsican Brothers, Mr. Irving?”

Henry winked at the newspaperman. “I’ve learned that salting the good and bad reviews together makes for a much livelier box office.” The men all laughed together, as this was a strictly pro-Irving gathering without any of those who found him old-fashioned or controversial. Meeting with people like this group of men outside the immediate circle of theatre was a breath of fresh air to Henry. And the purpose and aim of their newly founded group to be of service and action to one another was something he was trying to instill in the theatre community. Or so it was said. Friendships forged in the struggle of building a theatre sometimes did not flourish when the venture flourished. They had hopes of uniting in their common struggle to make something of themselves. But this was the era of negotiations starting and ending with the actor/manager and did not include a union, agents or managers for the others. Big Ben struck the bells for two, and the men started to stretch and reach for their coats, hats and walking sticks to steady themselves on the uneven cobblestone streets. Their impaired ability to navigate after several pints was somewhat comic to behold. They staggered out of the tavern and looked up at the foggy, ink-yellow sky. The vegetable carts for Covent Garden were just starting to roll down the street. The children who tended the stalls looked like sleepy owls, seated on the wagons’ back seats, jostled by the swaying. The slightly tipsy revelers watched as the convoy rambled along, the sound of the horses’ clomping echoing in the night. All at once, a huge lightning bolt etched across the sky, followed by a terrific clap of thunder. The horses whinnied, one rearing up and only just restrained by the driver. Dogs barked from all quarters. And out of the sky, from where the lightning had forked, a burnt ebony stick, shaped like a wand, fell at Henry Irving’s feet.

Injurious Magic of 1888 In a shaft of light tiny, sparkling prisms floated down from a leaky skylight in the small dark back room. Outside, the sounds of the back alley were muted and in the window the glow of silent white missiles streaked past the glass. A stove hissed, its red coals throbbing, and the room’s drafty and darkened corners seemed to shrink in the dim light. The smell of incense and burning coal filled the room. Dr. Felkin’s study, doubled as the office where he worked as a coroner. The tools of his trade, investigating deaths from unnatural causes, were assembled on two counters against the wall. Saws, needles, vials, magnifiers, forceps, tweezers, they all seemed to belong to a doctor or a butcher. A single lamp on the counter illuminated a newspaper with the headline, ‘Unknown Attacker Targeting Young Women in Brick Lane’. Dr. Felkin, in his early thirties, with an exquisite beard and mustache, sported elaborate vests of Italian brocade silk and was known as a dandy. A man about town, he was genial and accustomed to being the center of attention, with a habit of calling attention to his beautifully groomed beard. Seated next to him was another gentleman, and both watched in rapt attention the third man standing in front of them. Dressed in an unworldly shift with a large turquoise belt, Samuel Mathers was arranging twenty-two papers around him in a circle on the floor. He was in his late twenties, a nervous, brown-eyed fidgeter, with blond hair sticking out, like shingles on a roof and dark circles under his eyes. He was definitely not a dandy. His blotch of a mustache quivered as he finished arranging the papers. Going to the stove, he retrieved a smoldering staff that leaned nearby. The staff was five feet long and was made of tektite, a stone said to have come from falling stars. The incense tied to its hilt snaked in a smoky path up to the open skylight. Carrying the staff, Mathers, circled the splayed-out papers five times with intense concentration. Then he put the staff back near the stove.

Felkin stood up next to Mathers and took out a small, worn book from his vest pocket. “Gentlemen, we must pledge that these practices and these contents are for our knowledge alone. We know a great change is about to happen in the world and we must ready ourselves to lead.” The third man, a Mr. Arthur Edward Waite, stood alongside Mathers and Felkin. Arthur Waite had a fine mustache, forgoing the sideburns, beards and other facial adornments of the day. He was the same age as Felkin and called himself a poet and a mystic: “A clerk by trade and mystic by night.” Some who found him tedious snickered at his description of himself, dubbing him “A bore by trade and a dullard by night.” The three men all stood together and lifted their left hands, reciting, “I pledge.” Waite stepped forward and took a piece of paper from the paper circle and memorized it, then dropped the paper to the floor. He stood with both hands in front of him, palms up and reciting from the page. Waite stepped into the paper circle as Mathers motioned Felkin to sit with him. Looking up at the skylight, Waite intoned, “Isis, Egyptian goddess of Magic and Nature. Urania, Greek muse of Astronomy. Guide us as we form this practice to advance our spirits.” Stone bricks began to form around his feet and assemble a barrier around him. The bricks themselves were finely designed and seemed to have a transparent quality. They quickly began to amass. They made a clicking sound as they tapped together, almost like the sound of a typewriter. Waite twisted his torso from side to side, the bricks building layer after layer around his feet. Just as it seemed the bricks would start to envelop him, Waite clapped his hands wildly. The stones continued to encase him. Mathers and Felkin came running and tried to wrest away the almost-living bricks but to no avail. There was no means to penetrate them, as they seemed painted on the air but had real substance. Waite cried out, “Help! Help! Mathers, Felkin, what the deuce… I’m…ahhhhh!”

Mather’s hand was bloodied as a brick crushed his fingernail, its fellow bricks continuing their movement. Felkin circled the stones, trying to find a point of entry. “Ow, ow, ow! Really, this needs to stop! Felkin, do something!” Waite’s muffled voice came from under the dome of bricks now stacking around his head. Mathers desperately rifled through the papers on the floor, the stones continuing to encapsulate Waite. Felkin tried to reach over the bricks to lift him out but couldn’t grab anything. Finally, Mathers found the desired page and over the clicking sounds, started reciting something in a foreign language. Felkin shouted, “Do something! This thing is going to seal over!” Mathers repeated his last foreign phrase and looked up as the last stone totally enclosed Waite. There was complete silence. Then from inside the igloo-type encasement came a muffled oath. After a moment, the entire formation of stone disappeared into the smoky air. Waite was now sitting on the floor, his hands over his eyes, rocking back and forth as he rubbed his head. Two small wounds on his forehead appeared where the stones had scraped him. Mathers approached him with his bloody hand, and he and Felkin helped Waite to his feet. Without saying a word, the men eyed one another. Waite sat down, shaken, as Felkin took out his handkerchief and wrapped his bloody finger. Felkin finished bandaging himself, sat and curtly barked, “Well, Mathers, let’s see if you can’t make it right.” Retrieving the staff, Mathers stepped around the circle of papers five times and then placed the staff to its original spot. He placed his hands over his eyes and chanted, “W-w-w…we who believe in Enochian mmm…magic, command that our consciousness bend the material world and allow us transport.” At that, two sphinxes appeared at his feet and lifted him up, levitating him towards the open skylight. Felkin and Waite held their breath as they watched Mathers floating twelve feet high in the room. The sphinxes were of different colors, one black, one white and seemed to be wavering in air. Snow sifted in through the open skylight, and it drifted down, falling right through their substance.

Mathers trembled with excitement and tried to bend down to touch the headdress of one of the sphinxes. Suddenly the sphinxes began to disappear and he pitched and fell, making a hard landing on the floor. “Ohmmmph! My eye. Rrr…rotting hell!” He clutched his eye and sat up. A clanging, rolling sound was heard. From under the piles of paper in a satchel, a small golden cylinder rolled out. Mathers dusted himself off and grabbed it. “Bb… bbloody hell.” The others ran to him and examined his face, seeing the beginnings of a huge black eye. As they watched him looking at the cylinder, a silence descended. Reluctantly, he handed it over to Felkin and then they each one successively turned it over in their hands. “Www…what is that?” Felkin replied, “I don’t know. I just thought it was a container to return the papers to Count Appoyni. This could be a sign it is something else.” He pocketed it and smiled at the other two. Mathers stuttered, “Felkin, nnnn…now you should command the rest of th-th-th…this.” Felkin stood, smoothing his beard and mustache, then put on a pair of thick work gloves from his pocket. Felkin pointed to a sheet of paper off to the side, and motioned for Mathers to bring it to him. As soon as the paper was delivered, he then gestured for the staff. Casting daggers with his eyes, Mathers went to fetch the fallen staff on the floor. Felkin was still studying the paper when the ebony staff was handed to him. He seated himself slowly, still engrossed with the paper, clutching the staff in his other hand. After a few moments, he put the paper down and looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. After a moment of silence, his eyes opened, he began cautiously to circle the papers with the glowing staff. With one hand, he held the staff straight up and in a low voice intoned, “We are the stars in the sky. We are the fire of the sun. We command the light!” Suddenly, the staff’s handle glowed and they heard a low rumble, followed by an even louder crackle that tore through the room as the stick transformed into an effervescent bolt of

lightning. A green-gold starburst started in Felkin’s hands and raced up the staff to the open skylight and into the night sky. Two seconds later there was an explosive boom, and everything outside was lit in a spectacular golden light. All was silent and still as the snow resumed floating down from the open skylight. Felkin looked down at his singed glove. “Holy Mother of God!” He raced to the side table and examined the burn marks on his gloved hand, then hurriedly began to peel off his gloves. Mathers and Waite jumped up at once and rushed to Felkin, as he tended to his burn. Felkin filled a basin of water and put his hand in to cool. He lifted it out and examined it closely as Waite held the lamp nearby to see the damage. “Just a second-degree burn, very little blistering. Ointment should take care of it.” The three men look at one another, laughing as Felkin hugged himself with euphoria. “Thrilling, just thrilling! Totally uncontrollable and could have been a real disaster, but thrilling!” he bubbled. Waite took Felkin’s hand and examined it. “Just a burn after all that? But it was like a lightning bolt!” Felkin and Waite chortled while Mathers exclaimed, “But www… where is the staff?” Felkin added, “That was tektite, comet stone. It wouldn’t have just melted!” They look all around the floor, but saw there was no ebony staff. The fireplace let out a loud pop. All three jumped. Crowley Brewery The brewery was a stone masterpiece on a side street in Leamingston Spa, three stories high with an ornate entrance for horses and wagons. Workmen were exiting lighting cigarettes and jostling one another on their way to the street. One man snapped a rag at another and a mock fistfight ensued. The men’s teasing

echoed in the street. The Crowley Brewery was the main source of ale throughout the region; the brew masters, barrel makers, wagon drivers and porters were all proud of the Crowley name and of its owner, Edward Crowley. And at closing time, the wage earners were exuberant. Inside the entranceway, Edward Crowley, a dignified man with grey muttonchop whiskers, stood handing out coins with an accountant standing next to him checking off each man’s wage. No one had ever seen Edward not in his starched conservative garb of a Plymouth Brethren preacher, contrasting sharply with his workmen’s soiled aprons and greased-stained trousers. Some may have seen a contradiction that Edward Crowley, who preached all things of denial and judgment, had come to own and administer a brewing company. Others saw it as a watery salvation. The Plymouth Brethren Church Edward and his wife belonged to was a sort of Puritan offshoot, with severe clothes marking a severe judgment of vices, interests and even emotions. At weekends, Edward would hitch up his own wagon and with his son attend country fairs where he would preach his “hell and damnation” sermons. Edward paid the last of his employees and dismissed his accountant, who returned to the office. Edward watched the remaining workers mingle in the doorway of the wagon entrance. A few of the men acknowledged him, but the laughter and teasing among the men came to a halt. A thirteen-year-old Aleister Crowley came running down the street to the Brewery. Young and lanky with brown hair falling into his eyes, he bounded energetically up to his father. Aleister had suffered from ill health since he was seven, and ever since that time, had been tutored by a pious church secretary. At the end of each day, it was up to him to provide proof to his father of the learned daily lessons and of the morality in each subject covered. Aleister came up to his father and the two started the slow and steady walk home. “Paracelsus was born in the 1490’s in Switzerland.” “And then?”

“Paracelsus founded the study of toxicology, gave zinc its name, and was the first to see that some diseases are found in the mind's condition.” “And then?” “And then” was Edward Crowley’s constant phrase, whether he was preaching, hearing the details of the Brewery accounts, or listening to his son’s latest studies. Aleister never tired of hearing his father’s, “And then?” It was an invitation for the boy to pour out his day’s accomplishments and questions. “He tended to villagers during the time of the Plague.” “And then?” As they continued to walk, Aleister jumped up and down from embankment to curb, like a young cub. “He said some evil builds immunity to other evil.” Edward grabbed his son’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. “What did you say?” Aleister was taken aback by his father’s intensity. It was rare that he lost his temper or was less than totally in control. “He said evil builds immunity to evil. ‘To cure some diseases,’ he said, 'Let evil expel evil.’” Edward took Aleister by both shoulders and bent down to look straight into his eyes. “Evil is the rejection of our Lord the Redeemer. There is never a cause to justify evil.” Aleister looked confused and could not bear to look his father in the eye. Edward sighed, and slightly tousled his son’s hair, and started to move on. Over his shoulder he softly called, “And then?” With that, Aleister skipped forward and to impress his father, began to recite all the facts and knowledge he poured into his head earlier in the day. “And then, Paracelsus was one of the first to unite medicine with chemistry using mercury, sulfur and iron.” The two continued down the street, the younger, bouncing and spinning in glee, the elder trudging along with a lingering gait. Five months later in an early November morning, Aleister and his mother, Emily Crowley, stood graveside dressed in the severe

clothing of the sect of the Plymouth Brethren. Mrs. Crowley had a bonnet of plain worsted wool that almost blocked out her entire face, and both she and her son had plain high collared black coats with mourning armbands on the left sleeve. Black-garbed men shoveled dirt into the grave while crows cried out to one another that their domain had been trespassed. The other dour members of their sect stood behind them, with no singing or preaching, each repeating the Lord’s prayer to themselves. Aleister tried to contain his tears, which rolled down his face and splattered on his clenched hands. The showing of emotion was not acceptable and the soul’s reuniting with its Saviour was a longwished-for event. All he could feel was the emptiness at the loss of the one person who delighted in his company and his thoughts, who now lay at the bottom of this yawning hole. In a terrible trick of fate, cancer of the tongue caused his father to cease in his final days to even make the motions of asking, “And then?” New tears raced down his face. Aleister looked up and saw the fury in his mother's eyes, for he was making a spectacle of himself. She pulled him sharply to her and hissed, “The condition of your father's soul was spotless. Stop this display at once.” Aleister tried to stifle his tears and looked skyward; a crow squawked. He felt his heart squeezing blood like a fist squeezing water. The Brethren School in Cambridge was one of those fine institutions where children were sent to learn for the betterment of their character and the improvement of their mind. Its splendid arches, beautiful courtyard and full-length windows in the headmaster’s office resembled a church and the Chapel itself was full of sixteenth-century flourishes. In exchange for the beauty of this environment, any daily affirmation that the boarded student was loved or valued was beside the point. The beds were to be filled at top price and if a child needed the reassurances of a family bond, they were told to contemplate one of the stained-glass windows. Emily Crowley walked glumly inside the Brethren School hallway, still in deep mourning costume, as decorative as a nun’s

habit. As she approached the headmaster, she clutched her simple crucifix, staring at the slumped-over Aleister. She turned to the headmaster with a sigh, “Well, Reverend Champney, I hope you have better luck than I have. He has at heart the desires of a beast and seems to remain outside the blessings of true faith.” It shocked Aleister to hear his mother say this to an outsider. At home, she made her feelings about the conditions of his soul very clear; he was a natural sinner and would continue to sin. His father’s gentle rebukes to her were the only thing that reined in the continual damnation of his every infraction. The Reverend H. d'Arcy Champney had a bald pate, his remaining hair in curls around his collar. His straight, aristocratic nose and piercing brown eyes gave him the air of a determined scholar and passionate disciplinarian. He wore a dark smock with the Brethren School’s emblem over the heart. It depicted two lions flanking a shield with four towers on it and the inscription, ‘Turris Fortissima Est Nomen Jehova.’ ‘The name of our Lord is our strongest tower.’ In addition to this medieval coat of arms, he sported an elaborate white scarf tucked into his coat. He had a high and crackly voice. “Certainly, Widow Crowley, we will give young Crowley every consideration to make sure he stays on the straight and narrow.” “I give you permission to apply whatever methods necessary to improve the disposition of my child.” Aleister looked up at his mother, and any thought of an embrace or even of talking to her completely disappeared. His mother was never pleased with him, and even when his father was alive and off to preaching with Aleister, she complained bitterly that it was her place to go with him, not her son’s. Every need of her son was a sin: how much he ate? how much he slept? Whatever he wanted to read or what he wanted to talk about, these were all of an ungodly pursuit. His presence seemed to be the biggest sin of all. How he longed for the quiet, “And then?” from his father. His encouragement for conversation, for reflection on the folly of man and on sin, the discourse of ideas with respect and nurturing: all

gone. The relationship with his mother was contentious and full of disapproval. She seemed to have resented him from the day he came home from the wet nurse at three years of age. His many illnesses seemed to further disgust her and he was no more than a beast to feed, one who was becoming bigger and more surly by the day. Mrs. Crowley looked at her son and sighed. She took a pouch from under her arm and gave it to the Reverend Champney. “Here is his funding. Don’t spare the rod to spoil the child.” Mrs. Crowley looked at Aleister staring at the ground and without another word, turned on her heel and headed for her carriage. He looked up for one final glance, but she was bustling out of sight. Aleister continued looking at her disappearing form as the Reverend Champney firmly took him by the elbow and led him into the school. Two years later in the high-ceilinged Brethren School classroom, Aleister sat staring out the window into the courtyard, studying the other boys racing and playing with one another. This place had not provided him with one friend. How could it? In the first months that he had been sent here it was one round of solitary confinement after another, with bread and milk as his only meals. Then came the sabotage. This in the form of attacks from rivals who wanted his boots or his books. Showing up to class with no boots led to more punishment. His books being stolen caused him a real sense of loss, as they were his only companions. After the first few months away from home, he had written his mother, begging her to let him come home. Instead, her brother, Tom Bishop, came from London to lecture him on the duty he owed, if not to his mother, then to the memory of his father, to stay the course. Aleister no more loved his uncle than his mother, but the boy plotted a course to please him so that he might one day stay with him in London, away from his mother. In three years, when he was eighteen, he would come into the inheritance that his father had left him. Then he would attend University and escape from the censure

he felt at home. Meanwhile this school’s very essence burned hot inside him; every day he felt stifled and judged wanting. Now in the classroom, Aleister had a pen and paper and several large books of chemistry in front of him. He tried several times to get back to his assignment, but he could not stop watching the others outside the window. The sounds of Chapel bells started, and the boys drifted away from his sight. The Reverend Champney came in with a crop in his hand and saw Aleister seated, surrounded by his books. “Young Crowley, why are you not at Chapel?” Aleister busied himself with his paper and books. “Reverend Champney, I am studying a god who makes infinitely more sense than the one presented at Chapel.” Charging into the room and drawing himself up before Aleister, the headmaster boomed, “What heresy are you speaking?” Aleister tentatively stood and showed the Reverend a passage in his book. “Paracelsus said, 'He who is born in imagination discovers the latent force of Nature and yet another force, Imagination, that begets a new star and a new heaven’.” The Reverend Champney moved threateningly towards Aleister, who retreated still holding his book. “Young man, I demand that you attend services at once, at your soul's peril!” “You see, Reverend Champney, I am not so convinced that I have a soul, and if I do, I am beginning to realize that I must apply it to Paracelsus's motto 'Let evil expel evil’.” Trying and failing to grab the book out of Aleister’s hands, the headmaster began to chase him around his desk. “Devilish boy, you've totally misunderstood Paracelsus! He was referring to the cures he used in applying doses of illness to cure illness!” “I totally understand Paracelsus! Chemistry of the body is chemistry of the brain. The evils the Church practices can only be cured by further evil!” The Reverend Champney finally swatted the book out of Aleister’s hands and pointed his crop at him. “You cannot name one instance where evil cures evil.”

Aleister pushed the crop away from his face and calmly stared at the Reverend. “The ingesting of small amounts of mercury to cure the pox one catches from young ladies in the local brothels. I hear you have made use of such remedies.” Reverend Champney lunged and grabbed him by the back of his neck and started to drag him out of the classroom. “Your mother will hear about your despicable behaviour!” Aleister tried to gather his notes and papers as he was being dragged out of the room, the Reverend swatting him fiercely with his crop. Finally, Aleister grabbed the crop out of his tormenter’s hand and snapped it in two, his face red with ferocity. “I will endure!” As Champney dragged the boy down the hall to be whipped in front of the other students, he was unaware of his own fate five years later. He, too, would be dragged down halls, only his halls would be those of the Streatham Mental Institution for The Criminally Insane. One of his beatings had an unfortunate, mortal effect on a younger student. Lyceum Canvas Magic As the wind puffed a soft, yellow December fog outside Her Majesty’s Passport Office, a hansom cab lurched forward when its bay horse snorted and pawed the ground in exasperation as they waited. Ten-year-old Pamela Colman Smith grabbed the hand of her Grandmamma Colman to steady herself, and her grandmother laughed in response. As was the fashion in 1888, Grandmamma Colman wore an elaborate porkpie hat shaped like a little pie with swirling feathers tacked in the back of the hat. They swayed with every tilt of her head, reaching almost to the roof of the cab. Combined with the dangling, beaded fringe of her velvet cape, every move of Grandmamma Colman resulted in beads flying and feathers bobbing. Hearty, with a big laugh and always interested in Pamela and her doings, she somehow directed the Smiths to interact with

their daughter on a daily basis, during her visit from New England. At breakfast she insisted on knowing, “Why are we leaving Pamela at home again?” “What were we going to do about Pamela’s hair?” “When are we getting the child some decent clothes?” Thanks to her interference, Pamela now wore the customary white dress under her blue wool coat, but her wild black hair was no longer styled in the sausage curls her grandmother’s maid had so carefully curled that morning with heated tongs. It was a sorry mangle under a miniature version of her grandmother’s hat, a blue porkpie with a ribbon bow tied under her chin. Grandmamma Colman continued her story. “And when your mother was just thirteen, my first book, Stories for Corinne, was published and even named for her. But my children are remarkable! Your Aunt Pamela, for whom you were named, also writes, your mother acts, and your Uncle Samuel is a world-famous painter. All the Colmans! It’s in your blood, Pamela. You are destined to be renowned for your talent.” Pamela thought back to Maud’s story several years ago of how the Fairies disliked bragging. Was Grandmamma just being American when she talked like this? She had heard the maid, Mairead, say to the cook back in Manchester that the Grandmamma was a “typical American – a boaster and ambitious.” She wasn’t sure what was wrong with being ambitious, but she did know what boasting was. Was it wrong to feel the warmth in her heart when Grandmamma praised her and declared she was special? Her mother certainly didn’t think Pamela was as talented as she was, and the girl was warned that if she wanted more art lessons the “nonsense about flying had to stop. Never mention it again.” Her artwork was encouraged to keep her out of her parents’ way while her mother was revered as the special parlor actress in the family, and any reciting or performing was Corinne’s domain. But when her Grandmamma came to visit, Pamela was the special one and a Colman to be proud of. All the more reason to be sorry that this seemed to be the last visit from her, as the Colman Smiths were moving to Jamaica.

For over a year now, Pamela’s mother had developed a cough that had crept into her everyday conversation, and no amount of rest cures or bathing trips seemed to cure it. The life they were living in Manchester was not seen as a success to Charles either. So, the pressure from Grandfather Cyrus Smith had finally proved effective even in death, for he had died the year Pamela was born. Charles would finally live up to his potential, leading the West India Improvement Company, and the Jamaican climate would do away with mother’s cough. The backers were old friends of Cyrus who had contributed to the success of the Brooklyn City Rail Road and scoured the world seeking where trains were needed. But Pamela’s parents’ American accents marked them as outsiders to those they met in the London offices and Charles’s demeanor did not seem inspiring either – how would this former accountant start up a railway system? And in the tropics? But Charles was oblivious to the sidelong looks and obscure questions directed at him. Pamela rocked from side to side, closing her eyes, thinking of the Colmans and the family of artists that she came from. Then the harp music in her head started and all she could hear was Maud’s “What if you really do fly?” Pamela looked back from scanning the smudgy, foggy street and asked, “Grandmamma, what’s a Jesus?” Grandmamma laughed softly and said, “What you mean, child, is Who is Jesus?” Pamela sat up straight in her seat and toyed with the jet beading on her grandmother’s cape. “No, I heard Mairead say Mother is a Jesus.” With that, the older woman laughed heartily and straightened Pamela’s curls, “Pamela, your mother is known as a parlor actress or a ‘diseuse’, not Jesus. Oh, look here’s Maud. Your parents must have straightened out her passport. Good.” Maud approached the carriage wearing a new coat, with freshly styled hair under an amazing hat consisting of a raven wings and yellow feathers. Pamela hadn’t seen Maud since that Halloween in Manchester when she flew, three years ago. She had never been

able to fly again, no matter how many times she stood at the end of her bed, dangling one foot in front of her. Inevitably, there would be a thump as she hit the floor. The last time not even a pile of blankets on the floor prevented her from bruising. Eighteen years old and six feet tall, Maud stood out like a poppy in a field of dandelions. She had had so many marriage proposals! Even the Prince of Wales, seeing her at a social event, had expressed interest in marrying her. Her father had recently died, leaving her a fortune, but other family members had tried to cheat her out of it. Scheming uncles had informed her that her father had left her nothing, and she was to be adopted by an English aunt. But Maud knew that this was a ploy to handle her inheritance. Determined to earn her own living, Maud had trained to be an actress, delaying completion of the adoption until her father’s will was probated that spring. She was now on her way back to Paris to live with the Comtesse de la Sizeranne, her celebrated aunt – with her fortune intact. Maud put her suitcase down and reached a hand through the open carriage window. It was time to say good-bye. Maud was now a grand debutante and Pamela was still a fanciful girl at ten years old. Grandmamma waited patiently for the patting of the face to turn to the wiping of tears. Laughing and leaning forward in her seat, Grandmamma Corinne slipped an envelope out the carriage door to Maud. “Here’s a little something for when you get to Paris, Miss Maud. Not that you need it.” Maud blushed a little and demurely accepted the envelope, stuffing it into her coat pocket. “Ah, pickpockets, Miss Maud! Paris is full of them. Best to put that in your case, my dear!” With that Maud, opened her purse and put the envelope on top. After closing it, she turned back to the carriage where she saw Pamela’s face, two tears streaking down her face. “Ach, come here, you!” Maud opened the door and Pamela flew out to embrace her. They stayed together for a short while, and then Maud lifted her up and planted her on the sidewalk. “Ah, now, is that any way for a sister of a fairy to behave.”

“It is.” Maud knelt down to Pamela and tapped at her on the forehead, whispering, “You have me here and with your second sight, you can always see me. And remember, you can fly!” Pamela’s arms started to rise to hold Maud in her embrace, smelling the clean, sweet scent of her violet perfume and feeling the soft touch of her velvet scarf. Maud gave Pamela one hug and then spun her around, as in a quick dance move. Pamela laughed as she recovered from the spin and watched as her friend quickly walked to Charles and Corinne, who were now coming out of the passport office. An envelope was exchanged, along with brief embraces. Maud turned to see Pamela on the sidewalk and blew her a kiss as she turned to leave. A lump formed in her throat as she tried to call out to the tall, graceful form of Maud Gonne disappearing into the fog towards her carriage, but she found she had no voice. As the three of them rejoined Grandmamma in the hansom cab, the horses jerked the carriage forward slightly, prompting Mr. Smith to call out, “Take care! To the Covent Garden Opera House by way of St. James’s Park.” He opened the door and helped his wife in next to her mother. As he climbed in, he sat next to Pamela, patting her hands. He had a genial face and was of slight stature, with a beautiful textured cravat showing above his waistcoat; he pulled out his watch and looked at the time. Mrs. Corinne Smith was in her finest blue wool coat, and Pamela’s coat was tailored in the same material. Her hat was styled with artificial cherries, the same sort of porkpie as her mother’s but instead of flowers, the cherries bounced over her forehead as she was jostled in her seat. Grandmamma arranged her daughter’s skirts and addressed her son-in-law. “I’m glad you’ve helped to straighten out Maud’s passport. God knows why she wants to live in France. Does she think she can reinvent herself there, as you hope to do in Jamaica?” At this, both parents looked at Pamela with concern, prompting Mrs. Smith to have a coughing jag. Quickly, she opened her small purse and took out a handkerchief, as worried looks passed inside of

the cab. As if the horses could hear the distress, they took off at a spirited trot. Her mother then looked sharply at Charles. “Well, all I meant was, I hope this Jamaican weather helps my daughter’s health and puts an end to this coughing.” Mr. Smith ignored his mother-in-law. “Miss Pamela, your Maud has spent many years accompanying her father in his time as a diplomat. She is an experienced traveler.” Taking a deep breath and recovering from her coughing fit, fingers tapping in time to the horses’ hooves, Mrs. Colman added airily, “Yes, Pamela, your grandmother will see that you and Maud will stay in touch. Not to worry.” Mr. Smith smiled warmly at his wife as the carriage entered St. James’s Park and took her hand. “Well, enjoy the view of London’s foggy air in the park. In a month’s time, we will be in the bright sunshine of Jamaica.” Pamela peered out, seeing another horse and carriage vanish into the midday fog like a disappearing fresco. “Will there be horses and carriages in Jamaica, too?” Her father cleared his throat and said, “There are carriages there now, but I will be helping them to build the finest railroad system. Wouldn’t you like that?” Pamela sat back, her dark eyes taking in the three adults sitting around her. Mournfully, she replied, “I don’t know if I would like that. I know I will miss Maud and our world of the Irish fairy tales. And flying.” At this her mother started another coughing fit. “And I would like for Mother to stop coughing.” The carriage arrived at Covent Garden where the singsong hawking and calling of wares deafened even inside the cab. “Violets, Pansies, Gararadineeras” one young girl sang, while baskets of fruit and vegetables and trays of fish on ice were laid out on tables under gaslit canopies even in this late afternoon foggy twilight. A man in a fez sold slippers from Arabia, a tea station was set up next to a bonfire and everywhere young children with no shoes and

threadbare clothes scampered up to beg from strangers. A fashionably dressed, determined-looking middle-aged woman was carrying pieces of paper that she thrust into the hands of passersby, and as the carriage drew alongside her, she drove a sheaf into Grandmamma’s lap through the open window. Gingerly holding the paper in her gloved hand, the older woman read: “Discover the Lord Jesus. He is your only Redeemer and Saviour.’ Handing the paper to Pamela, she muttered, “Here is your Jesus, Pamela. Perhaps you can give this paper some value by putting some of your excellent artwork on the back.” Mr. Smith chortled, “Now, Mother Colman, it’s a fine message she’s promoting.” His mother-in-law shot back, “If she were handing out fish and bread to the starving children instead of paying for printed paper, it would be a much finer message.” Pamela looked out the window thinking about this “finer message” and watching the frenzied street with its calls and shouts of buying and selling, the children running after the carriage asking for, “Jest a coin, ‘Guv’nor.” Just as they were passing the fishmongers and their wares on ice, an elderly woman bent over, both hands on her hips, and seemed mesmerized by the cobblestones in the street. Suddenly, she stood straight up and stared into their carriage as it paused, allowing a family to cross in front of them. She had a grey wool blanket over her head and a dingy apron covering her brown, plain dress and she seemed like a mourner rigidly standing there. Just then, the blanket slid down her shoulders, revealing a mass of long white hair, loose and flying free. The large black eyes in her lined face were shining and fixed, staring straight at Pamela. She lifted a finger, pointing right at the girl, and started to say something. Frightened, Pamela shrunk in her seat, looking at her parents. Her grandmother was still talking about fish and bread. Pamela ducked her head even further under the windowsill, her parents giving her annoyed looks. Her mother tapped her knee. ”Miss Pamela, whatever are you carrying on for?”

Pamela hesitantly motioned out the window. Her parents twisted their heads to look out and then looked back at her questioningly. She raised her head to see the terrifying woman. No one was there but the children running alongside the carriage and the fishmongers calling out for buyers for their eels and eel pie. Mrs. Smith turned to her mother. “You see, she takes after me when it comes to dramatics.” The carriage suddenly took off at a short trot, but then lurched to a stop. Mr. Smith opened his door and hopped down to pay the driver. He helped his wife, daughter and mother-in-law out of the carriage and took them to the Bow Street entrance of the Covent Garden Opera House. As she made her way out of the carriage, Pamela looked all around her, but the old woman was nowhere to be seen. The girl took a deep breath and followed the quickly disappearing forms of her parents up the steps at the side of the building. The opera house was impressive, with large columns in the turnabout for the horses and oversized doors. Mr. Smith took his wife’s arm as they made their way to the door. An impressive Sergeant Barry was posted at the entrance, reading a newspaper on the little desk before him, his long legs stretched out before him. Looking up, he eyed them up and down, and in his strong Irish accent, asked, “What can I do ya for?” Mrs. Smith stepped forward with a coy and spirited step. “Miss Ellen Terry has invited us to see the stage canvases being painted in the paint room. She said she would leave word. We are the Smith family”. The sergeant stood to his great height of six-foot-five, and his tone changed instantly. “Ah, the Miss Terry, now she’s the love of the town, ain’t she? She said you might be here. Ya see those stairs right there? Just follow ‘em up one flight, there’s the paint room. Mr. Craven and such are in there now and they like a bit of silence while they work, so keep that in mind or they’ll toss ya out.” As Pamela’s eyes widened, Sergeant Barry gave her a wink and she almost laughed, but her grandmother grabbed her elbow and

guided her up the flight of stairs. At the top, they made their way past a dressing room with sections of seating and then a reception room. Next, they came into a room of enormous height, open and airy, its slanted roof with three skylights shored up by trussed rafters. In the diffused light of the muted fog outside, the motes of dust falling in the air and the hush of the whole room gave the feeling of a cathedral. Two fifty-foot canvases were propped up, while ceramic pots of paint lay on the floor next to three large tables, covered with a drawing of a castle, moat and gorgeous lake. Four men worked in silence painting different sections of the castle on a hill. Carpenters entered carrying pieces of canvas already smeared with a prime coat, waiting for the painters. One man had a long pole with a brush at the end and painted the trees surrounding the castle. He wore a white shirt with a dark vest, and the small globs of paint travelled down the pole toward his hands. At the far end, a man in a three-piece suit stood before a table surveying the sketched-in stones on the canvas; he then picked up brush after brush, seemingly lost in the choices. Before the middle canvas stood a very large man with a bandana tied around his head like a pirate. He wore a suit with a watch chain that dangled far down and swayed back and forth as he weaved forward and back, dabbing bits of paint on the light in the castle’s window. He kept one hand in his pocket and returned often to a large palette with paint smeared in small blobs to refill his brush. Pamela and her family stood to the side watching, as the hiss of the small strip of gaslights on the walls emitted their slightly sour scent. The man examining the paintbrushes finally picked one up and the pirate painter exclaimed, “So, Harker, did ye find the magic brush yet?” At that, the other men in the room smiled and grimaced and went on with their work. Harker blew on the bristles and shouted back, “Ah, Craven, we don’t all have your talent for going to Germany to see the castles firsthand.” Pamela tugged her Grandmammas’s arm, and whispered in her ear, “He’s been to Germany to see real castles!” and with that the

pirate turned and discovered the group standing against the wall. As the pirate artist turned, he took a wiping cloth from the table, cleaned the brush, and strode toward the group. Craven was under a tight deadline and was tired of the dilettantes who showed up in the paint room to watch their work. In a loud voice he demanded, “And who's this, disturbing the painters?” Charles Smith stepped forward and extended his hand to Craven. “Mr. Craven, Mr. Smith and family. So very sorry to disturb you. Miss Ellen Terry said we might stop by and see your magnificent work. We are leaving the country and wanted one last chance to see your artistry.” Mr. Craven stopped before the group, both hands in his vest pockets. Seeing Pamela, he paused, tilting his head sideways and smiled. Surprisingly to the others, Pamela smiled back. Craven thought, “Not your typical child.” Pamela then took a step toward the giant canvas and held her hands on either side of her face, transfixed. Craven watched her look and then addressed her parents, ”So, Mr. Smith and family, which of you is the artist in the family?” Before anyone else could answer, Pamela, still enraptured, said, “Mr. Craven, I make miniature theatres and am told I have a promising career.” The group chuckled at her announcement and Craven looked down at Pamela, “Ah, Miss Promising Career. What’s your name?” “I was christened Corinne Pamela Colman Smith, but you may call me Pamela.” “Well, Pamela, would you like to come closer and see some of your contemporaries' work?” “OH, yes! Please! It’s all we talk of in Manchester!” With that the laughter became more pronounced and Craven nodded to her family as he guided her to stand in the center of the activity. Pamela stepped forward to devour the huge landscape with its hundreds of flowers, trees, castle walls, and windows. Edward Burne-Jones had designed the original sketches and it was up to Craven to make them come to life. The backdrop for the first

prologue consisted of a limitless lake, as deep as it was broad, a verdant scene for the Lady of the Lake to reveal herself. As she stood totally enraptured by the canvas, her head started to slightly sway. She moved her finger along the castle walls and banners. Behind her closed eyes, she saw them – the four figures that were to be in the banner of King Arthur above the castle. She opened her eyes and they were there, right in front of her, floating in space before her, moving to the music in her head. She knew the magic was here and waiting to be set in motion. Yellow. Yellow tingling in front of her. Craven looked at her for a minute, her head moving in time to her own music, moving an imaginary brush in front of her, and addressed her kindly, ”Are you seeing the secrets in the castle?” Pamela smiled at him and edged closer to the canvas. “I’m hearing the colors. But the secrets need something. I'll show you what it needs.” “You’ll show me what the scene design for King Arthur needs?” Pamela quickly moved to a sketchpad on the floor. She picked up a piece of charcoal and started sketching. Mr. Smith and the others came over to protest her use of his materials, but Craven lifted his hand. Pamela drew first an oblong flag, then started to fill in the corners. “Yes, the banners need a Tetramorph.” Craven hung over her, watching her sketch. “Do you even know what a Tetramorph is?” Pamela continued sketching. “Yes. We need a man, lion, ox and eagle in the four corners. And they shall all have wings. There! That’s the sketch. Shall I paint it in?” She gestured towards his palette. The other painters in the room stopped what they were doing and came over to watch. Craven looked at her, astonished. “You want to paint on the King Arthur banner that I've started? The one that Edward Burne-Jones has designed?” “Yes, please, sir. I know what to put there.” As the others whistled at her comment, Craven took a palette from the table and a brush from behind his ear and handed them to

her. He then placed a small ladder near the canvas and motioned her to climb up. Pamela quickly scaled the stairs and started to paint a man with wings. She painted quickly, roughing out the shape and moved on to paint an ox, then an eagle and lion, all with wings. Her head and body were starting to bob and weave, responding to the music that only she could hear. Harker walked over and put on his glasses to watch what she was doing. “Be careful, Craven, she may be replacing you!” The men all laughed and then everyone stood a little closer to the canvas. She was unaware that the room had now gathered around her, looking up at her work, and some of the construction workers were making signs of derision and snickering. Mr. Smith moved closer to Mr. Craven. “You must forgive my daughter, Mr. Craven. We've always given her free rein.” Craven looked at the parents, registering the fact that they were proud of their daughter and that they themselves were probably not artistic, and sighed. “Well, if I end up painting over it, at least I know it was over free rein.” Pamela reached up to a higher section of the canvas and started painting a banner with different objects in the middle: Yellow swords, Yellow cups, Yellow stars and wands. A slight, startled murmur went through the room as the men saw what she was painting. Craven stepped forward to see what she was doing. “What, ho? What are you adding in there?” Pamela turned and looked at him – they were at about the same height with her on the ladder – while continuing to paint. “The magician will have his tools: swords, cups, stars and wands in the middle. May I?” The whole room stood at attention, Mrs. Smith starting to cough slightly. “How do you know to put those in? Those are the secret symbols Henry Irving has us put in every scene design!” The painters started to laugh and Craven crossed over to Harker. “All right, Harker, you've had your joke. You arranged this, didn't you?”

“I assure you, Craven, I've never seen this child before.” Craven looked at her in amazement. Pamela smiled and continued painting as the others talked among themselves. The music inside her head helped her find the next image, her brush strokes becoming bolder, and the smell of paint, linseed oil and turpentine all swirling around her face as she watched her own flying hand. A big, burly, man with a red beard wearing a three-piece suit entered the room, looking at his pocket watch. Craven looked up and called, ”Bram, we’ve found the artist to create the artwork for the Lyceum tour!” Bram Stoker squinted and made his way over to the young girl, painting away on one of the canvases, surrounded by adults. He pulled himself up when he saw the symbols she was painting: the Tetramorph as seen in the Sola-Busca tarot deck. The Golden Dawn should see this! he thought. Bram escorted the Smith family across the Strand; they were keen to see Waterloo Bridge, the finest stone bridge in the world, while there was still light and Bram wanted to see who this Smith family might be. He walked with Mr. Smith, as they trailed behind Pamela, flanked by her mother and grandmother. Nearing the bridge, as they crossed the Embankment, Pamela oohed and aahed at every horse-drawn car and woman with a hat. As they approached the riverbank of the Thames in the lowering light, Waterloo Bridge looked majestic and powerful; the Cornish granite gleaming through the gathering fog, its nine arches hunched over the outgoing tide. Pamela ran to the nearest railing and leaned over the balustrade’s edge, looking at Somerset House. “They’ve cut Somerset House off from the river! Where is the water gate?” cried Pamela. As the group lined up against the rail to take in the sight, Mr. Smith slightly smiled at Bram. “You see, Mr. Stoker, we had only outdated art prints of Somerset House to school our Miss Pamela.” “But the barges would sail right into the palace, wouldn’t they, Mr. Stoker?” Pamela pointed her finger and, drawing in the air, filled

in the missing arches. “That’s right, Miss Smith,” Bram answered, “It was a palace on the river.” As Pamela continued to paint the missing palace entrance in the air, hearing only the music she could hear, the adults turned to take in the view on the other side of the bridge. The sun was starting its descent behind the skyline, and they crossed the road to the other side to take in the stunning sunset. Grabbing the railing, Pamela looked down at the water and saw the double Doric stone columns rising up from the river’s mouth. Leaning over the railing she called, “Mother, look! Columns like the ones in my Manchester Theatre!” Leaning still further out in the gathering dusk, she twisted her head to look at the bridge’s underbelly. She felt her hat strings slide off her upside-down cheeks and saw the inside of her hat float downwards into the darkening water of the Thames. She blurted out, “My hat!” and reached forward to grab the disappearing strings. She felt herself pitch forward. Her stomach felt as if it turned black and jostled inside her as she fell headfirst. Her face was numb and her hands stretched outwards, as if to grasp at anything, but there was nothing to grab onto, only the sound of the wind howling past her ears and the undulating shrieks from the bridge. Standing outside her own body, she saw herself do a complete somersault and enter the freezingcold water, feet first, her arms above her head. She managed to keep her mouth shut, only out of sheer terror. It was a terrible, thrashing pit of frigid water pulling her down. Bram turned just in time to see the flash of petticoat under the blue wool coat, and dark soled shoes disappear over the sides of the parapet. The screams of the women and shout from Mr. Smith let him know that this was no nightmare, but a real accident happening right in front of them. They reached the side of the railing in time to see Pamela’s panicked face bobbing in the whirling waters. Suddenly, a man ran up next to them, tore off his wool coat, climbed over the railing, and dove effortlessly into the water. The dive seemed to go on and on, although the distance to the water was only forty feet, it seemed to be three times the length. Bram reflected

later the four of them on the bridge were paralyzed while the man seemed to be floating, free and unencumbered. Then – a splash of water broke the spell. In the thick mist around the surface of the water, the man’s blond hair stood out like a beacon. The wailings and cries of the women drowned out any hope of hearing what was passing between the man and Pamela. The man approached the struggling girl in the black water, then held up one hand to motion her to be still, and disappeared. He resurfaced with the girl now positioned on his back. She started to flail about, and he moved her hands from clutching the back of his shirt to being secured around his neck as he started to churn through the brackish water. As he swam, he turned his head from side to side, arms slicing through the water and his breathing becoming more ragged. Pamela tried to keep the terrible water out of her mouth, and over his head she saw the dim outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The golden dome’s glint was quickly draining away and a palate of greys and blacks took its place. Victoria Embankment’s wall soon loomed in front of them and he managed to aim for a ladder embedded in the wall. The strong current of the cold water abated. The man reached around and lifted Pamela out in front of him, and his deep voice commanded her, “Reach!” Pamela stretched out both her hands and grabbed the rung above her, her cold legs trying to steady themselves on the wall so that she could pull herself up. Her wet, heavy coat strained against her lifting, but soon she felt herself hoisted from below as the man gave her an added push. The second rung firmly grasped, she turned her head to see the man treading water below her. She scrambled up another rung and he lunged from the water to the lowest rung. She could feel the entire ladder shudder as he landed. Soon he was below her, clutching the rungs and climbing up with her. Mother, Father, Grandmamma and Bram were still a block away running down the Embankment as Pamela sat leaning against the parapet wall. The man steadied himself on the edges of the

promenade’s wall, his body heaving and water dripping from his clothes. He stood up, took a deep breath and then bent down to see to the girl. Pamela’s head was resting on her shoulder with her hair covering her face, her small body heaving with short, spastic motions. He pushed the hair off her forehead and lifted her head. Her neck was limp but her eyes opened wide. Her eyes focused on him, life came back into her arms and she started beating on his forearms with her fists as she cried, “We’re alive?” He took his hands and cupped both of her fists and looked straight into her eyes and softly said, “So alive.” Just then Bram ran up and crouched down to look at the child leaning against the wall. “Mother of God, she’s alive!” He took the coat that had been dropped on the bridge and wrapped it around Pamela. Standing up, he looked at the dripping wet man. “And Terriss! That was no stage jump!” The Smith family finally caught up to Bram and gathered around Pamela as Terriss lifted her up. “Let’s take her to see someone! There’s a street doctor right on Bow Street, let’s head there!” Bram took Pamela from Terriss’s arms, chastising him, “Enough heroics! You’ll be needing to have yourself checked out. Until you’re working for the competition, your broken bones are my business! Onward!” Terriss led the way while Bram followed holding a dripping Pamela, and the Smiths stumbled behind.

Woodman and the British Museum With a bounce in his step, the large man paced in front of the crate on the floor of the British Museum private viewing room. At sixty, Dr. William Woodman looked like a large bird of prey stalking a victim, his beard flowing over the collar of his black manteau, hands behind his back, top hat pushed to the back of his head. His eyebrows leapt up and down as the two workmen applied their crowbars, releasing the lid of the dusty, battered crate. Finally, the last nail screeched at the exact moment the two other men entered. “Dr. W-w-woodman!” exclaimed one, interrupting the latter’s pacing and giving him a courtly bow. Samuel Mathers, the speaker, a nervous, slender, brown-eyed fidgeter, stood behind Dr. William Felkin. Dr. Woodman smiled, addressing the speaker. “Ah, Mr. Mathers, still speech impaired, I see. You all have the best timing in the world. Henry Martyn Kennard’s mummy from Egypt has just arrived.” Felkin stepped forward. “That’s the young princess he’s been boasting of, is it?” The workmen each took an end of the lid and lifted it off. Dr. Woodman knelt before the faded, gauzy mound and, placing a hand on the crate, steadied himself. The workmen watched the large man lift a strand of gauze from the mummy as he muttered, “The colored resin on the linen wrappings does seem to confirm that she was a princess. Her shroud is in good shape but her mask has been twisted.” Dr. Felkin peered intensely and grasped the older gentleman’s shoulders as he stood behind him. ”Good show! So many of them come here jostled to bits, but not this one. Kennard Esquire will be unbearable now.”

Mr. Mathers finally stepped forward and looked into the crate, whispering in a faint Scottish accent, “Just fantastic. From another era. Fantastic.” Dr. Woodman turned and watched the thin man turning his hat over and over in his hands. The doctor finally rose from examining the mummy with help from Dr. Felkin. In helping the large man to his feet, the younger man chided, “Doctor, I believe your arthritis has gotten worse.” “Ah, true! But, gentlemen, as pleasant as it is to share this moment, I have a feeling you didn’t come here to watch the unpacking of the Esquires’ latest find,” said Dr. Woodman amiably. Dr. Felkin slung his leather carrying case in front of Dr. Woodman and, his chin firmly lifted, calmly said,” I believe, my fellow good doctor, that we have found a prophecy from Egypt that will change the course of mankind.” Dr. Woodman began a soft chuckle and led the way to the door. “Well, chaps, let’s take this treasure to Mr. Kamal and see if it’s destined to change life as we know it.” Ahmed Pasha Kamal, the Egyptian antiquities expert, wearing the same muslin overcoat that Woodman and the others wore to protect the artifacts, twisted off the cylinder’s cap and looked inside. At thirty-seven, Ahmed already wore a goatee streaked with grey, its close-cut style distinguishing it from the Englishmen’s bushy beards. He was visiting from his position of antiquities at the Palace of Ismail Pasha in Giza. His current project entailed preserving five thousand boxes of artifacts being prepared for the move to the bigger Egyptian museum being built in Cairo near the British barracks. Tracking down some of the artifacts that had gone to the Louvre or the British Museum by ‘mistake’ was one of his first assignments. He was working alongside Sir Ernest Wallis Budge in the preservation of the mummies and trying to give Egypt a voice in the decisions that were being made by the French, Italian and English conservationists. It amused him that Sir Ernest, when visiting the museum in Giza, felt that the mummies “seemed sad” because the gaudy room the French had built was blue, gold and orange with a mural on the

ceiling depicting Venus and Cupid. It was the fact that Roman gods painted by French occupiers looked down on Egyptian mummies that struck Sir Budge. What was sad to Ahmed was that his country’s artifacts were being removed by the thousands and shipped off to various officials and foreigners as bribes and tokens. He was intensely proud of his country’s small, local Egyptian museums and campaigned to keep artifacts in the areas where they were uncovered, to keep Egypt’s history in Egypt. But in this time of English and French rule, that seemed impossible, like trying to keep butterflies from flying into the wind. Dr. Woodman, Felkin and Mathers, all wearing muslin overcoats, stood around the table where the golden cylinder lay, as Ahmed put on archival gloves. “There are two distinct items. Let us take a look at this first one.” Ahmed’s English had a French accent; he had learned it from August Mariette, a young French Egyptologist. As the leading expert in translating Egyptian Coptic manuscripts, papyrus artifacts, stelas and altars, Ahmed made use of his French and English to secure a place at the forefront in France and England’s museums. He was the link to those who had helped themselves to his country’s antiquities. He now removed a rolled-up section of parchment. “This does not look Egyptian; it is a modern-day paper.” Then he leaned in. “Yes, modern day paper, but the inscription is in code. Let’s see, this is the Trithemius Polygraphiae code for the Hermetic and Rosicrucian lineages and refers to a cipher…” He started to speak in Arabic. Mathers asked him in Arabic, “How old is…is…the cipher?” Startled to hear Mathers speak Arabic, Ahmed answered nonetheless, “From the fourth or fifth dynasties.” Waite fish-eyed them. “Speak English, please, Mr. Kamal.” Ahmed continued, “Ah, well…English, then. These codes suggest something about fourteenth-century magic and indicate there is an item from the fourth or fifth dynasty in Alexandria.” He put

down the paper and he looked back inside the cylinder. “And there it is!” Taking a pair of tweezers, he lifted the cylinder and gently pulled out a rolled-up linen sheet fixed with a seal. His eyebrows twitched. “I see the scarab seal has been broken and reattached,” he said as he held the rolled papyrus up to the light. “Ah, the sands of the desert have been good to this papyrus.” He unrolled the linen sheet. Affixed to it was a grainy, yellowish-grey papyrus textile, very fragile, with some pieces of fiber broken off. “The English fog will not keep this black iron-gall ink from fading, so write these characteristics down immediately.” With that, he laid the delicate tube down on the white table. The three other men inched forward, Mathers taking notes in his notebook. Ahmed took a small sharp knife and pried the seal off the side of the scroll. It fell to the table with a dull sound. “Thanks to Napoleon invading my country and locating the Rosetta Stone, we may be able to decipher this text.” Holding up a magnifying glass and pinning down one corner of the scroll with one hand, he moved a finger above the symbols and squiggles on the limp paper. “Ah, the Demotic language, mostly used for religious and court decrees.” He stood straight up and looked at Woodman. “It is a prophecy.” Dr. Woodman bent, over using the magnifying glass, and immediately straightened up. Felkin hurriedly put on his archival gloves and walked back over to the papyrus, now pinned on table, muttering slightly to himself. He then addressed Ahmed. “Mr. Kamal, I still do not grasp the sense of this.” “Well, Dr. Felkin, I am using the 1832 Champollion translations of the Egyptian language…” Bram Stoker came in, hurriedly putting on a protective muslin coat and crowding up to the table. “Sorry, I'm late, gentlemen. Mr. Kamal, please go on, I just got word at the theatre you may be able to translate this.” Ahmed took a moment and looked at the four men. Part of him was loath to give these men the secrets to the antiquities that had

made their way from his father’s country to this English museum. He thought of Dr. Woodman as an old-guard plunderer. And this Dr. Felkin, there was something nefarious about his interest in gods and goddesses of ancient Egypt. What was it about these English doctors that they wanted to study and own all the esoteric artifacts from other countries? Waite, with his elementary Arabic, was a beginner, and he and Mathers seemed like harmless scholars; it was only Bram Stoker whom he genuinely liked, as he was Irish and would let slip the rare comment that he was not fond of the English. But Bram worshipped Henry Irving and brought him to meet Ahmed so that the great actor might study the Egyptian hieroglyphics while on his world tours. What these four men were up to in their enthusiasm and excitement over these Egyptian scrolls troubled him, but he kept a level head and translated as much as he thought was appropriate. “Good day, Mr. Stoker. Yes, these are the ideograms. You see this bird, snake, beetle and lion?” The men gathered around the table, passing the magnifying glass around. “These images reflect an idea and give meaning to the phonograms.” Ahmed then pointed to a seated man, birds and a pair of walking legs. “These are the determinatives, image signs that are less concrete. Here we have Sia, the genius of perception, and Ms, girl giving birth. Here is an emblem of divinity, Sma to unite, and HPR – to become Hw the genius of creative utterance.” Dr. Woodman grunted, inhaled and pronounced, “A girl giving birth is divine and unites the genius of creative utterance?” “Ah, Dr. Woodman, this foretells much more. The essence is that each human will become a god or goddess with all aspects of magical properties. Once the entire race of these superior beings is created and fulfills its destiny, the fate of the world will be tested in one last conflict, and the result will be survival or destruction.” Felkin unfolded his arms and impatiently shrugged. “Are you sure it's a girl?” Ahmed smiled and looked at the smug Felkin, “Yes, we have a tradition of women as rulers.”

Woodman looked up and out the window. “My dear chap, isn’t this a reference to the Virgin Mary and the birth of Christ?” Ahmed shook his head and, biting his tongue, went back to the table. “Chap” was the word that Woodman used instead of “idiot.” “No, this is not a prediction of the birth of your Christ and the Disciples. This is a girl who has the means to communicate to all without language. It says that this sequence of gods and goddesses will happen without language and that there will be a universal language. Or, universal destruction.” Woodman chuckled and put his hands in his pockets, then deferentially smiled. “Of course, one could say that our good book, the Bible, infers that by following Christianity, a superior race of people will be produced.” “Ah, Dr. Woodman,” Ahmed replied, “Very English in your St. James Bible world, but even your Shakespeare says, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ And there are many other languages than those your Bible encompasses.” Woodman pointed to one section, ”But what of all these symbols here?” “These are not easily understood; we are only in the early days of deciphering. It seems to suggest five beliefs, twenty-two worlds, and then four different armies, or continents, I’m not sure.” With that he let out a yelp. “Just as I feared, this damp air is erasing the text!” Turning to Mathers he barked, “Write faster, man, faster!” Waite, Woodman and Felkin gathered around Mathers as he quickly sketched the images of the papyrus onto his sketchbook. Bram and Ahmed moved to the side, where Bram very quietly muttered to him, “Mr. Kamal, I’d like to bring in this girl who knows the images.” Ahmed looked at him doubtfully. The Savage Club at the Savoy Hotel had just opened and was still discreetly training staff when the four men sat down in the leather-tufted club chairs in the elaborate dining room. The air was filled with smoke as the cigar server stood at attention next to Felkin,

who was selecting a cigar. Mathers tugged at his collar and seemed overcome by the prospect of dining out. Dr. Woodman settled back in his chair. “Well, Dr. Felkin, it’s a shame we had to leave the papyrus at the Museum with Ahmed, but at least we were able to take the modern paper about the fourteenthcentury magic with us.” Felkin retorted, “How did you know it was fourteenth-century magic, Mathers, or do we call you McGregor now? We’ve all heard this Scottish accent you’ve been putting on.” As Mathers squirmed in his chair, Felkin joined in the teasing. “Come on now, McGregor”? Mathers, you’re born in England and you’ve become Scottish all of a sudden? For what reason?” Mathers almost looked as if he were going to bolt from the room. “Here, take a cigar. It will help settle you.” “Well, I may not have been born in Scotland, but I believe I have just f–f-f-found I may have Scottish family and I live in hopes of an inheritance, so …” “So, you’re Scottish for a little money!” Felkin joked, “Not a good trade, if you ask me. What do you think, Doctor?” Woodman settled in. “Well, I think we have to talk about what this manuscript foretells and how we are going to publish the results.” With that, Felkin called over a waiter and curtly ordered, “Four whiskeys.” When the men were alone, Felkin leaned toward the center of the table and quietly said, “We are not going to publish these results. We are going to create a tarot deck using the results that will instruct our higher levels in the ways of magic.” Waite and Mathers turned in their chairs to take in Felkin, and then they looked sideways at Dr. Woodman, the man with the connections and money to make a private group viable. Woodman choked slightly on his cigar and looked at his pocket watch. “Twelve-thirty? How did this happen? I’m too old for this nonsense. Now I must hire a hansom to go home.” Felkin could see that his attempts to present the Count’s papers as an order commissioning tarot cards was going nowhere. He had

to wait out Woodman. Mathers fondly looked at the table and sighed, “B-b-b-best meal I’ve had in a fortnight.” ”Not much work for a translator these days, eh?” grunted Woodman. Mathers put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. “No, and I was so hoping I would be able to translate those symbols on the papyrus, but that ancient Egyptian language is one I don’t know. Now Mr. Kamal will have all the glory of b-b-bringing its meaning to the world.” Patting Mathers on the knee, Waite soothed, “You recognized those first manuscripts. Quite an accomplishment. Where did you say you found them, Felkin?” Felkin looked calmly over his cigar smoke. “I don’t actually know where they came from. They came into my hands through a friend, and I have heard it mentioned that Count Appoyni has some important artifacts going back to the time of the Library of Alexandria. I thought these might be those.” “You think these are the Count Apponyi p-p-papers?” Mathers stuttered. Felkin motioned over the waiter to pour another round and teasingly pushed a snifter towards Mathers. “They might. Well, Mathers, if you are to be a Scottish McGregor, what is your family motto?” Dreamily, Mathers leaned back in his chair, and in his best Scottish accent intoned, ”Royal is my race.” This prompted Woodman and Felkin to spasms of laughter, with Bram laughing loudest. Dr. Woodman then cocked his head toward Mather. “As a polyglot, into how many languages can you translate ‘Royal is my race?’” Felkin joined in, “Here’s our drinking game: for every translation that you do, Dr. Woodman must down a brandy.” With that he snapped his fingers and the waiter appeared with a decanter. “For each translation, pour! French for ‘Royal is my blood’!”

“Too easy! Royal est mon sang!” Mathers preened his answer as the waiter poured Woodman a refill and he downed it in a single gulp. Felkin sat bolt upright. “Hebrew!” Mathers shot back, “ ‫ ישל הגזע היא רויאל‬.” Another drink was poured and with a little more effort, Woodman downed another glass. “Latin?” “Regalis sanguis meus!” The waiter looked at Felkin questioningly while he bellowed “Pour, man! Gaelic?” “Is ríoga mo chuid fola!” Woodman leaned toward Bram. “What do think, man? Was that a good enough approximation of your native tongue?” Bram looked down, then cheerily retorted, “Not bad for an Englishman.” The table laughed, and when Felkin looked at Mathers as though he were about to go another round, Woodman looked imploringly at Felkin. “Really, my good fellow doctor, you know our motto, ‘First do no harm.’ A fifth brandy might be pushing it.” Felkin chided him, “We need to see if Mathers is up to this translating job!” And to Mathers, “Let’s hear your Arabic! Besides, it’s the most curious thing that you, Mathers, don’t stutter in other languages.” Trembling, Mathers hunched over the table, “The Count Apponyi’s Hungarian Hermetic and Rosicrucian lineage p-p-papers? You would hire me to translate those?” Woodman laughed, and taking a sip of water, tapped Mathers’ arm, ”My dear fellow, if you can translate your motto into Arabic, we will give you the job.” Steadying his hands on the table and closing his eyes, Mathers intoned, “ ‫ يل ﺳﺑﺎق ھو اﻟﻣﻠﻛﻲ‬.” With that, the waiters and amused men applauded as he sat down, flushed and happy.

Woodman and Felkin sat swaying side by side in the hansom in the early morning enshrouded by yellow London fog, as the horse made its tired clip-clop echo through the empty brick streets to Woodman’s apartment in Belgravia. Felkin looked at Mather’s small pencil notes on the translation of the papyrus, which he had written at the museum. Woodman tilted his head back and rubbed his eyes. “Felkin, next time you decide that a drinking game is a good way to interview a fellow on his translation skills, count me out.” Felkin chuckled and gazed out of the carriage window into the pea-soup air, “Yes, but Mathers is now on board, and he’s poor as a church mouse, so we won’t have to pay him all that much. And those Count Appoyni papers will take at least a year to decipher.” “You think a year’s living is what I should provide for Mathers, then?” Felkin coughed into his handkerchief and slowly said, “Yes, I think a year should be enough. Would we make the arrangements with your bank?” Woodman exhaled and gestured for the notebook, taking the pencil from Felkin’s hand. “Yes, let’s get all this in order. I haven’t been feeling well, and we might as well sign the trust to be set up for this position. Now, I will insist on being the main Chief here, Doctor. Now, as you can see, there is a lot to manage. Once Mathers translates the Count’s papers, I want to take our time before we create a tarot deck. You know, due diligence and all that.” Felkin looked out the window and thought, “Yes, and all that. Here it is! He will take the papers for whatever magic instruction and either bloody sit on them for years to come or show them to his Junior Athenaeum Club instead of sharing them with the Golden Dawn.” Because Woodman had been a military doctor in India and Egypt, he belonged to the Junior Athenaeum Club, the one club Felkin was not officially qualified to join. Although it had been suggested that Woodman might sponsor him - something Felkin dearly wanted - since they met at the former Duke of Newcastle’s

extravagant home, Woodman had insisted there would not be enough votes to get his friend through the vetting process. “Ah, Felkin, let’s face it, man, you are a coroner. These are gentlemen connected with literature, science, and art. It would be a stretch for you to feel at home there.” On a blank page in Mathers’ notebook, Woodman scribbled a few lines. “There. This is the directive for a living for Mathers for a year. Take it to the Bank on Monday.” Felkin looked it over and nodded his approval, casually adding, “Oh, and Woodman, you might want to make it official and transfer the funds you were going to dedicate to starting the research group on the findings of these esoteric manuscripts.” Woodman looked up sharply at him. “Mathers hasn’t even started translating those papers. Do you think that we need to start financing a group to research something not yet translated? How will it be known that this research is my property that I am financing?” Felkin replied, “My dear fellow doctor, from my time in Austria, I can tell you the findings from Count Appoyni papers will have worldwide effect. And to please you, we will call this research position funded by the ‘Dr. Woodman Fund.’ But, in order to keep the results to ourselves, we should start our group as soon as possible, for others are sure to be on this trail of discovery.” Woodman grunted, “You are probably right. I’ll just sign a note that you are to enter into discussions with my solicitor and my banker to start the Woodman Fund. Here’s the account number and my signature. Then I’ll have a paper drawn up declaring that I am the legal owner of the paper’s findings.” Just then, Woodman brought his right hand up to his heart, and groaned, “Oh dear, that’s a major one. Ah, zounds! That really stabs, good God!” “What is it, Woodman? Is it your heart?” “Yes, let’s just hurry to my home. I have medication there.” Woodman began to take off his overcoat, “It’s so bloody hot in here! Tell the driver to get a move on!” “No need, old man, I have what you need here. A physician must always be ready. Let’s get you sorted out.”

With that Felkin rapped on the top of the cab and shouted to the driver, “Pull up here! I need to administer aid!” As the coach slowed down, Woodman, groaning louder, slid against the side of the carriage. Felkin, springing into action, found his small medical kit, and took out a syringe and a small vial. He then started to removed Woodman’s coat and roll back his shirtsleeves. “This stimulant should help your racing heart. Woodman, do you know what I think these fourteenth century papers are all about?” “No,” groaned Woodman as the needle sailed into his arm. “They are manuscripts that empower a soul to reach by magical means, earth to heaven. When the new order begins, I will be the conduit from earth to heaven. Goodbye, Woodman.” With a gurgle, Woodman died, his eyes wide open. Corsican Brothers Magic Waiting to seat the Smith family for the production of ‘The Corsican Brothers’, Bram had a strange sense of foreboding. Terriss’s rescue of Pamela had been the talk of the town and the fact that both of them had escaped with only bruises was miraculous. And in Bram’s experience, troubles usually came in pairs. Henry Irving’s private box, the Governor’s Box, was still empty just as the electrical light in the lobby signaled that the show was about to start. The head usher suddenly appeared with the group, and Bram quickly ushered the four guests into the beautiful tiered seats. The box seats were framed with a red velvet curtain that hid a secret pass door to the backstage platform. This door led to the area where the stage managers called the show. Bram saw the child, Pamela, standing before her seat as she craned her neck to take in every nook and cranny of the Lyceum auditorium. As she turned her head straight toward him, he saw that she still had traces of her fall into the water; a fading black eye and bruise on her cheek. She smiled through her injuries. She would be a serious and well-behaved audience member. Watching her parents

and the grandmother settle in beside Pamela, he positioned himself to the back of them, his six-foot-two frame just barely visible from the auditorium as he stood near the pass door. How odd that she should be drawing the Tetramorph just when we were discussing its potent power at the Golden Dawn. And that a young girl should be the one to recognize the symbols, Bram mused. Just then the overture began, played by some thirty black-clad men in the orchestra, who followed the baton of Sir Arthur Sullivan, conducting his own melodramatic score. Pamela turned in her seat and whispered, “Mr. Stoker, you know I make miniature theatres. But in my life, I have only ever been in the Theatre Royal Manchester.” Bram looked at her parents and grandmother and offered, “I’ll take her backstage before the masked ball scene, then, to take a look around?” Mrs. Colman and Mr. Smith nodded appreciatively while the mother pleaded with her eyes, setting Bram to chuckling, “Well, then there might be two of you?” Pamela squeezed her mother’s hand as the house lights dimmed, and they turned back in their seats to watch the show as Bram made his way back to his office through the stall’s secret door. The story of the twin Corsican brothers, Fabien and Louis, began to unfold as the great velvet curtains swept back revealing the pastoral scene of Corsica. The audience broke into applause at the sight, as the backstage crewmembers moved sheep and trees into place. The ideas of using a dark-clad crew instead of those wearing street clothes, curtains closed at the top of the show and then opened, the dimming of the lights in the house; all were Henry’s innovations. Henry Irving was playing both twins, while his understudy performed the shadow-play roles when the brothers were onstage at the same time. William Terriss, with his expertise in the Robin Hood style of swordplay, was the evil seducer, Chateau-Renard. For a month, he and Henry practiced the swordplay at the salle d’armes under the tutelage of a weapons expert from the army. At the end of Act II, Chateau-Renard duels with Louis (Henry in a rustic Corsican outfit). Louis sees Chateau-Renard accidentally

break his sword, so Louis does the honorable thing – breaks his sword too – and is killed by Chateau-Renard. His twin brother in Paris, Fabien, who feels his every move, suffers with him as he dies. After the fight, Henry (now in Fabien’s aristocratic French costume) is seen on one side of the stage writing letters by candlelight at a small table, when across the stage from him a head is seen rising barely above the level of the stage. As the music swells, the ghost reveals itself to be his twin, soaring higher and higher, floating sideways toward Fabien without any visible means of propelling itself. The audience gasps and cries out as the twin brother’s ghost appears next to Fabien and startles him. Bram couldn’t wait to get into his office. It was his den, where he hired, and fired and bestowed favors requested, whether it was to hire the old woman who could no longer sew to watch over the other three old women who fed the theatre cats, or to set up auditions for the Great Man to look for new company members. It was a middlesized room, with an actual window facing the street. Down the hall was the door to the street where Sergeant Barry kept guard. Barry was good about keeping out anyone without an appointment and understanding that all appointments came from Bram. The desk was of decent size, with three good club chairs, a lovely rug from one of Henry’s besotted patrons that was too ‘bright’ for him, a spittoon, a good cigar case and a small hidden bar. Tonight, outside Bram’s office, was a rack with the specialty act clothes that were in need of shepherding by the office, for too many had turned up missing lately. Lovejoy, one of the stage managers, stopped him the minute he got in the door. Bram held up his hand and turned his head to hear the gasps and cries from the audience. “Ah, good – the Corsican Trap worked well tonight.” The trap, named after the play, was the only one of its kind. It was a sort of floating platform that Henry’s understudy would stand on while a series of drums and shafts operated by a winch system would drag him sideways and upwards. A specially designed moving floor, called a Scruto, would travel in the same direction at the same speed, allowing him to move at a gradual rise. If the pullers did their

job smoothly, it was a seamless and graceful way to make the spectral apparition ‘float’ from one side of the stage to the other, as if coming out of the floor. Lovejoy motioned to the rack of clothing outside Bram’s door and quietly reported, “We got those nine clowns from the regions filling in tonight during the reveling in the masked ball. Sullivan knows to add the extra phrases for their routine.” The rack was down to just a few costumes now. The dominos, the capes worn for masked balls with slender-pointed hoods and wide sleeves, the masks and slouch hats had all been picked over. Lovejoy could see the clowns had been there, suiting up into their costumes. The difficult part was getting it back from them. Usually, their pay was dependent on their handing over their costumes. There was a tradition that novelty acts, if they were available and were permitted in advance, could be a part of the entertainment during the masked ball segment of The Corsican Brothers. Sometimes they succeeded in making it onstage and sometimes, due to time or other matters, they didn’t. If they were able to get past the ‘legs’ or black curtains that masked the backstage area, they were said to be ‘breaking the legs’, resulting in their being paid for the night’s work. The actor tradition of wishing one another to ‘break a leg!’ referred to their being paid, not to fracturing a femur. But clowns were unpredictable and raucous, sometimes spilling into the elegant dining scene, where they could help themselves to the sponge cake and bread that was used for an elegant Dumas period feast. At other times, they would bring boxes onstage, which they would jump from and somersault over. These boxes would block the dancers and extras in the backstage area from being able to enter onstage, keeping them from being able to ‘Break a Leg’. It was up to Lovejoy to monitor who was on that night and to see that proper attention and attire were provided, as the robes were given out in color according to height, the darkest cloaks given to the tallest. Bram saw that there were still four or five revelers’ outfits left on the rack and thought that Pamela and her mother might make good extras, if they stood out of the way and understood it was a voluntary

position, not a paid one. Checking on the number that the usher boy in his Eton suit had just delivered from the front of house, he saw the audience numbers were very good and went to fetch the Smiths. It was always good publicity to give a hungry actress a walk-on. She would talk endlessly about it in the future, and the fact that the Colman-Smiths were moving from London meant international wordof-mouth. He walked by the prompter, an ex-Indian-military man, ‘Jimmy’ Allen, who was following along in his prompt book, ready to hiss out the lines that were temporarily forgotten while turning the cluster of potatoes he had piled up against the hot water pipe that ran next to his chair. It was said that he knew if the show was running long at any given performance if his potatoes were overcooked. Taking his key, he opened the pass door slightly so that he could see the focused faces of Pamela and her group. Of course, it was the mother who eagerly caught his eye and who motioned to Pamela to quietly stand while they stepped through the open door to the backstage area. Bram lifted his finger to his lips to silence them and motioned them to follow him as they made their way past the cloaked members for the upcoming masked ball scene. He walked briskly down the hall to his office and in a sotto voce aside presented the rack with the few costumes on it. “You can be part of the masked ball scene if you put these on.” “Oh! Can we?!” Pamela whispered fiercely. “It’s a voluntary position; that all right with you, Mrs. Smith?” Bram said, looking at her overwrought face, knowing the answer. “Yes, yes, oh, yes, yes!” “You are to stand next to Mlle. Fornay who will keep you in place. Do not do anything more than stand next to her and do not take off any part of this costume.” He showed them the rack’s selection. Mrs. Smith excitedly dressed herself first, then put a large hat with a chinstrap on Pamela and a black mask that tied in the back. They both donned dark purple capes so they were almost unrecognizable and they trotted down the hall after Bram. He ushered them to a darkened area of the backstage where five lines of actors in black and purple capes stood

ready to go on. He tapped a short purple-caped form, who turned and acknowledged the trio. This must be Mlle. Fornay, who pulled Pamela and her mother to either side of her and put their hands on her shoulders, signaling that they were to stay there and only there. There was a pause in the music, and then a loud whistle shot out from above. Pamela tried to look up to see where the whistle was coming from, and then another two-toned whistle rang out. A beautiful huge mirror was being lowered on ropes until it filled the main space upstage. Two actors came onstage and with lit tapers ignited the candles affixed to either side of mirror as the swarm of cloaked dancers surged onstage. Mlle. Fornay led them to the right of the mirror and glanced out of the side of her mask with a threatening look to remind Pamela and her mother to stay glued to her sides. Now the coryphées, the dancers of the musical interlude, took their places and performed an elaborate and elegant dance. Pamela looked at her mother and through the very small opening in her mother’s mask she saw tears in her mother’s eyes as she was living her dream of being onstage at the Lyceum Theatre. Suddenly the dancers glided off in a swirling line, and from every angle backstage, black-caped men ran into the middle of the stage, performing their own grotesque, demonic dance. With amazing kicks and lifts, they spun in a circle, and when the tallest turned his head sharply, he saw Pamela, and with a jerk of his head signaled to the others. Fearing their wrath, Pamela instinctively took her hand off Mlle. Fornay’s shoulder, and before she knew it, it was grabbed by the tall dancing demon. The tall hats, cloaks and masks made them all unrecognizable as men: they seemed to be whirling dervishes. They seized her by the shoulders and drew her in the middle of the circle. They spun her and tossed her, literally playing ball with her, throwing her forward from one black swirling cape to another, rushing backward and forward in exact time, twirling her so insistently that she was breathless. She watched the theatre audience spin in the reflection in the candlelit mirror before her. Her mask slipped sideways, and she found herself turned around facing the audience, glancing at her father and grandmamma seated in the stall. One more spin, and she was tossed into the arms of Mlle.

Fornay, who seemed to have expected her, as she braced her side against Pamela’s hurled body. Pamela was now in exactly the same position she had been in before she was drawn into the demon dance. She was dizzy and euphoric, trying to regain her balance next to the candlelit mirror, when the scene of the ball settled down to a series of promenades and bows. A phrase of music picked up its pace, and Mlle. Fornay placed her hands on the small of Pamela’s and her mother’s backs and marched them offstage. The music dimmed, two more whistles were heard above, and the group of extras came to a halt. Pamela tore off her mask to see Henry Irving standing alone on stage before the great mirror. In his elaborate Fabien costume of breeches, brocade vest and frock coat, the great glass mirror swaying as it was gently hoisted up, his smoke pluming upward made Henry’s reflection even more debonair. Fabien was waiting for his opponent to arrive and answer his challenge to a duel. The music paused slightly, when suddenly there was another sharp whistle, not from the orchestra pit but from above, in the flies. Everyone looked from the stage to the fly area, in time to see one of the ropes holding the mirror snap like a suddenly cut serpent’s throat. The cut end flew around as the great mirror swung back and forth on the other rope, to great gasps in the audience and backstage. The twinkling mirror dangled back and forth like a great guillotine above Henry. The rope strained and twisted, as the lowered mirror swung back and forth, almost decapitating Henry. He ducked quickly to keep its sharp edge from hitting him. All at once, a tall, athletic man rushed past Pamela and her mother and leapt up into the air, tackling the crouching Henry under the path of the mirror and rolling downstage with him. Immediately the other rope snapped, and the mirror, on the upswing, floated for a moment in midair. Then the entire mirror dropped flat on the stage floor, exploding into shards, its candles drowning in air on the way down. But the sound! The sound of the mirror smashing was brilliantly clear, pinging out against the back wall of the auditorium. Slivers of

glass skidded to the front of the stage and pinged against the covered limelights lining the orchestra pit. Great scratches appeared on the stage floor, reaching out from the mound of broken glass like the claw marks of a monster. Some in the audience rose, others let out cries and shouts. The two figures at the lip of the stage near the orchestra pit picked themselves up and stood heaving, brushing off glass. Then Henry suddenly turned to the audience, and with a flourish, lifted his arm up, as though acknowledging this tremendous effect they had just created for their benefit. The audience broke out into a rapturous applause, clapping and stamping their feet. Both Henry Irving and William Terriss bowed to the audience and then to one another. They then signaled that they should carry on their fight as Fabien and the evil Chateau-Renard. And so the orchestra music picked up once again, and the men went through the motions of a fistfight. During this improvised fisticuffs, their boots crunched on the shards of broken glass as they carried on the fight, exiting stage left. Back at Bram’s office, Henry and Terriss went over a list while Pamela sat totally mesmerized as she and her mother were seated in the club chairs. Terriss, who had been her invisible merman and onstage hero, was now here in flesh and blood before her, still in costume from the show, talking with Henry. She watched Terriss’s every movement, while her mother watched Henry. The men were going over a list assigning the eight black cloaks which were now thrown on Bram’s desk. Mr. Lovejoy and Bram stood by and counted once more the number of cloaks. One was missing. Finally Bram came over to the mother and daughter and said, “Well, it was more than you bargained for, I’m sure, and since you don’t know any more about it than we do, we’ll be letting you leave now.” Mrs. Smith was just about to ask if she could be introduced to Henry Irving, but Bram anticipated this. He saw it all the time, and he started to kindly usher them out. “Thanks for your participation and we’ll keep in touch, won’t we, Miss Pamela?”

He looked down at the girl, whose spirits were far from crushed by this goodbye. She was still in an euphoric haze from watching the show and being near her hero, Terriss. She rose from the club chair across from her mother, her eyes taking in everyone in the room. She looked at Bram. “Yes, sir, I will write you from Jamaica.” “Ah, Jamaica, that’s right. You’re leaving your motherland. Yes, when you come back from Jamaica and if you’ve kept up with your artwork and have something to offer us, come look me up.” “Yes, Mr. Stoker. Goodbye, Mr. Terriss.” Terriss looked up and saw her earnest face. “Goodbye, Miss Smith.” He came to her and politely shook her hand. “Until we meet again.” With that, Bram gave a short wave and tried to pass them out to the hallway to be escorted outside to the policeman guarding the door. Just before she left the room, Pamela offered her hand to Bram, who bemusedly shook it, as her eyes were still totally trained on Terriss. So smitten, he thought. Mrs. Smith stood and tried her best to smile at the Great Man, but Henry was totally consumed with Terriss and the missing cloak. Defeated, she turned and with her hand on her daughter’s shoulders, allowed them to be led out of the room. Pamela turned one last time to see Terriss and then walked down the hallway, spreading out both of her hands at her sides as though she were flying and feeling the very air of the theatre on her way out. She let out a yelp and ran, turned the corner and was gone. Harvey, the main carpenter, came into Bram’s office and threw a short piece of rope on the desk. “It’s been cut. And here is a note left in that prop from The Cup by the sandbags.” He showed them a large, elaborate chalice with a folded piece of paper in it. The Cup was a melodrama that Henry and Ellen had starred in with much success years ago. The plot involved a Galatian lord who lusts after a neighbor’s wife; he kills the husband only to learn that she loathes him. She murders him on their wedding day by putting poison in the cup that they drink from at the wedding feast.

The chalice used in the production had been the subject of much artistic debate between Henry and the designers. Its final incarnation was a large gold bell cup with a long, squarish stem. Henry looked at the stage cup that Harvey was holding and snatched the note from it, reading, “Just as Dedi hypnotized a lion and found it to be only an entertainer, so are you. We unite to stop your trespass.” Bram and Henry looked at one another as Lovejoy picked it up and read it, then exclaimed, “What the hell does that mean? What lion? Who is Dedi?” Henry then remembered, “There was an extra whistle right before the mirror fell.” Whistles backstage were the signals the stage crew gave one another to cue the rigging; most of the men at one time or another had worked as seamen and that was the method by which they signaled one another and the reason why whistling was forbidden backstage by anyone but flymen. Harvey folded his arms. “Weren’t any of my men. We don’t know who got up on the catwalk, but it seems sure as if they did.” Henry took in Harvey’s defensive stance and calmly replied, “Mr. Harvey, what was different about security tonight? How could someone have climbed the flies or gotten to the catwalk?” Harvey immediately shot back, “Same procedure as always, Mr. Irving.” Lovejoy looked down, and Henry, seeing this, asked the stage manager, “Well, sir, what happened?” Lovejoy started to lift his eyes and then confessed, “Well, you see, Gov’nor, the food during the feast in the ball has led to quite the riot. They’d just race to the table and start shovin’ in the sponge cake and bread, so we backstage decided to teach ‘em some manners. The fancy food tonight was papier-mâché. Ya know, to show ‘em they shouldn’t just race up to the table and start shovin’ it into their gobs.” Bram tapped his foot. “And how did that lead to a breach in security?”

Harvey dryly confessed, “We were all mostly watching the mob try to chew on papier-mâché instead of sponge cake when we shoulda been manning our stations for the mirror preset.” Bram, William and Henry all looked at Harvey. Henry finally lifted his hand and said, “Very well, Mr. Harvey. See that it doesn’t happen again. And we may well be at a loss for a mirror. That was a gift from my patroness, Baroness Burdett-Coutts.” Harvey shrugged his shoulders. “I’m very sorry, Guv’nor. It won’t happen again. We will be doing our job.” He shot a look at Lovejoy as if he would have tripped him, but he left with his head bowed. Bram looked at Lovejoy and motioned to him to leave too. “Most sorry, sir, ya know we do our job too. And my men didn’t do that extra whistle.” With that, Bram closed the door behind him and the three men exhaled. Bram sat behind his desk while Henry and William plopped down on his club chairs. William took the oversized cup from Bram. “First it was the wand, now it’s the cup. Something’s brewing here.” Bram looked at Henry, “The wand? I’ve not been updated on a wand.” Terriss replied “Well, Bram, I’m not sure the wand should be something that Golden Dawn knows anything about.” Bram bristled. ”Listen, Terriss, I’ve never claimed to be a part of the Golden Dawn’s inner circle. I study their teachings same way you do the Freemasons, for my own development, not to climb some obscure hierarchy. I’ve heard there is just as much magic in the Freemasons as there is in the Golden Dawn. I think I know what is safe and not safe to share with my group!” Henry looked at the quarrelling men, “Gentlemen, please. If this is an opening salvo fired in a war of magic, squabbling amongst ourselves won’t help. I’m a Freemason and belong to several other orders; the Golden Dawn is not in my orbit but in Bram’s. Let us keep these bizarre happenings amongst ourselves and leave the Freemasons and Golden Dawn to flourish without whatever mischief or manifestations may be visiting us.” Bram and William glared at each other and then both burst out laughing. William clutched Bram’s coat. “Oh please, if there’s going

to be any more magically appearing things, I’ll put in for a decent pipe. You, Bram, what will you be wanting?” Bram regained his composure and looked at the two men. “A decent crucifix.” Dedi, First Magician Ahmed Kamal sat back in his chair and looked at the proper English gentleman. “Ah, so you want to know about Dedi, the first of all magicians.” Felkin blurted out, “Yes, I have heard of him from the Westcar papyrus!” The bearded coroner, Felkin, had come to visit the British Museum several times since William Woodman’s death. Ahmed had noticed that the contents of Woodman’s desk seemed to have much more interest to Felkin than the deceased’s locker that contained his personal items. Two Golden Dawn members from the previous visit, the stutterer who spoke Arabic, Mathers, and the one who lectured when he talked, Waite, stood behind Felkin. The appearance of Henry Irving and Bram Stoker surprised Ahmed the most. Ten o’clock in the morning for a theatre actor and manager was unheard of, Bram had told him. It was made clear that he and Henry rarely rose before eleven a.m. since they were usually up until all hours. Here is my chance, Ahmed thought. Now the Westcar papyrus may be in play. The Westcar papyrus had been taken out of Egypt in 1824 by Henry Westcar, an Englishman. Somehow, through a series of exchanges, it was now in the Museum of Berlin. In three segments, it depicted five stories of magicians and priests in the fourth dynasty, Ahmed’s specialty. It originated during the time of King Khufu (known to the English as King Cheops), who built the great pyramid of Giza, Ahmed’s first grand passion of architecture.

Felkin especially seemed agitated, pacing back and forth. “Come, Mr. Kamal, we have all had proper educations. We know about the Westcar papyrus – that may well be the very first depiction of a magician in recorded history – an Egyptian!” Yes, an Egyptian! And what is it with the emphasis on proper education? Ahmed mused silently. He stood and motioned to the five gentlemen to sit. Mr. Stoker had attended the distinguished Trinity University in Dublin, but the other men had attended universities he had never heard of. Shaking these thoughts off, Ahmed found Felkin staring at him. “You think my country claims to have the first magician, Mr. Felkin?” Before he could answer, Henry leaned forward from his seat and kindly added, “Let us return to the subject of your magicians, Mr. Kamal. Even our Bible gives credence to them in Exodus: “Then Pharaoh also called the wise men and the sorcerers: now the magicians of Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments. For they cast down every man his rod and they became serpents: but Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods.’” Ahmed instantly thought, He is an actor. Of course he has memorized many lines. But he smiled at Henry, “Your Bible claims that the Christian Aaron had a rod that swallowed up our serpents, Mr. Irving? It is a Christian tale, it seems, your Bible.” Henry grinned wryly. “Indeed, Mr. Kamal, and it may very well be a Christian rewrite of history. Perhaps, Aaron’s rod was actually defeated by the magician’s serpents. However, we would dearly love for you to share your knowledge on this magician, Dedi.” The men all turned toward Ahmed in expectation. It seemed to him that they all deferred to Henry Irving, who seemed to have attended no college at all. Ahmed himself had taught at the Egyptian University in Cairo, trying to set up an Egyptology section for teachers so that his countrymen could learn about their history, rather than have invaders come in and reinterpret it. He set great store by an educated man and was unsure why this play actor garnered so much respect. Ahmed had seen The Corsican Brothers and knew that Henry Irving was good at sleight of hand and onstage

tricks, and that his ability to conjure things out of air created much talk and speculation. But why the other men showed so much deference to him was puzzling. Ahmed addressed Bram, with whom he felt the most comfortable. “Mr. Stoker, I know you are writing a play, The Undead. Is this Dedi material for your play?” Bram saw Henry look away at the mention of the play, as he longingly replied, “Ah, Mr. Kamal, it’s now called Dracula, and Dedi has nothing to do with my play.” Seeing that this play was a sore subject for Bram, Ahmed gently inquired, “Why do you wish to know about Dedi?” As much as he liked the burly Irishman, he knew the first move was to find out what it was they wanted before you showed your cards. Bram held his hands up before his face in a prayer-like fashion and inhaled a deep breath. He took a note out of his coat pocket and put it before Ahmed. “Someone tried to kill Mr. Irving at the theatre last night and left this note.” Ahmed looked it over, reading, “Just as Dedi hypnotized a lion and found it to be only an entertainer, so are you. We unite to stop your trespass.” He looked back at the strange, long face of Mr. Irving. Ahmed and Henry were dressed almost identically, like proper English gentlemen: the black frock coat, the pince-nez sitting on the bridge of the nose. Except for the tall fez on Ahmed’s head, they could have come from the same fashion plate. “How did someone try to kill Mr. Irving?” Bram’s brogue came out stronger, belying his emotions. “You’ve seen The Corsican Brothers. The large glass mirror had its rope cut so that it fell and almost decapitated Mr. Irving on stage.” Ahmed raised his eyebrows. “Well, Gentlemen, let us talk about Dedi. But I must warn you: I will expect some help in a different matter in exchange for this information.” “We will do whatever we can,” Felkin calmly stated. Henry sensed condescension on Felkin’s part and added, “Of course, we will be glad to assist you, as we are most grateful for your most knowledgeable opinion.”

“Very well. For this information I am about to give you, I would like your word that you will help me start a correspondence with whoever is in charge of the antiquities department at the Museum of Berlin. I want to learn how a Henry Westcar happened to take the papyrus out of Egypt some sixty years ago.” Mathers began to sputter, “Ad-d-d-dolf Erman donated Westcar’s papyrus, ‘Tale of King Cheops and the Magicians’, to the M-m-m-museum of Berlin just two years ago. I have been in correspondence with him. I can help you.” The men looked anxiously at Ahmed, who gazed at the bugeyed Mathers and decided to proceed, since he had written to this Herr Erman earlier, to no avail. The fact that Mathers knew they had renamed Pharaoh Khufu as King Cheops, perhaps to hide the trail, was a good sign that Mathers’ knowledge was bona fide. “Very well, if you will help me establish a relationship with the Museum of Berlin, we can discuss Dedi and this note. Dedi is said to be the first documented magician, as noted in the Westcar papyrus. King Khufu (or ‘Cheops’ to you Englishmen) was building his Great Pyramid in Giza, in what for you would be the twenty-sixth century before the birth of your Christ, in the fourth dynasty. When building his great pyramid, he searched for the formula for the number of rooms that the great god Thoth had built in his pyramid. To Egyptians, the number of rooms within a pyramid bestows a special, magical quality. The secret chambers with crystals and mirror reflectors aid the priests and magicians to listen to the Universe and obtain wisdom which culminates in intercourse with the Gods.” The men sat blinking at one another. Ahmed thought, All right, this is good. They are not protesting with their tiresome morality, as some here at the museum have. “Pharaoh Khufu had heard of a magician, Dedi, who was said to be 110 years old, to eat five hundred loaves of bread and a whole shoulder of beef, and to drink hundreds of jugs of beer every day. He was able to restore decapitated heads and hypnotize wild beasts, making one lion so tame it followed him like a pet. The pharaoh had this famed magician brought to his court, where he ordered him to sever and re-attach the head of a criminal. Dedi refused, but instead

chose one of the pharaoh’s geese at random. With one hand, he pulled off the goose’s head, extending it in his hand to show that it was truly decapitated. He laid the lifeless goose’s headless body on the floor and walked away. After everyone assembled saw that the goose was dead, he put the body under his arm and slowly pushed the lifeless head back onto the body. The goose suddenly squawked and came back to life, running around the room. He did the same with a pelican and an ox. Khufu then asked Dedi to tell him how many rooms there were in the temple of Thoth, but Dedi replied, “Please forgive me, I do not know their number but I know the place where the answer is…there is a box made of flint in the room called ‘Inventory’ at Heliopolis. In that box you will find what you seek.” Felkin interrupted, “Did he find the flint box?” Ahmed thought, Of course you are thinking there is a flint box for you to find. He continued. ”The king pressed Dedi about the location of the box, but Dedi could only tell him he would give birth to three pharaohs and they would have access to the box and its contents.” Henry picked up the story. “And so King Khufu’s son, Khafre, built another pyramid and the Great Sphinx, and his son, Menkauna, built the third Great Pyramid of Giza.” “Very good, Mr. Irving,” Ahmed responded, pleased that the Englishman seemed to know the lineage of his kings. “Yes, they were the kings of his prophecy.” There was a silence in the room as the men absorbed the story. Bram finally broke the silence. “So, Dedi decapitated animals and brought them back to life.” “Yes. The fact that the mirror was used to try to kill Mr. Irving is most interesting in that a mirror was a possible artifact used in the channeling of Thoth in his pyramid.” Waite finally joined in. “Who are the ‘we’ in the note? Why are they uniting to kill Mr. Irving?” Ahmed stood. “It seems the trick in The Corsican Brothers of the head floating and then reattaching itself to the body may have seemed like an insult to the story of Dedi. There may be energies

attracted by this feat, energies that have manifested in someone who feels called to cease this trick. Somehow, the spirit of Thoth has been channeled. It may not have lit on the person who summoned him, so he may be trying to find a suitable channel.” Felkin looked down. “Who would be channeling the powers of Thoth?” Ahmed looked at him and he knew: Dr. Felkin. He had been engaging in ancient incantations and had somehow summoned the great god’s energies. This was why they had been obsessing over papyrus and instructions. Thoth, outraged, had come to stop their playing with his light and fire. Looking straight into Dr. Felkin’s eyes, he warned, “Like all living things, all dead things do not obey according to every morality.” Dr. Felkin responded by silently stroking his silky beard and smiling. Like a snake, thought Ahmed. Henry, in a reflective state, asked, “Mr. Kamal, Thoth is not pleased with the stage trick in The Corsican Brothers? That is the threat that was left at the theatre?” Ahmed smiled. “The stage trick of the head being reattached and the mirror used in ritual are reminiscent of the Thoth ceremonies, so it seems there are followers of Thoth, or perhaps Thoth himself, who want to make themselves or himself known. Dedi is an example of a performer for the king, so whoever this ‘they’ may be, they may be asking you, Sir Henry, to do some sort of transformation for them, just as Dedi did.” Henry leaned back and in a deferential manner asked, “Now Mr. Kamal, do you really think Dedi was the first professional magician?” Ahmed, smiling, looked back at Henry. “But of course, Mr. Irving.” “And why is that?” “Because he was paid in beer.” Part Two Guardians to the Magic

In her mother’s cousin Marian Shattuck’s cold guest bedroom, Pamela looked at the trunk full of winter clothes that were to be given away once their ship set sail for St. Andrews. The wool coats, the silk stockings, tweed vests and velvet dresses all exactly folded into the same square shape. So many of the fancier outfits were smaller versions of her mother’s clothes. When they went to church, they were a matched pair. On top of the neat piles was her silk bonnet, her first grownup hat. It was cherry red, with green string ties that ended in fringe, the front piece a panel of fluted pieces built like a wave on one side. She would pin flowers or pinecones to the folds of the hat until her mother forbade her to add one more, “stick, bone or weed.” And now she was to leave it in England, for the strong Jamaican sun would ruin it, her mother said. Jamaica seemed like a strongly lit beach in her mind. Father said there was almost no fog there and a different sort of rain and that the air was thick with flowers. That she couldn’t wait to see, air thick with flowers. But there was a wall in her mind when she tried to see how she would be living with her parents. She had already been told that she would go to the Catholic school with the other ten-yearolds and have a nana who would look after her. Her nana would be from the island, one of the freed black Jamaicans who understood the ways of a British household. Pamela wasn’t sure what that meant. She had only seen a handful of black men in England and never a black woman. “Maybe my nana and I will have tea with finger sandwiches, like the grownup people.” She put her old bonnet on one last time and looked at herself in the mirror. The hat was tight. It didn’t tie in a bow under her chin anymore, and the two flaps with the fringe barely went past her ears. She gave herself a serious look and mimed picking up a teacup, her pinky finger crooked as she had seen her mother do. She heard the front doorbell of her mother’s cousin’s house, and she ran to the window to look out. A carriage pulled up and her mother and her mother’s cousin, Marian, came out of the front door into the late afternoon sunshine to the waiting carriage.

“Look at me, Mother, look!” she called to the two figures hurrying to the curb. She pressed her face completely against the window, her red bonnet smashing against the glass and obscuring her sight as it fell across her face. By the time she straightened up, they were gone. Father had not been in all day. He was out giving a speech or something. Marian’s husband was shut up in the library, the children were all older and terribly uninterested in entertaining their ten-yearold relation, even though she had fallen off a bridge and seen the mirror accident on the Lyceum stage. No one seemed to believe either story or care. So, it was another night to herself, despite a house full of family. It was always this time, day turning into night, that made Pamela restless and anxious. The sun setting and all the colors bleeding out into inky forms had her looking in corners and peering down hallways to see what was really there. When she had asked her art tutor in Manchester why colors disappeared, he said something about light waves and rods and cones in her eyes, which she didn’t follow at all. She did understand that the color waves had different weights: the bounce of blue, the yawn of yellow, the wiry racing of red. And sometimes the darker shades of the same colors were slower, thicker, the purples, and greens. She was still learning how a source of light could make a color lighter and how the weight of a shadow could darken the same shade. She walked over to the trunk her grandmother had packed for her, crammed to the top with light cotton shifts and artist’s supplies, for she had been determined that even though her granddaughter was going to the tropics, she would still be a lady and that her artwork and drawing studies would not suffer. Grandmother had bought her drawing pads, a portable easel, brushes, a watercolor kit, pencils, and an instructional drawing set from the Art Academy. When she was given the artist’s supplies, her mother smiled and said, “This will give Pamela hours of pleasure, Mother. Thank you.” The pencil sharpener was lying on top. She took one of the many fine pencils from the trunk and slowly sharpened the end, smelling the sweet, woody, burnt smell of the curling leaf spiraling

from the end and twisting in a crescent shaving. Preparing her brushes and pencils was always a calming and soothing process. In Manchester, her tutor allowed her use of the pencil or brush only when she proved that she knew how to care for them. These days she rarely heard the music that once continuously played in her head. It seemed to have stopped ever since she fell off the bridge. It was as if the music in her brain was rewired. It didn’t feel like the music was gone, just a tune she couldn’t recognize. “Someday I will no longer be alone,” she thought. “I will have Kings, and Queens, and Knights all around me. And strange people too. People like me. Children and magical people.” She took out one of the drawing pads and opened it, sitting on the floor with her newly sharpened pencil. “Who will keep me company tonight,” she wondered as she started to sketch one of her magical friends. That night, when her father returned, he found Corinne in the front parlor with a glass of sherry, seated on an ottoman, looking into the fire. Pamela was hidden in the staircase watching through a slit in the door as she rose and embraced him, standing in the doorway between the foyer and the room. “Oh darling, I am so glad you are home. I’ve been so worried about you. I had a feeling something happened.” “Posh, it was nothing. Just a little séance, a voice put on by this Mr. Home to say there was a message to me from a Philip Smith from the witchery in the 1600’s.” “Really?! Oh, tell me everything! Are we cursed, darling? Is the legend true?” Just then they both looked up to see Pamela in her white nightgown, crouching on the second-floor landing, listening to every word they were saying. The precocious girl from the Lyceum Theatre now looked like a frightened cat smelling fire. Mr. Smith craned his neck forward, gestured her to come down the stairs, and she flew to his side. Smoothing her hair, he spoke softly to his child, “Don’t be frightened, Miss Smith! If we are cursed, we are cursed with too

much opportunity.” “Miss Smith!” That was the first time Pamela was called anything other than Pamela, she thought as she nestled as a bird under his wing. Her mother reached out and patted her arm as if she were reassuring a dog waiting for a treat. Pitchy-Patch, his many strips of colored fabric flapping in the breeze, ran towards Pamela and Nana as they stood in front of the fountain at the Victoria Market. Pitchy-Patch, his black face glowing with white markings like a skull, grabbed Pamela’s hand and made motions as though he were going to carry her off. Suddenly, a masked man with horns, the Devil, ran up to them and grabbed her other hand, and each character mimed trying to pull Pamela to his side. Nana, laughing her big beautiful laugh, came between PitchyPatch and the Devil and shooed them both away. As the two characters released Pamela, they teasingly swatted Nana on her bottom and ran back to join the parade still snaking down the street. The heat of the afternoon sun made their disappearing forms waiver as they grew smaller and smaller. Nana’s large, wise head looked down at the awestruck thirteenyear-old, who remained fixed on the retreating figures of the Devil and Pitchy-Patch. Pamela looked up at her Nana, her lustrous dark face framed by a gigantic ruby-red headscarf, and two large hoop earrings swaying back and forth. Her holiday dress, was made of a fine English calico print, had large ruffled sleeves and was accented with a yellow suede belt. She proudly wore her Jamaican quadrille dress, and even though Pamela begged to have a similar dress, she refused her request. “Dis is a Jamaica ting, not of your knowin’.” Pamela had only been with her nana for a few short weeks and loved her already, for her nana was only too glad to entertain her and take her on trips. They would ride from the suburb of St. Andrews into the city of Kingston to the Post Office where the big oak marked the meeting place or to the wharf to watch the many tall sailing ships in the harbor. Pamela loved to hear her many stories: Annancy, the clever spider who eluded many perils, Laurita who danced with a king, and Death, who chased children and caught and killed them.

Nana wove together tales of magic, monsters and the Maroons, slaves who escaped from the Spanish and lived in the mountains. Pamela told her the story of her falling off the bridge and the mirror breaking on the stage. Nana said there was powerful magic around her and that someday Pamela would find the Terriss man again. When she told her the story of flying with Maud, there was only silence as she puffed on her pipe after she had taken her hand and given them a hard look. “What are you looking for, Nana?” “Signs of the devil. But I only see signs of a story teller.” So not even Nana believed her story. The end of the parade was soon in sight as the two tall masked figures of the Queen and King were seen down the block, a crowd of children running behind them and taunting them. The hot sun made kicked-up dust start to rise like low-lying clouds, and some of the more delicate women around the fountain dipped their handkerchiefs into the water to dab at their faces. As the music, noise and crowds wandered down the street, Nana firmly took Pamela’s hand and walked down the sidewalk to the Post Office. Pamela loved the feel of Nana’s hand wrapped around her own and she gladly wandered through the avenue. The Christmas garlands in the windows, the festive gift boxes stacked as displays, and the horses with large wreaths around their heads made for an exotic holiday scene for Pamela. This was her first Christmas in St. Andrews, and after the parade, Nana promised they would go to the Post Office to see if there were any letters. Sometimes there would be letters from Grandmamma in Brooklyn, who had sailed back to America. And twice Pamela had received postcards from Maud in Paris, where she was ‘out’ in society and meeting “beaucoup de personnes merveilleuses.” “Maud was falling in love with someone with a mustache.” At least that’s what Pamela thought she heard her mother say to her father as she lay bedridden for yet another day. Mother’s cough had definitely not improved, and she spent many hours in her darkened bedroom with a rum medicine to quiet the hacking when

she could not sleep. Sometimes days would go by before Nana told her to make herself presentable, Mother wanted to see her. They would creep into the downstairs bedroom, overhead palm fans turning, and Mother would have already fallen asleep again. Quietly, they would tiptoe out and hear a moan behind the shut door. As they entered the Post Office, the British clerk behind the counter called out, “Ah, Miss Smith, I don’t know how your family rates but yet another letter for the Smith family today!” Nana brought Pamela up to the window, and the smartly dressed older man in his pressed uniform handed a battered envelope to Pamela. Nana beamed as Pamela did her curtsey and looked at the handwriting on the front of the letter and then at the cancelled stamp. Yes! Maud’s handwriting and the stamp from Paris! Pamela did a little dance to the door and burst out to race to the pony and carriage waiting for them behind the market. Nana called after her, “You sit dere while I get the meal makin’s.” The groom from the market who was tending to the tethered pony helped Pamela up into the carriage seat, the white pony stamping its feet and tossing its ears. Pamela loved riding with Nana and had been promised that she would someday be able to drive the pony cart herself. She tore open the envelope to find a postcard and a letter addressed to her father that had been sealed with wax. She inspected the wax imprint, MG, burned into the center of the seal. It was affixed so firmly that Pamela knew there was no way to pry it off without being detected. She turned to the postcard, a watercolor view of the Seine with booksellers and flowers along the sidewalk next to the bridge. Darling Girl, I had a dream about you. Do not be afraid. I will be there, even if you cannot see me. And we will fly. All my love, Maud.” Pamela sat back in her seat and fanned herself with the postcard, imagining the violet perfume on the card, thinking, I’m

fanning myself with a French postcard from my French friend who writes me from Paris. The buzz from the parade had settled down, and now a promenade of people, black and white, meandered between shops and street. Her eyes grew heavy with the sultry air and she let out a large sigh, hoping to see Nanny with the errand boy carrying the foodstuffs from the store. Down the street, in the haze of the kicked-up dust, she just barely made out a blue-black crow flying low to the street. How odd, she thought, I’ve never seen one fly like that before. Just then the groom let go of the pony’s bridle and bolted into the building next to them. The pony, still lashed to the rail, whinnied and shook. Frightened, Pamela looked around to see what he could have been afraid of. Seeing nothing but the crow wending its way down the street, she twisted her head every which way to see what was happening as the pony began to buck the carriage. All at once the blue-black bird was before her – it was no bird. It was a duppie, a witch of Jamaica. At first sight, she seemed to be a fish or a bird floating in the air. Then, in the fading afternoon light, she transformed into a large woman standing right before Pamela. She cast her terrible great eyes on her and pointed her finger at the quivering girl. Just then Pamela heard the sound of Nana yelling as she ran down the street, “No, no, you don! Ya git away from my girl!” With that, the fierce eyes turned to see Nana charging down the sidewalk, the errand boy with his boxes close behind. A silvery metallic sound rang out, and the duppie slipped out of her skin. It crumpled and fell to the ground like a discarded snakeskin. The outline of the duppie still floated in midair and met Nana, crying out, “Kin, you no know me?” “Duppie, you no kin of mine, away!” And with that, the outline of the witch evaporated and her blueblack skin shriveled into a small, blackened pile on the ground. Nana yelled at the boy to put the boxes in the carriage and rifled through one of them. Pamela hung on to the side to see what Nana was doing while the pony danced and fussed. A small tin of pepper

was finally found and opened, and Nanny raced to the front of the carriage, pouring a stream of powdered pepper over the now iridescent pile. The errand boy stood staring at them both and then tore back down the street to the market. After soothing and unhitching the pony, Nana pitched herself into the driver’s seat and gave the reins a shake to signal to the pony to go. After a quick jump, the pony raced for a block until Nana was able to get him back under control and maintain a steady pace. Pamela found her arms tightly around Nana’s waist as she drove. “Nana, did you kill her? Nana burst out laughing and with one hand reached for the pipe in her skirt pocket. After she settled the pipe firmly in her mouth, she reached for a small metal box, her matchsafe, which held her matches. With one hand, she struck the match on the outside of the box and lit her pipe. Pocketing the matchsafe, she took the reins in both hands and then looked down at Pamela. “Don wanna kill ‘er. But, ya kill fire with fire. Remember dat.” Pamela clung to Nana as the carriage swayed from side to side in the lowering light. The fire crackled in the open pit, the tiny sparks trailing upwards into the dark, night sky. Nana said that these stories could only be told when daylight hours had faded, as daylight spirits might be listening. The slurp of the waves pulsing against the beach kept rhythm in the background and the night air was pulsing with the caws of parrots and dogs howling from the nearby house, as the nighttime flowers released their perfume into the salty air. At night the buckra children, white children of the British families living in St. Andrews, would gather around Nana and listen to the Annancy stories, thrilling and terrifying them at the same time. Each family would bring a large torch to be set next to their supper before them on blankets on the beach, and the night perfuming flowers would ink their intoxicating scent into the last breeze which unfurled in the gathering dusk. Nana had the most expressive, large eyes, her mouth twisting and gyrating as she spun her stories out for the small group seated

on the ground with her. Wearing a hand-me-down yellow dress of Pamela’s mother, the sleeves slipping back from her long arms, she gestured dramatically as she introduced her next story, one of Pamela’s favorites. “In a long before time, there was a Obeah woman who have two daughters, Haylefayley and Rosabella. And she marry a man who have two children, Pretty Peallope and Simeon. And when Pretty Peallope feel please, the weather is fine but when she is vex, the weather is very unpleasant.” It was the more gory version of the Cinderella story that Nana was telling, for Nana knew the nice version that she told when Pamela’s mother was awake and could hear, and kept this version to gatherings without Mrs. Smith. The plot containing chopped-off feet, plucked-out eyes and Pretty Peallope being thrown into the river by her two stepsisters was more violent and more enthralling to Pamela. Her father’s warden was standing behind the children, his eyes opening wide at the gruesome section of the lopping off of body parts while the children lay splayed out before the storyteller, eyes and mouths opened wide in fascination. Pamela giggled as she watched the warden shudder at the section of the plucked-out eye traded for grapes and then placed in Pretty Peallope’s eye socket. Pamela watched her Obeah nanny, Nana, cast her spell over the group as she voiced the King, the brother Simeon and the wicked Obeah woman and her two daughters. What a deep, dark voice the King had, and a creaky, breaking voice for the wicked Obeah. Her eyes would shift from side to side, taking in the spellbound children, letting her words sink in. Oh, but Nana was a good storyteller! So calm in the parts where she would lay out the characters and then, when the action really got going, she would lean forward and her eyes would take on every horror with relish. How I wish Maud were here with me. She would so love the stories, and the fire on the sticks on the beach! thought Pamela as she twisted herself further into the sand to listen. In everyday life, Nana was Pamela’s main caretaker; she issued the orders to her mother and father, announcing with a stern

countenance what Pamela needed that day. Today, Pamela would need to take the pony and cart out on the back road to the big tree, by herself. Today, Pamela needed to watch the alligator swim at the sister’s pond. Today, Pamela needed to stay up late on the large porch veranda when the moon came out to hear the stories with the other children. Father was usually out trying to get a railway up in Maroon Town in the mountains, where it was said powerful magic would never let the white man shackle the earth. The nighttime stories of the Queen Nanny leading the Windward Maroons against the British were some of Nana’s favorites and she told the story of the cauldron scalding the troops and the herbs incapacitating the soldiers on their arrival with relish. Nana had said that there would never be a leash around Jamaica and that these white men trying to collar her would only lead to a curse on each house of the invaders. Even in 1892, there were stories of buckra being poisoned by household staff. Pamela had once asked Nana, “Because I am a buckra, am I an invader, too, Nana?” Nana looked at her with her dark eyes settling on her troubled face and took her hand and caressed the child’s entire face, as though she were wiping it with a cloth. “Sure ting, but you’d be de invader of me heart, me darlin’.” Just when the fairy tale was building to its awful resolve with the evil step mother and step daughters being ground up in a sugarcane mill and crunched up to nothing, her father’s secretary came running up to their fireside. “Miss Pamela, come quickly, your mother is failing entirely.” She remembered scrambling to her feet, the warden on one side, Nana on the other, Nana’s bare feet flying over the dusty path. They ran in the dark, the sounds of their panting the only noise. The front door of the house was open, all the candles had been lit and the staff was lining the hallway as they flew up the stairs to Corinne’s bedroom. Pamela approached the turned-away head lying on the bed, her father on his knees, clutching the hand of her mother. Pamela remembered thinking it looked like a wax claw. Her father was not a

tall man and he seemed even smaller, stretched out towards the prone figure. His hair, always pomaded down so that is was close to his head, now shot out in every direction, floating around his head like a fuzzy cloud, waving and nodding in grief. There were the shaking shoulders of a silently weeping maid and the doctor with his bag moving to sit in the chair but then everyone froze. Was it a bell? No, now nothing. Not one sound, whatsoever. It was as if all the sound in the room had been sucked out. She tiptoed past her father and saw her mother’s face. Only it wasn’t her mother’s face. The eyes were looking downward and her mouth was slightly ajar, her fine, short fringe of curled hair on her temple was damp, framing the frozen features on her face. Then, a deep inhale of breath and the chest of her rose and fell, but a strange moan began emanating from her very bowels. Nana gripped Pamela’s shoulders as she joined Pamela and her father on their knees. Her mother’s next exhaled breath turned into a gasp and the death rattle started, its gruesome grind wracking her body. Once the sound filled the room, hundreds of little winged flowers floated out of her mother’s mouth. They floated up, out into the room and up onto the ceiling, which started to devour them all. Nana stood and with one hand, started to gather them mid-flight and throw them back onto the chest of her mother. Her eyes fluttered open and landed on the sight of her daughter, staring open-mouthed. A slow smile started to spread across her face, settling into a frozen bliss as her eyes pulsed once more and dimmed as the flowers disappeared. The next day, Father had already left to go back to work supervising the new train line in the mountains and the staff was preparing the parlor for a viewing. Doors were opened so that the breeze could help cool her body as they prepared it for burial. The last moments seemed to have left her with her mouth hanging open, the whole right side sliding downwards. Nana had to work her magic to make her seem as though she were sleeping, or so it was whispered in the kitchen. All the traditions were being worked out: the body was to be taken out of the house feet first, all the windup

clocks in the house were stopped, the mirrors covered with sheets and the furniture rearranged so that Pamela’s mother would not come back and find the place familiar. She would not be encouraged to stay on but to go on. Pamela wrote her initials, P C S, in the corner of the mermaids that she drew; it was to be left in the funeral shift as a last token. Letters had been written to Brooklyn and Massachusetts to Pamela’s mother’s family – the Colmans. It would take a month for them to arrive and weeks more to arrange passage for the Colman faction to travel there. Tacoma, the manservant, warned that Mrs. Smith’s family was “never gonna come to St. Andrews, not now, not even to bury her.” Nana had come into Pamela’s bedroom with a breakfast tray, something the maid usually did, and ordered Pamela to sit, and eat breakfast, they had things to do that day. After eating half-a-mouthful of cake and melon, Pamela dressed in her white smock and followed Nana out to the horse barn. There the pony, Mercutio, was prancing and waiting to bound away from the grooms who were hitching him to the cart. Nana jumped up onto the passenger seat and motioned Pamela to take the reins. Pamela groggily climbed on the seat, took the reins and sat straight up. The pony’s ears twitched back and forth, the feet pawing the ground and at her gentle ‘haw’, sprang forward. As they settled into a clip-clop swaying rhythm, Nana reached into her bag and pulled out a pipe and began stuffing it. After she lit it, she began puffing away and put one foot up on the dash of the cart. “Miss Pamela, I am goin’ to be tellin’ you some tings now. Ya mudder is not gonna git be wid you now and you beddah get use dat fact.” “Yes, Nana.” She looked at Nana’s face, framed by her large white headdress. Her blue-black face crinkling around the edges, the pipe leaving a waft of smoke in their wake, she was a smoldering volcano. But Nana’s eyes were soft and full as she took in her diminutive driver.

“And you gonna find out in dis world dat you have some magic in ya.” “Yes, because my grandmother Corinne told fortune and wrote books. And a witch cursed somebody in Salem a long time ago.” “No, smarty girl. Your magic is coming from de fadder’s side. Look at yer fadder’s hair and nose, same as you got, child. There is some magic in there, maybe from before the great war in de America, but dat is where the magic is from. Not from de actressy mudder that was always doin’ de parlor actin’.” “My father has magic?” “No, your father killed his magic a long time ago. But it come through the blood to you and I teach you some ways to keep it.” Sitting at Nana’s sister’s house, the small open kitchen was full of bustle and noise. Griddle cakes were served right off the pan and children of every size clamored for the first servings, as Prudence, Nana’s sister, served Pamela. Prudence was tall like Nana, but round in the middle with her white apron giving her an even wider appearance. She had a tooth missing and the same tall wrapped headdress Nana had, but she seemed more of the earth with a louder voice and would hit her thigh to emphasize a laugh or repeated remark. Nana sat on a chair near the open door and watched Pamela, a black cat swishing its tail around her legs. “So, she a still-body like ol’ Grouber? Sorry, Miss Pamela, dats a hard ting when de body is a still like dat. And you such a lady at ten to have a mudder like dat. Have two cakes, now.” As the warm pancakes slid into her plate, on either side of Pamela she could feel the warm bodies of the children watching her every move. Teasingly, little fingers aped walking up to her plate to pilfer the steaming cakes, resulting in gales of laughter. Pamela actually felt the muscles in her face trying to smile, it was as if they were creaky and needed oiling. Tears stung in her eyes and rolled down her face as she chewed the sweet cakes. She felt safe and cared for but still so alone and odd. Always the strange one in the room.

Sensing her grief, Prudence patted her arm and said, “Oh, you let it out, little girl. It gotta come out sometime.” With that Pamela buried herself in Prudence’s side and wept until she was gasping. When she looked up, all the other children had cleared out and Nana was standing in the doorway. “Calm yerself now, child. And ya come wid me.” She reached out to Pamela and took her hand strongly in hers and pulled her outside. Standing in a darkened shed, Nana, Prudence and Pamela peered into the corner where a large metal tub with sand in it was encased by a short wooden fence. The sounds of the chickens and hogs punctuated the air while their eyes adjusted to the darkness in the cool room. Prudence opened the shutter to the one window and Pamela saw that four large white eggs lay buried just below the surface of the sand, the orbs just barely showing beneath the sand’s surface. “What are they?”, Pamela asked softly. “Ya be seeing soon,” Prudence cooed back. “It de day…tree months since day dere mudder left dem here.” They sat on stools and Prudence and Nana passed the pipe back and forth. Prudence yelled out to one of the children to bring a bucket of water from the well and soon, a small child delivered the pail and was ushered immediately out. The pail was placed near the tub and Prudence and Nana dipped their hands in the water and shot sprinkled drops of water on the eggs. Then, Pamela saw it, a small, dark dot emerging on one of the eggs. She stepped back in fright but Nana laughed and pulled her forward. A small pick, an egg tooth shaped like a tiny white curved sword, pierced the shell of the egg and wriggled inside, creating a darker tear. The skin of the egg was like damp canvas, droopy and thick, and the hole continued to enlarge until two golden eyes appeared in blackness of the white egg. Pamela took a quick inhale of breath and looked closer. Within the egg, a coiled reptile twitched. It blinked at her and then raised it’s tiny dinosaur head out towards her. They stared unblinking at one another for a moment and then the alligator grunted and vocalized a

small ‘ow’ as its body writhed inside the egg container. Prudence very carefully picked up the egg and began peeling away the outer sections of the shell while the baby breathed and winced, continuing its gaze on Pamela. “Ow.” Pamela mimicked back, “Ow. Ow. Ow.” The baby crooked its head and looked directly at her, prompting the two sisters to burst out laughing. “It be thinking you is its mudder, child!”, Prudence gasped. “He’s beautiful.” “Here you hold him, while we gets dese odders ones born.” Pamela held the bejeweled, squiggling baby… a snake, a turtle, yes, it’s body could have been any of them but with its long snout, it truly was a crocodile, and one whipping around in her hand. “Is he mine?” “He’s yours. But he gonna live here…you name him so dat he knows he yours, tho.” “Albert.” Holding the eggs, peeling back the layers, Nana and Prudence smiled. “Albert. Good on him for de name. He gonna be lookin’ after you.” “Good. I’m going to take him to Paris to meet Maud.”

Ellen Terry's Curse In the early morning light, a carriage rumbled down Tite Street in London. The rare sunshine broke between the clouds and shined inside, the shimmer of hundreds of glimmering green beetle wings reflected the appearance of the rare, soft sunlight that appeared in its window. The iridescent jeweled beetle wings were sewn into the court dress of the 13th century Scottish Queen, Lady Macbeth. Ellen Terry, the most famous actress of her day, was on her way to the painter Mr. Sargent’s studio to have her portrait painted. Oscar Wilde, living on Tite Street, happened at that moment to part the curtains of his bay window and saw this astounding sight – a fourwheel carriage conveying the Scottish Queen to his neighbor’s. Wilde later wrote of this moment, “The street, that on a wet and dreary morning has vouchsafed the vision of Lady Macbeth in full regalia magnificently seated in a four-wheeler, can never again be as other streets; it must always be full of wonderful possibilities.” Ellen herself sat twirling one of her long braids and laughed in response to a comment made by the burly man with dull red hair, beard and mustache sitting across from her, Bram Stoker. She was at the height of her beauty and fame and still had the classic PreRaphaelite face that painters had clamored to paint since she was 16 years old. At 29, it was now known as the face of the Edwardian Age, and international painters lined up to paint their version. Sargent’s proposal was that she pose as Lady Macbeth crowning herself, ”filled top full of direst cruelty,” a scene not in the play. Ellen thought it one of the more interesting requests. Her crown of plated gold was a large, simple band with a Celtic symbol in the center. The dress had huge bell-shaped sleeves with cuffs, bordered in a Celtic design worked out in rubies and diamonds. A velvet cloak in heather tones, with two great griffons embroidered with flame-colored metallic thread lay behind her on a stack of cushions. Her own deep red hair was entwined with false

hair into two plaits twisted with gold ribbon that hung to her knees. A sash with Celtic symbols was strewn across her waist, and a lowlaying girdle sash hung across her hips. But it was the brilliance of the thousands of iridescent beetle wings, jewels of the smallest sort, which caught the eye. As she moved in her seat, they sparkled in the low light like early morning phantoms that had yet to disperse. Bram Stoker tried to keep his scowl as he conversed with Miss Ellen Terry but her merry ways continued to amuse him. A burly man, he had close-set eyes and a serious and somewhat fashionable look to him. It was important to him as second in command at the theatre that he be taken seriously. Today, his job was to escort the leading lady of the Lyceum Theatre to Sargent’s studio. Bram was devoted to Henry Irving and would perform any number of personal requests that the great renowned actor demanded of him. Today, Henry had asked that this trip be arranged for this was to be a “big day”. At this moment, Ellen Terry was teasingly flaying him with her braid wig-piece over his mention of a rumor that their current production of Macbeth was using real black magic. Ellen leaned back in her seat, still playfully batting Bram with her braid, and laughed riotously. “When, oh, when is this supposed black magic to take place onstage in our Scottish Play? When I’m washing the grape juice from my hands, or sleepwalking?” Bram, his large boxer’s frame shifting uncomfortably in his seat, coolly replied with his slight Irish accent, “Miss Terry, it is said that some believers feel Shakespeare used a real black magic recipe during the witches’ chant around the cauldron in Act I, Scene 3.” She dropped her braid and laughed softly, “During the cooking scene? Oh, Brammy, will wonders never cease?” He smiled patiently at the Lyceum Theatre’s leading lady, “Sometimes, Miss Terry, the believers of magic don’t mind tainting your fame with tales of black magic just to stir things up.” Ellen put her hand on her chin, leaned forward and gazed wonderingly at him, “My fame. My fame as a fallen woman or as a famous actress?”

“You don’t seem unduly affected by your fame in either case,” he kindly replied. “Oh! One’s pretty lively when one’s ruined,” she said in good humor. “I don’t think you are ruined, Miss Terry, and I don’t think Mr. Irving does either. But these stories of black magic could stir up the regular church-goers, and we have just now started to get them to come to the theatre. We’d hate to antagonize the Church now, wouldn’t we?” Bram quietly asked. The statement hung in the air. After a disastrous marriage at seventeen, Ellen had borne two children out of wedlock and was now employed as leading lady to Henry Irving. He was separated from his own wife and estranged from his two sons. It was a miracle that the Church hadn’t condemned Ellen and Henry, and they were treading on thin ice to think that the pulpit wouldn’t soon be bringing up the Lyceum Theatre depicting the Devil’s work on stage. “Ah, Bram, the Church. It is so sweet of you to be thinking of my reputation…” He thought, “Here it is, Miss Ellen’s catch-all phrase, ‘so sweet of you’; the cue to butt out.” “… I will deny any and all reports that I am a witch. But my reputation is better off left alone.” She leaned forward and for just a moment tears came to her eyes, as she softly said in her beautiful low voice, “But I admit it to you…” for a moment her voice faltered, “in private, that I would resort to witchcraft to be with Sir Henry. I only wish I knew he felt the same.” “So, my Miss Terry, why wouldn’t he love you? You know he’s trying to make an agreement with the wife to separate. But I hope you won’t consider marriage with that rascal you’ve begun to see? It’s not like he’s the father to your children.” Ellen had begun to be courted by former cavalry officer, Charles Kelly, who had a short temper and craved regular drink. Henry said he needed time to work out a proper divorce with his wife, Florence O’Callaghan, daughter of an upper class Army Surgeon General. He

had provided for his wife and two sons but refused to see her in person, as she despised his career. For these past two years, Henry had insisted that Ellen and he not be seen together so that there would not be cause for a trial with slanderous accounts in the newspapers. And there had been hints lately from Henry that the negotiations were starting to move ahead towards a formal divorce. Meanwhile, Charles Kelly sent Ellen gifts and thought that he would like to give acting a try, especially if he were to be seen with Henry Irving’s popular romantic lead. But Henry Irving had worked too hard to hand out work to amateur rivals for Ellen’s affection. In 1850, the twelve-year-old John Henry Brodribb, later to become Sir Henry Irving, was taken to see Samuel Phelps play Hamlet by his father, who had hoped his son would grow up to be a Methodist minister. For ten years Henry had been living in the countryside in Cornwall with his religious aunt and uncle, as his parents felt they couldn’t provide for him. Newly moved to London to be with them, the young boy decided, after seeing Hamlet, to become an actor instead of a minister. His mother totally rejected him. Ferociously religious, she believed her son was damned as an actor. She died unreconciled to him, whereas her husband was enormously proud of him, so much so that he copied by hand the rave reviews his son won in his lifetime. When the young actor was eighteen years old playing Romeo in an amateur production in Edinburgh to an unsuccessful reception, he heard that an eight-yearold girl, Ellen Terry, was playing Mamillius to great acclaim in Charles Kean’s Winter’s Tale in London. He was determined even then to become the top actor of his day, and his first step was to change his name to Henry Irving, choosing the name Irving after Washington Irving, his favorite American writer. His name would no longer be John Henry Brodribb, but Henry Irving. Ellen had no such trouble getting started in the theatre world, as her parents, Benjamin and Sarah Terry, had started as comic actors in a touring company with their eleven children, five of whom became actors. Ellen and her sister Kate would play the provinces with her parents, performing in sketches and plays. Their family was close and self-schooled; on the road they had only each other for

companionship and education. At seventeen she had married a 46year-old artist Mr. Watts after posing for his celebrated portraits of her: Choosing, Ophelia and The Watchman, among others. That marriage lasted only ten months, and she went back to acting, to great acclaim and a ruined reputation. Then, outside the realm of marriage, she had two children with an architect, whom she lived with in the countryside for six years but came back to ‘tread the boards’ when that relationship failed. But because she had made her reputation as a child star in Shakespeare, her reputation was not totally destroyed. Henry Irving was envious of Ellen’s pedigree and career. Charles Keen, the internationally recognized interpreter of Shakespeare, employed Ellen as his young ingénue, male and female, and she was considered theatre royalty, even if she had had an unfortunate marriage. Ellen had performed in some of the great theatres in London while Henry was an apprentice actor at the Theatre Royal Manchester. While in Manchester, Henry played all the great roles, learning in his lifetime between 350 and 400 roles by rote. He eventually gained control of the Lyceum Theatre, and after meeting Bram Stoker on tour in Dublin, invited him to come to London as his Acting Manager. Bram was only too happy to make the move to London and work with his idol, whom he had reviewed most favorably as a theatre critic. Together, they created the Lyceum Theatre Company and produced over 40 plays, averaging two new plays a year. In 1878, in Pimlico, the suburb of London where Pamela Colman Smith was born, Henry went to hire Ellen Terry for his theatre season. He arrived at her well-appointed house with his fox terrier dog waiting patiently by his side. He was nervous and eager to hire Miss Terry, who was the legitimate actress he needed for his company, despite her illegitimate children. In her elegant parlor with his dog by his side, his manner stiff and rigid, he proposed that she be his leading lady. The dog sensed his master’s anxiety, and when he had finished, the dog reacted by defecating on the rug. Henry’s mortification overcame his formal bearing, and he was all apologies

and solicitude, finally bursting out laughing when Ellen gaily responded, “Your dog thinks very little of your employing me!” The year that he hired Ellen Terry and opened his Lyceum, he played Hamlet to her Ophelia, which propelled them into a level of fame unheard of for actors in their day. Now that the theatre was an on-going success, Henry had to socialize with the upper crust and demanding society women. While he had dedicated his life to making the career of an actor respectable, the prejudice against actors was just now dwindling. It was only recently that actors could rent or buy homes, mingle in society, and be recognized as more than stroller kings bellowing for tossed coins. The carriage pulled up to Sargent’s studio, the rain paused for the time being and Bram sprang out of his seat. Gathering her beetle dress around her, Ellen prepared to leave the carriage when out of the front door of the studio a familiar tall form made his way quickly out of the house and opened the carriage door. Henry Irving, in his black frock coat and top hat, was elegantly dressed for ten in the morning, but he was always a formal dresser even on the slightest social occasion. He bowed to Ellen and then in his deep tones asked, “Might I have a word with you here, m’lady?” A delighted laugh rang out and Henry seated himself in the carriage seat across from Ellen as Bram made his way inside the townhouse to wait for the two stars to align. Henry took Ellen’s bejeweled hands and kissed them. Ellen turned and lowered the blinds on the inside of the carriage so they might have some privacy. When she turned back, Henry had taken off his hat, and leaned back in his seat, still holding her hands. His dark eyes softened as he took her in. “Miss Terry, you look like a queen! Mr. Sargent will be honored to paint you.” “Yes, Henry I am bedecked in our ‘bug special’ dress. It brings back such memories, doesn’t it?” When Henry and Ellen vacationed together during a break from the Lyceum Theatre, they stayed with Ellen’s dresser, Alice, near River Rother. It was an ancient house and they stayed two weeks, living the pastoral life. They had both said it was their Garden of

Eden. The memory of those evenings at Alice’s country house, called Smallhythe, at twilight suddenly came back to her: she and Alice in their white nightgowns chasing and leaping after the beetles at dusk, Henry and company sitting on the bricked portico, sipping their drinks, laughing at the women comically trying to capture the hapless insects for immortality on a stage costume. The shrieks when they caught the insects and the laughter when they didn’t, all played in her head. “You mean the summer you spent capturing bug beetles at Alice’s to put on this dress?” “Yes, Henry, but don’t forget these iridescent beetle wings are the only reason Mr. Sargent wants to paint me.” “Ah, Miss Terry, not the only reason.” “Henry, thank you for arranging this.” Henry cleared his throat and seemed overcome before he began speaking again. He held Ellen’s hands even tighter. “Miss Terry, you know I have loved you since we were cast as Romeo and Juliet. Both of us have had …relationships…” Ellen laughed, “And marriages! We are both old hands at that.” Henry grimaced, “True. But I have never told you why my marriage has been over these many years. Florence, eight months pregnant with our second son, and I were in a carriage heading to an opening night reception after the opening of The Bells. After all the standing ovations and praise, I had finally felt I had arrived. That was the moment when she demanded of me, ‘Are you going on making a fool of yourself like this all your life?’ I stepped out of the carriage and have never seen her since. I have continued to provide well for my family and now, years later, I have a relationship with my sons. But I refuse to see Florence, although she always accepts my offer of tickets to opening nights and continues to call herself ‘Lady Irving’.” Ellen could hear the bitterness in his voice as he pulled his hands away and lifted the window to the carriage to see the rain come down in a deluge. The pounding rain on the top of the carriage took over the interior, the horse lurched slightly forward and the cabbie settled the animal down quickly.

Henry took a deep breath and continued. “I’ve heard word that this Kelly wants to marry you and give your children a legitimate last name. I was hoping that I would be able to do so myself. But Lady Irving has heard word of this and informed me via her attorney that if there is to be any change in the status quo of our relationship, she will pursue you as the alienator of my affections in court.” Lifting the other carriage window, Ellen looked out to see the rain bouncing off the cobbled street. Unexpected tears sprang in her eyes and she blinked them back. “I see, Henry. I’m sorry that it has come to this. Of course, you can’t risk the reputation you have built for yourself or for your theatre.” Henry pulled Ellen to him and kissed her passionately, they remained entwined for more than a few minutes and then realized that the blinds had been drawn up. Henry tried to lower them and they broke off in his hand, leading them both to burst into laughter. Ellen then sat with her head on his shoulder and they embraced while the rain danced on the carriage top. “I suppose she has hired detectives to follow me?” “Yes. Dicksby and Dicksby.” “So, she knows about Captain Kelly’s intent to marry me? And his intention to adopt Edy and Gordon?” Henry sighed, “I’m sorry I could not provide that for them.” “Yes, they both adore you, Henry. You are the most generous and kind man we have ever known.” “Ellen, I am in talks to purchase Smallhythe.” “Alice’s house in the country?” “Well, actually, I bought it.” “You bought our bug palace? Why?” “Someone I love very dearly will need a place to live in the country. Even if I cannot be there with her.” He reached into his frock coat pocket and drew out a docket of papers. “Here is the deed, it is in your name. You are to say that you bought this with your Australian tour money.” Ellen grabbed the papers and went through them until she found the deed. Laughing, she read, “ Smallhythe, a sixteenth-century timber framed estate has fifteen acres, four fireplaces, brick terrace,

wishing well, nuttery, fruit trees, roses, a pond, and a barn. It doesn’t mention the bluebells or drop toilet into the garden. Or the ghost.” Henry smiled for the first time. “I don’t believe the ghost would care to be bought. Who was it again?” “Sir Robert Brigandyne, clerk of ships for Henry VIII!” Ellen continued to read the deed out loud. “The window frame on the first floor, from the stern of a galleon, the last ship Sir Robert made, ‘The Great Gallyon’, is to be considered a National Treasure.” “Well, Miss Terry, it is only right that one National Treasure live with another.” Ellen looked at Henry and softly said, “Ah. If only that meant that I would be living with you.” There was silence between the two while the rain slowed to the occasional ping. “Smallhythe will be your small landing place, even if I cannot be there. That summer we hired the small rig to drive and came upon Alice’s magnificent house empty, being used just to store fleece. And the ancient shepherd inside…” Ellen interrupted, “He didn’t live there, I think, he lived down the street.” Henry continued, “…Opened the door and when I asked, ‘Is this a nice house?’ he simply answered ‘No.’” “So you, of course, bought it. For me.” “Yes, and you are to say it was bought with your Australian tour money.” Ellen began to kiss Henry and he returned the affection until he realized that the broken blind in the carriage made them easy to spot. He pulled away from her and sat on the other seat. Ellen tried to compose herself. “Oh Henry, I wouldn’t mind having a child with you outside marriage. Wouldn’t you like to have a little girl?” Henry’s dark eyes flashed and he hit his hand into his fist. “Of course, I would. But Florence would make your life, my life and the child’s life, hell. My hands are tied, Ellen. Live in Smallhythe, love every moment of it. Marry Kelly if you must. But under no circumstances let his name be on the deed.”

“Yes, Henry.” “Promise me. Now that there is this Married Woman’s Property Act, you can own it outside of marriage.” “I promise.” “Very well then. Miss Terry, I wish I had happier news but now I must take my leave. You know you have my undying love and devotion.” “Yes, Henry. And you have mine.” She leaned in to kiss him one last time and he gently stopped her and placed his hands on his heart, then cupped her face. Without another word, he opened the carriage door, put on his top hat and strode down the glistening street. With that, the carriage lurched again in the misty rain and Bram came out of the townhouse and called to the driver, “Right. Here I am.” He went up to settle with the driver, and Ellen gathered the deed to her and wrapped the cloak around her to protect it against the rain. A small band of chimneysweepers and women with push carts with tea started to pass the carriage on the street. A wave of laughter went up as some of the workmen peered inside and saw Ellen sitting there in all her regalia. She nodded and smiled through her tears. Suddenly, an older woman climbed on the running board and stuck her face into the carriage. She could have been one of the witches from Macbeth: her lined face, the few teeth remaining, wild grey hair escaping from its moorings atop her head. A grey blanket was her cape against the rain, and her terrible, blood-shot grey eyes took Ellen in. Ellen shrank back in her seat and froze momentarily. The crone eyed her and said, “Your new daughter will need the strength to open the lion’s jaw, not shut it. Give her the strength.” And with that she disappeared. Aleister & Martha

Aleister stood over the small Christmas tree next to the corner, a sleety snow just starting. He was just coming from Herbert Pollitt’s house in Chelsea, where the Christmas decorations were excessive and garish: paper chain garlands, glass baubles, hanging ornaments not only on the tree but on the fireplace mantel, the windows, the staircase. Herbert’s family was a boisterous and excitable group. The many sisters, brothers, cousins and friends of the family had filled the house for the Christmas Eve supper and he was numb from the noise and constant talk. Herbert was his one friend from Cambridge, and his stories of a family holiday filled Aleister with a longing to come to London as Herbert had. He fantasized being greeted by a small herd of animated family, wanting to know all the details of his University life. Instead, he was staying at his mother’s newly relocated house, situated around the corner from his dour Uncle Thomas Bishop. With the money from the Crowley Brewery now in their hands, they both lived in big, cold, empty houses. “Perhaps,” he mused, “I can bring a little joy into the little life of my mother”. Since the death of her husband, she had two activities, church going and hiring and firing her household staff. “Or a little joy to the unfortunates who live and work for her.” He paid the sad ragamuffin vendor for the small tree and lifted it onto his shoulder. As he entered the entry-way of his mother’s townhouse, Martha Tabram, the current kitchen maid, stood at the end of the hallway. Martha had a full figure and a wild mop of black hair she anchored on top of her head with two large pins. Seeing him, she put her finger to her lips to silence him and motioned him to the kitchen. Putting the soggy tree down softly, Aleister approached the closed parlor door, boards squeaking as he glided down the hallway. Inside the parlor, he could hear his uncle Tom droning on about the Plymouth Brethren and knew that he could safely reach the kitchen undetected. His Uncle’s hearing was almost gone and his mother would be paying rapt attention. Once inside the kitchen, the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon hit him like a warm cloud. He tore off his coat and sat at the servant’s table. Martha giggled as she set a large plate of rolls and

gingerbread cookies in front of him. She sat down across from him as he ate in ecstasy, grinning as she saw the tall boy wolf down the food. Martha had been working for Mrs. Crowley for the past year, living in this cold, sterile house, where no singing or whistling was allowed. She hadn’t even known there was a boy until she heard it from the upstairs maid. This maid was a mousey little thing who hardly spoke English, Russian was all she knew and she curtseyed at the drop of a hat. The talk of Mr. Aleister coming up from Cambridge was mentioned only the day before the boy arrived when she was ordered to finally put linens on the bed in one of the secondfloor bedrooms. Since he had been out for the day, Martha was anxious to finally visit with the boy, she had never known anyone going to University. He picked up a cookie shaped like a wreath with a hard candy in the center. “Does mother know that you are making heathen cookies?” he asked sarcastically. “No, and she’s not about to, since I see you will be eating all the evidence.” With that, they both laughed and she picked up one of the cookies and took a bite. Martha had a hard life and was glad to have a kitchen maid position even if it was with the strict Mrs. Crowley. At thirty-five, she had no suitors or possibilities for any, and her family in Bethnal Green were all too consumed with their lives and their miseries to give any attention to where she was this Christmas Eve. This boy, not even twenty years old, was the closest thing to a son that she would have, and she saw that he was not a cherished member of this family, either. “Did you have a good time at your friend’s house, Mr. Crowley?” “It’s Aleister to you, Martha.” “Aleister, what is Aleister?” “It’s Irish for Edward, my father’s name.” “Ah, you weren’t given your father’s name?” He looked up and saw Martha’s kindly face and thought about his father. He wondered what he would think of his attending

Cambridge and studying the classics that they had talked about after his childhood lessons. “I was, but asked at a young age to change my name from Edward to Aleister.” “Yer father must have not liked that!” Aleister mulled this over and reached for a cinnamon roll on a plate. The food at University was better than at his mother’s but treats like rolls and cookies were never served at the University dining hall, or at his mother’s house. This was a new occurrence and it made a strange coziness to the bleak kitchen. Not that his mother had ever cooked, there had always been a cook and a kitchen maid who served the food – grey food. Grey meat, grey vegetables, grey bread. These rolls and cookies were colorful and full of flavor. “I think he liked being the only Edward.” “I’m sorry he’s gone for ya, Mr. Aleister.” “Well, I don’t think he’ll be coming back.” “Well, that’s a probable thing. Why would you think otherwise?” He thought of the cat that hung around the Brewery. The workmen were always saying that the cat had nine lives, something that Aleister obsessed over in the days after his father’s death. He would walk down the street to where he and his father had done their daily walks, reciting and talking, and where the cat would sometimes follow them. The first time he walked down the street by himself after the funeral, there was the cat sitting on the corner next to the Brewery, blinking at him. If the cat had nine lives, perhaps so did his father. But since uniting with his Saviour was the ultimate goal of his father’s faith, so his father might not be swayed by the lure of seeing his son again. Or maybe he was trying to find ways to come through to Aleister from the other side. The young man had heard of other religions that believed in reincarnation, where you could come back as other people or as an animal. Maybe that was why he killed the cat, to see if it could come back. Or maybe the cat was his father. But when he struck the cat with a rock in the head and watched the cat’s lifeless eyes drain, he

felt nothing. He watched the cat’s body for a whole day, he saw it was just a cat. And it didn’t come back to life. “Allle–ister?!!!” His mother’s voice rang out from the parlour and Martha involuntarily jerked herself up in alarm. Aleister smiled to see he was not the only one with that reaction. In front of the parlor fireplace, Aleister held out his small Christmas tree to his mother and uncle as an offering. His Uncle came up to him and took the tree as though it were a strange scientific experiment gone dreadfully wrong. He turned to his sister, shaking the tiny fir violently. “Nephew, what heathen practice is that school teaching you? Our Brethren have taught you that these pagan symbols are forbidden!” Seeing his mother narrow her eyes, he tried to take the tree. My first chance to introduce a new tradition, he thought, and it is going to fail miserably. Taking a different tack, he tried, “Our very own Queen Victoria and her family follow the German tradition of staging a Christmas tree.” Mrs. Crowley rose and pointed out the needles that were now shedding all over the plain wool carpet. “It is a heathen German practice! The only celebration is the sacred event of Christ's birth.” “Mother, you must allow…” “I knew when you came from University you would be full of yourself! Enough! You are the Beast 666. I've always known since you were little that you are inherently bad.” Aleister stared at his mother, who had turned away from him and was fussing with the back of her chair. His uncle had a hand cupped over his good ear and still seemed unsure as to what he had heard. “Well, Mother, since my excellent father was perfect, I can only assume any evil I have, I inherited from you!”

Mrs. Crowley shrieked, took the tree from her brother, and kicked it towards the door. “Take your pagan tree out with you! You are a godless child!” Aleister scooped up the shedding tree and hurried to the door, turning to his mother. “And you, Mother, are a brainless bigot of the most narrow, illogical and inhuman type!” Taking what was left of the tree, he threw open the door and slammed it on his way out. He ran out the front door and down the stoop’s steps, hurled the mangled tree to the curbside. Then, he waltzed down the street shouting, “Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas” at the top of his lungs. Tom Bishop and Mrs. Crowley looked out the window as the rain began to come down. Mrs. Crowley dissolved in tears in her brother's arms. The next afternoon, Christmas Day, Aleister came out of his bedroom, full of drink. Uncle and Mother were at the interminable Christmas service that would last hours and hours. He staggered down the hallway to the kitchen and stood, unsure what to do. Martha came in from her small bedroom off the kitchen, her hair loose and falling down her back, and recognized him as drunk. As she spotted his swaying, she sat him at the table and began to fix them both a cup of tea. “Ah, let me guess, the bum tightener let you have it over the tree.” “I didn't even get a chance to explain.” “It were a mangy tree, anyhow. I spent an hour cleaning the needles up, Mr. Aleister. Weren’t even my job.” “We’re all mangy creatures, Martha.” Martha laughed slightly, “Well, one of us is a little more mangy than the other.” “You have family, Martha?” “Not to speak of.” “So, if you were to die like some vile creature, would anyone miss you?” She shakily lifted her teacup and hoarsely replied, “About the same as you, I think.”

He stood, knocking his tea cup to the floor, swaying back and forth and finally stumbled towards her. She stood comforting him as he broke in sobs that almost sounded like coughing. They stood entwined for a few minutes, and then Aleister started to kiss and fondle her. After a few moments, Martha responded and they fumbled their way out of the door. He broke off from her and took her hand running out to the servant’s staircase to the second floor. They paused in the doorway of Mrs. Crowley’s neat, sterile bedroom. Martha laughing and pulling his hand to continue down the hallway. He teasingly pushed her into his mother’s room and onto her prim bed where they continued in exuberant mating. Martha was sleeping. Aleister saw she was a magnificent trunk of a woman, not some delicate twig. Martha woke with a start and saw where she was, with Aleister. She started to laugh, seeing her clothes thrown on the bedroom floor as he touched her hair spread out on the pillow. He pulled her to him as she was unbalanced and she fell on top of him. He kept a firm grasp on both her arms and then intently looked away with disgust. Then he looked back at her with a malicious smile, “And then?” “Sorry?” He released an arm, then propped himself up on one elbow, “And then?” Martha extricated herself from his grasp and covered herself with the sheet, smiling, “And then? More satisfaction?” He turned her over and whispered in her ear, “I’m never satisfied.” She pulled away from him and laughed, ”That's not much of a compliment to me.” They tussled on the bed, laughing and batting one another with a pillow. He pinned her down again and examined her in a new way. “All this staring at me, it’s making me feel most uncomfortable. Am I your first, then?” “Oh, you are a first for me in many ways, Martha.” She swatted him away, “But I have feeling I won't be your last.”

They both laughed, and there was a moment that was almost tender between them. “No, my mangy cur, most probably not.” Martha turned to him and pulled his face to hers, “Well, let's make this memorable, shall we?” “Do what thou wilt.” They resumed and a scream pierced the room. It was Mrs. Crowley standing in the doorway. If there had been angst over a Christmas tree, then the mating on his mother’s bed raised his mother’s level of hysteria. At the height of her screams and wailing, neighbors coming home from church heard the noise and inquired if the police were needed. Mrs. Crowley seemed more traumatized by watching Martha collect her discarded clothing off her bedroom floor than by anything else, and when her maid came to revive her from a dead faint, it gave both Aleister and Martha time to flee. Aleister escaped to his bedroom and Martha to hers and both had the satisfaction of upsetting the tyrant who constantly denied them anything pleasurable. But now Martha sat trembling in her room, wondering how soon she would be dismissed. She had hung on so long and now there would be no character reference for her next job interview. For truth be told, Martha liked a nip now and then; with a little skimping on the weekly food budget she was able to purchase her main fortification – rum. Where are ya going go now, old bat, Martha thought to herself as she found the flask under her bed. Uncorking it, she swigged a good, warm amount and then sat down on the creaking bed, the only place to sit in this tomb of a room with no window. Speaking out loud to the empty room, “That’s what you get for sleeping with someone young enough to be your son.” She looked at her few possessions in the room, a calendar with drawings of the Lake District, her brush and comb set, a few changes of clothes in the bureau, and her collection of penny dreadfuls, the gory, cheap paperbacks from the free library here.

“She’ll be telling me to leave as soon as she can mouth the words.” Another nip, and then she reached for the story on the top of her book pile, The Accidental Murderess. It somehow cheered her to read of Miss Hermione poisoning her mother and the maid. A rereading put her into another world. Sure enough, soon there was a knock on the door and a gruff voice: “Miss Tabram?” It was Tom Bishop, the old nanny goat’s brother. She threw Miss Hermione to the floor. Time to leave. Aleister heard the knock on his locked door after his uncle tried to open the door but it remained closed. “What is it, Uncle?” Tom Bishop knocked his cane on the door again. “I insist you open this door immediately.” “Oh, but Uncle, I’ve been bad and I’m atoning for my sins.” He lay on his bed still pleasuring himself. “Nephew, I have come to tell you that you have grieved your mother to the core.” “Ah, to the core, Uncle, to the core.” “Are you coming, nephew?” “Coming, Uncle, coming.” The young man started to laugh uncontrollably while the rapping at the door increased in tempo. Then silence. After Aleister had finished and was in the process of cleaning up, the rapping on the door started again. He heard the front door slam and went to his window in time to see Martha trudging up the street with her single suitcase. As he watched her disappear he murmured, “I wonder who else can make those rolls?” PRATT The snowstorm of 1883 covered the three-story house on Argyle Street in Brooklyn with almost two feet of snow. Inside, cozy and

warm, a young girl stood on tiptoes to study the portrait of ‘Uncle Cyrus’, as he was known in the community, which was given the place of honor to hang over the parlor fireplace. Cyrus P. Smith, forty-first mayor of Brooklyn, had wild black hair pushed back from his wide forehead, dark, warm eyes in a full-cheeked face, and thin lips held in a kind smile. His shirt’s high, white collar was held up by a beautiful, black velvet cravat and his hand held a feathered pen; behind him a wall of green leather books. Pamela and her father were visiting her Uncle William, her father’s older brother, who lived in Brooklyn in a large, green shingled three-storied house with his wife and two children, a boy and a girl. Uncle William was solid member of the Brooklyn community, belonging to the Brooklyn club and the twenty-third Regiment Veteran’s group from the Civil War. It was plain to see that the patriarch, Cyrus P. Smith, had established the Brooklyn City Hospital, schools, subway systems and bridges, would have been proud of his second-youngest son, William. But the last child, Charles, kept out of the Civil War and floundered in finding a career, was absent from the many framed family photographs on the tiny tables in the parlor. One of the patriach’s last instructions to William was to ‘take care of your wooly-headed, younger brother, he’s not made for this world.” Pamela and her father had made two previous trips from Jamaica to Brooklyn for his business with the train company and over time, Pamela was introduced to her large Smith family. They were very different from the Colman side, very conscious of status and education, and there had been some concern that Pamela had had a lackadaisical education, at best. Aunt Ruth, William’s wife, had written several letters to Pamela’s father following the death of her mother, urging Charles to bring her to Brooklyn to be educated. Staying in their large house with the porch was very comforting to Pamela, it reminded her of the porch where Nana would comb her hair and tell her stories as the nighttime shroud gathered. Her cousins, Russell and Ellen, loved hearing Pamela’s eerie stories at night in their bedrooms, but Ruth was much more interested in Pamela’s artwork. In the monthly missives he mailed to

his brother, Charles would ask his daughter to include some of her fanciful drawings: the spider, Annancy, her pony, her Nana. They were whimsical and yet compelling. Ruth Smith was determined that this wild child niece by marriage was going to be educated, as Charles seemed to be living up to his reputation of being absolutely helpless in the world of practical matters. From her study, she could hear that someone was cranking the new phonograph player – strictly out of bounds for anyone but her husband. Thank goodness, he had left the house early that morning with his brother to check on the hospital; the hospital he had inherited the task of maintaining and of which he was as proud as he was of his offspring. With a sigh, she rose from her desk and went downstairs, knowing full well who would be taking the liberty to play with her husband’s latest acquisition in the parlor. Ruth came into the parlor and saw Pamela turning the crank on the wooden box that housed the wax cylinder. The large brass horn magnified the sounds of the Anvil Chorus from Verdi’s Il Trovatore, amplifying the clashing and clanging chorus to an even more annoying degree. Such a strange little girl: very short, wearing an orange sash around a purple skirt and black blouse with coral jewelry pinned in her loosely tied-up hair. At fourteen, she seemed much younger than her years, especially when she burst into loud laughter with her totally unladylike reaction to almost everything that she found delightful, odd or just amusing. “Oh, Aunt Ruth, you have Verdi and an Arthur Sullivan song!” Ruth made her way over to the cranking of the machine and gently laid a hand on Pamela’s to stop her. “My dear, these are wax cylinders and as such they are only good for twenty times, at best, to be played. Now, you don’t want to intrude upon your uncle’s ability to hear these songs all the twenty times he has paid for, do you?” “Oh. No. But, Aunt Ruth! He has an Arthur Sullivan Song. Look, it says right here on the can, “The Lost Chord” by Arthur Sullivan!” “And who is Arthur Sullivan, my dear?” Ruth asked as she reached for the boxes the cylinders were stored in under the credenza.

“He’s the composer who wrote the music for Henry Irving’s King Arthur at the Lyceum Theatre in London! I got to paint some of the symbols on the set before we went to Jamaica!” It was hard to tell with Pamela sometimes what was true and what wasn’t, her mind was full of fairy tales, Ruth thought. Or tall tales as her husband called them. The girl seemed to have no interest in becoming a cultured or refined young lady of society, like their own daughter. “You love music, don’t you, Pamela?” “Oh yes! Mrs. Norman and Mrs. Ogden took me to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to hear Chopin played. He’s one of my favorite composers, besides Beethoven.” “Shall we have tea, Pamela? There’s something I want to discuss with you.” With that Ruth pulled the cord hanging next to the wall and motioned Pamela to sit on the settee before the fireplace. As soon as they were settled, Ruth’s maid came in and was ordered to bring tea. Just as Ruth and Pamela turned to each another, a strange vibration emanated from the ceiling. Looking out the front window, they saw an enormous blanket of snow shudder off the roof and land with a loud thud in the yard in front of the porch. The mound of snow was so high that only the top edges of the parlor window let in any light. Pamela jumped and laughed with such volume and intensity that Ruth covered her ears. It was worse than the Anvil Chorus. Then the staircase was soon pounding with footsteps and Russell and Helen rushed in to join their cousin in exclaiming over the blizzard, the amount of snow, and how they must immediately go out to sled on the hill now in front of the house. “Aunt Ruth, please, please may I go join them in the snow? We never have any in Jamaica or England. Or, at least, any that I can remember. Please?” The three young people stood in front of her with pleading eyes and she knew there would be no peace until they ran themselves ragged out in the storm. “Yes, go. But Pamela, later this afternoon, we must talk.”

Pamela ran from the front door into her first snowfall, head back, arms outstretched, feeling every tiny, frozen flake nuzzle her skin. The brightness of the reflected snow blinded her at first. Then, as she slowly opened her eyes, she saw the sound between each flake being absorbed in a slow blue burn. Sound out here took the shape of small blue notes, and every flake around her would imbibe the little light blue notes as though they were soaking up a quivering morsel. The silence! The silence of the flakes as they fell was deep and lush, leaving only the sound of sound being silently devoured. In awe, she looked to see how the others were taking in the brilliant miracle. Russell ran along the porch railing, scooping piles of snow as he went. Helen tried to climb the top of the mound, with little success in her dainty shoes. She called out to them, “Isn’t the blue flaring amazing?” They both looked up from what they were doing, looked at Pamela, looked at each other and went back to what they were doing. The three cousins stayed out in the snow for a good hour, sledding down the mound on pieces of canvas, throwing snowballs at one another and building an elaborate snow family, none like that Russell or Helen had ever seen. Mermaids, wraiths, lizards and malicious-looking birds made up the family that Pamela sculpted in front of 136 Argyle Road, leading the other merry snow enthusiasts on the street to wander over and wonder if it was a witch from Jamaica who was now living there, not William Chandler Smith’s niece. When she proudly showed her creation to her aunt who had come out to see the sculpture, she was asked if she couldn’t please “put a blouse on the mermaid. It is obvious that the poor thing is cold.” In front of the fire, wet wool socks scenting the air with that particular smell of damp sheep, the group drank hot tea while Aunt Ruth allowed the Arthur Sullivan song to be played just once. While it played, the noisy conversation between the cousins abated and

Pamela laid her moistened hair on the back of her chair, eyes wide open, seeing the music. Helen whispered to her, “What are you seeing? “Don’t you see it? The cold moon? That bright flower, bird of paradise?” Russell nervously asked, “Where are you seeing these, coz?” Pamela gestured in a sweeping motion with the one hand not holding her tea. Ruth gave a knowing look to her two children and calmly said, “Russell, Helen, you have had enough leisure time. You know you both have studies to attend to. Pamela and I are going to have a little talk here.” With some false fanfare of regret, the two scuttled out as Ruth turned in her seat and observed Pamela still caught up in whatever fantasy was playing out in front of her. Unexpectedly, Pamela stopped her dreamy stance and looked right at her and asked, “Aunt Ruth, is it true that Smith Street in Brooklyn is named after Grandfather Smith?” “Yes, Pamela, that is true.” “Do you think that will help me get into the Pratt Institute of Art here in Brooklyn?” That winter, Pamela began courses at the Pratt Institute of Art. Arthur Wesley Dow was the popular art teacher at the newly established liberal arts college. He was very unconventional, for after his five years of studying art in Paris, he was very unsatisfied with academic theory of art. He studied Oriental painting and design at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and was enamored of their use of clean, classical lines. He encouraged Pamela to channel her full positive powers into the use of simplicity of line, less applying of shadowing, giving equal focus to the foreground as well as the background, and to concentrating on harmonic colors. The concentration on colors was where Pamela took off and finally worked with someone who understood her genius and her condition. No one else seemed to understand that her brain used several levels at the same time when listening to music or seeing

colors. When these different worlds collided and intermixed, Pamela had a physical reaction to seeing yellow. Which was a different feeling from when she was seeing red. Yellow was a lifted feeling and red made a slight grab in her stomach. Sometimes listening to a particular piece of music, notes of yellow or red would dance in front of her. Mr. Miggons, her strict Scottish art tutor, had only wanted her to copy the classic sketchbooks he had, and she had no encouragement for her original natural style until now. In celebration of her first semester, Charles Smith gave his daughter one of his many cherished books of ukiyo-e artwork, Japanese block prints, which he had collected since his time with the design firm in Manchester. They contained simple lines, concentrated color and a bold marrying of background and foreground. It was one of the best and most unexpected presents from her father that she had ever received. One of her reviews at the time said of her, “She makes no attempt to make funny pictures, but rather draws with such a mirthful quirk of her own that every line in these quaint drawings ripples with laughter. She has the power to see clearly the invisible realm of which all artists dream. She enters it or shuts it out at will, but when music opens the gates everything becomes clear to her inner vision.” She began to attend classes by taking the trolley railroad from her uncle’s house on Argyle, although the structure of attending daily classes was a struggle for the impetuous Pamela to follow. She found herself posing for a fellow Pratt student, photographer Gertrude Kasebier, and having girl friends for the first time. Alice Boughton, her cousin Mary B. Reed and others kept her company while her father continued to sail back and forth to Jamaica. Eventually, her cousin convinced her to perform her Jamaican fairy tales as recitation at the Pratt Institute. Soon, the Fine Arts Club, the Pen & Brush Club, and the Brooklyn Barnard Club were clamoring for this performer to entertain them. Suddenly, Pamela was not just an illustrator, but an actress. Despite her Aunt Ruth’s initial resistance to her performing, she knew she was meant to be a storyteller. The first time she went

before a crowd at Pratt, she was unsure what she would bring to help her with her confidence. Which is why, onstage with her during her Annancy Folk Tale recital, sat Albert, her stuffed alligator. The Golden Dawn Commences Felkin looked over the headquarters at Mark Mason Hall and saw half a dozen people studying, maps unfurled, books open, pencils moving across on notebooks. Months of negotiations and letters of recommendation had finally led to an official habitat for magic enthusiasts. It gave him a sturdy satisfaction that so many quality people, people of respectability and renown, were interested in his newly formed Golden Dawn group. And there were three or four women in the room, too. They had done well to recruit women, after all. He saw how they had furnished these rooms, although the atmosphere had become a bit too cozy for him and lacked some of the masculine qualities he enjoyed. The leather chairs now had elaborately designed hook rugs underneath them, while the books were sorted into categories and arranged alphabetically on the shelves that had just been installed on the free wall. Several large artist’s tables were arranged, their slanted tops tilted at different angles to hold maps. The smell of lemon oil and wax from the cleaned floors wafted over him as he sat in the most comfortable chair in the room, his right as ‘Chief.’ The one room in which he couldn’t stand the ‘womanly touch’ was the Vault, which was in the room next door. The Vault was a seven-sided chamber, eight feet tall, with cabalistic, astrological and alchemical symbols just now being painted on the inside, the outside to be painted next. The Vault was to be the scientist’s laboratory, the example. He tolerated the cleaning and sprucing up, but drew the line at flowers or pillows on chairs next to the Vault. It could fit three, possibly, four people for the yet-to-be determined magical operations, and it needed a clean, scientific aspect.

For several years, they had been experimenting with five of the magical spells from the Hungarian papers, those they found in the cylinder that they had brought to Ahmed Kamal at the British Museum. Calling them by this name made it easier if one of them were to slip in front of people. It irked Felkin that the secret and private magical instructions were becoming common and available. It was becoming clear to him that a second level of instruction would be necessary in the group, beyond astrology and alchemy, a level where true, exclusive magicians could practice. He had written back to Count Apponyi once he and Mathers had deciphered the pages and realized they were instructions on the art of magic and spells. Clearly, more progress and adventures were to be had in practicing these spells, but Felkin had to make sure that they could proceed without trouble. The last thing this group needed was an astral attack by whoever had first put these spells together, for it was reported that vengeful magicians could travel unseen and perform malicious acts. Count Apponyi seemed pleased to be asked permission to use the spells, but as his letter said, “Clearly you have experimented with the contents; otherwise you would not be writing to me to ask about the steps of instruction that are only available to Golden Dawn members.” The Count gave him the address of a German Rosicrucian Adept, Fraulein Sprengel, so Felkin could write to her and see if a new order of the Golden Dawn would be allowed. The Rosicrucians had always intrigued him, their roots going back to 1500 BC, when it was purported that the Giza pyramids of Egypt were built not as shrines to the pharaohs, but as halls of mystic initiation. As a coroner, Felkin saw many astounding things that could not be explained by pure science. He steadied his mind by experimenting with magical spells that defied the metaphysical laws governing the universe. Certainly, practicing the spell where he handled lightning was a thrilling experience, and he plotted ways to gain more special powers, even if in his private moments he had been totally unable to reenact the magical appearance of that bolt of lightning traveling from his hands. He hoped it was not a once-in-a-

lifetime experience. He dreamed about the lightning traveling from his arm out into the night sky. Now he and Mathers were awaiting word from this German Rosicrucian, Fraulein Sprengel, to see if she would permit them to start their own offshoot of her organization. There had been word that the unrest in Eastern Europe had been spreading: lack of jobs, governments that seemed to favor those who made money and closed rank, foreign languages being spoken in town squares. These magical formulas that the Count had sent to him would place the Golden Dawn members as leaders when the dust settled; it was rumored several potential leaders were secret members already. But in Felkin’s mind, it was the tarot cards they would create that would be the device to preach to the masses. This ‘card game’ would need no language to communicate the hero’s Journey, it could recruit the Golden Dawn army without words. Woodman was, thankfully, out of the picture (and if he did have a little help on the way out, well, so much the better), and his will had left money that rented this headquarters. There was also a fund for Mathers to interpret the Hungarian papers. Watkins from the bookstore was unaware that a parcel of the Count’s papers had even arrived. And they were still waiting for Mr. Kamal to decipher the papyrus included in the cylinder. It didn’t seem as though Kamal was in any hurry to get the results back to Felkin and his group. Now it was up to Mathers to finish translating all the code in the Count’s paper for more magical spells for the group to learn. Mathers was an enthusiastic student, but it was questionable if he was truly being an asset to the order; true, his knowledge of many languages helped with translations, and he was very good with codes and ritual understandings. But he was an idiot when it came to social niceties and decorum. He stuttered and stammered and had a deplorable habit of standing too close and lecturing someone too intensely about what he had recently found. Only the newly recruited artist, Miss Bergie, seemed to appreciate his strange intensity. Recruited for her ability to paint, she was in charge of the designs on the Vault. She was also petite and beautiful, so Mathers felt himself grow another inch taller when near

to impress her. She was talented in the languages, too, and the two of them were often found with two or three books between them, translating this word or looking up that word in an obscure dictionary. It was beneficial for the group and set a standard of intelligence and dedication to the translating of international correspondence. Waite was another problem, but mostly an asset. Edward Waite was ambitious and socially capable. His smooth good looks and understanding of the need to placate and entice people to belong to this order were well needed. He was especially good at talking to the young women who were beginning to join the group, especially those young women with money, who were either bored with University and the limited curriculum available to them, or those with time and energy to spare outside their family obligations. As a married man and father, Waite appeared to be a stolid member and family man. He was shocked to hear that a new recruit, Florence Farr, the musician and actress in the group, was married but separated, her husband having left her to go on tour as an actor in America years ago, and had never bothered to divorce him, only taking back her maiden name. When Waite asked her, “Why don’t you divorce him for desertion?” she replied, “I don’t intend to ever marry again, so until my status is an issue, it is of no matter.” Waite was concerned about the order’s ability to attract people with money, and he was constantly trying to do so. They needed women with money to contribute: men would ask for too much participation in their investment. But they didn’t want the women to be rising up the ladder to the higher levels. There had to be a plainer means to convey that the Golden Dawn was going to be formed with men studying to be magicians and women being their intuitive muses. At least, that was his concept for the Golden Dawn. “Ah, yes, the name of our order,” thought Felkin, smoothing his beautiful beard and looking out the window to the road. There were many groups that were starting: Masons, Freemasons, of which he was a member, Rosicrucians, Theosophical Societies, Heretic Societies, Cabalists. He knew that Waite and Mathers had their own ideas about starting up this order

where they would study magic and the occult. It was the manner applying the method of study that he must set up. If he could get permission from Fraulein Sprengel, they would all begin at the Neophyte level, in accordance to the Golden Dawn levels she presided over. Each member was to create their own motto as they took on a Golden Dawn identity. Felkin’s motto was “Dare to be Wise.” At the Neophyte level, there was to be grading of learned skills and he wanted each level to be exact and precise so there were no mistakes. There would be no sloppy magicians creating havoc. There was enough of that on the streets of London. Just today he had had to determine the cause of death of a young girl, her neck slashed spectacularly from side to side. Rumors of a murderer, a ‘leather apron’ type butcher running the streets at night and killing helpless women, were starting to make the rounds. Felkin, Waite and Mathers had all declared themselves the three visible ‘Chiefs’ of this order, having worked their way through the first five spells. The second order of spells would be coming from Fraulein Sprengel, and then a second level, a secret, more exclusive one of magicians and occult artists would assemble – separate from the hubris of the first. Oh, the plans he had for this Level Two. The plans! Just then, Waite entered the room with a letter. He motioned to Felkin and eventually getting the attention of Mathers from the bright blue eyes of Miss Bergie, they scurried to the Vault. Waite’s blocky mustache quivered as he closed the door to the Vault, and motioned the two other men to sit down. Mathers, with his close-set eyes, blinked and he removed his glasses. “Is it from the C-c-c…ccount Appoyni connection?” he stammered. “Yes, it is. Yes, it is. From Fraulein Sprengel,” purred Waite as he opened the envelope. Removing the folded paper, he spread it out before the three men. “Dear Gentlemen, Count Appoyni vouches for your character.” Waite raced ahead in the letter, his finger following the handwriting, “Ah, here it is: ‘There is a new world order starting. If you sign on to the edicts of the Golden Dawn you will be expected to be obedient

and lead in the new order according to our rules. You have my solemn permission to form a branch of Die Godlene Dammerung – The Golden Dawn.’” Waite looked up from the letter and at Felkin and Mathers. “Gentlemen, we have our order. The Golden Dawn. Now we will need to teach our findings without using language.” “What are you talking about, Waite?” Felkin sneered? “Tarot cards. We will commission someone to create them using our symbology. And our tarot cards will silently teach our manifesto without language. With only symbols.” “Who is going to create these?” “I am no artist, but I think I may have heard of someone who can find someone who is.” Auditioning for Magic In 1899 the Star Theatre in New York City stood at Thirteenth Street and Broadway, in the German neighborhood. The red-bricked theatre seated almost seventeen hundred people and on the stage in the center stood Pamela Colman Smith. She was wearing a red tunic with a dark green skirt, and on her head, was a sort of crow-feather band. She was now nineteen years old and seemed like an old child. She exuded a youthful energy with an otherworldly air. She was auditioning for three people at the side of the stage as the company members sat in the house, watching. On the stage, Ellen Terry sat on a throne, and by her side, Edy Craig, her daughter. Ellen Terry was at the height of her career, touring the United States as part of the Lyceum Theatre with her lover and leading man, Henry Irving. Ellen, dressed in a beautiful coat dress, her hair in the Gibson girl style of the day, was a vision. Tall, stately, with a sweet disposition and a regal air which belied her childlike spontaneity, she was accustomed to being watched at all times. She watched Pamela auditioning with a merry face.

Not so merry was the face of Edy Craig, only in her early twenties, but plain and forthright. Called a spinster or a sister, she was punctual and loyal, not given to flights of fancy, and had no idea who this Jamaican-sounding actress was that Bram had insisted they audition. However, Edy supported her mother in everything she did, and her direct demeanor was belied by her current garb of a Hierophant, a high church official, for the production of The Corsican Brothers. Edy had a slight lisp which limited her ability to develop anything but a slightly sour look on an otherwise benign face. Bram Stoker, the tall burly Irishman with a boxer's gait, was leaning against the proscenium of the theatre stage, watching his discovery with a neutral face. What Bram was thinking was hard to tell. He had spent his life being of service, handling the Lyceum Theatre and following the dictates of Henry Irving, Theatre Manager and Star. It was very hard to get a spontaneous reaction from Mr. Bram Stoker unless his Irish temper was lit, and then everyone knew to follow his commands unquestioned. Pamela spoke with the Jamaican accent she had borrowed from her Nana. She was performing the version of the Cinderella story with black magic. “In a long before time – before Queen Victoria came to reign over we, there lived t’ree sisters, Isadora, Florinda and Laurita. Dey eldest two were very cross an’ spiteful to Laurita, dey always going to parties and teas – and dey would never tek Laurita with dem – she was so pretty, and dey was so ugly.” Edy cupped her hands to her mother’s ear and whispered, “I don’t care what that witch foretold. This is not your second daughter.” Ellen teasingly swatted her hands away and continued to listen to Pamela. “An old Obeah woman, who ax her what was the matter and she tell her all about it! And then the Obeah woman out of her pocket bring a lot of little sticks an’ an iron pot an build a fire.” Henry Irving, very tall, with a beak nose and an imperious bearing, entered from the other side of the stage, but seeing what was happening, stopped and stood just out of sight. He was carrying his ebony tektite that had fallen out of the sky. It had been set on a walking stick with a mahogany stem. The quintessential English

celebrity of his day, he had developed an old-fashioned manner, serious and unsmiling. Pamela continued her Jamaican Cinderella story, unaware that the great actor was nearby. “She say a great many funny Obeah words and out of de pot comes a lubby silk frock! An a wreath of silver flowers and gold chain, and beads and shoes of real gold! Laurita put them on and the Obeah woman take a calabash and put it in the pot and it come out a big coach, and horses and an coachman and Laurita get in it and go to the ball at the King House. And every body wonder who dis lovely lady is. The King, he dance wit her and every body jealous of her.” Ellen was charmed by the story and lightly clapped her hands and laughed. She noticed Henry and waved him over. Henry took long strides and reached the center of the stage in moments. Pamela stopped and saw Henry coming toward her like a locomotive. He was speaking to the entire group. “Well, unless we can use this pot of magic to liven up The Corsican Brothers, Mrs. Terry, you are requested at rehearsal.” Ellen rose from her stage throne and took Henry’s hand playfully. “Oh, Sir Henry, you must meet my latest discovery! This is Pamela Colman Smith, William Gillette's cousin, the artist, the orphan who draws, the one I was telling you about? She created the tour brochure of our Shakespearean characters that you liked.” At this introduction, Pamela felt her contagious laugh bubble up inside her, and she rushed over to Henry and the group. Bram Stoker ushered her into the circle around Miss Ellen’s throne, his Irish brogue now somewhat tamed. “Now, Miss Terry, you can’t be claiming that Miss Pamela is your discovery. You know right well I found her last year designing our theatre brochure. Mr. Irving, this is Miss Pamela Colman Smith, my discovery.” Henry executed a stiff little bow and Pamela extended her hand. Henry seemed unprepared for this, but shook her hand anyway. “Oh! Oh! Oh! So pleased to meet you, Sir Henry. I saw your electrical sparks and steam in Faust three years ago, so magnetic!” The entire stage and audience of company members laughed, even Edy put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Praise

for special effects over the legendary Irving acting was taboo in the theatre company. Henry straightened himself up and looked at Pamela to see if she was being genuine. Pamela felt his intense gaze and smiled, trying to win him over. “Did I say something offensive?” Ellen rose from her throne and ambling over to take Pamela’s arm, she escorted her back to the stage throne and seated her. She started to examine the crow feather band and the assortment of necklaces and bangles on Pamela’s arms as Bram and Henry talked in hushed tones, apart from the group. Pamela felt a slight tug at her heart. It was Nana’s story. And Nana had given her the crow feather band in her hair, along with the story of the King discovering Laurita. The pot of magic. And here she imagined that Nana was watching over her as she recited the folk tale, floating high above them. Their nightly ritual of Nana telling her Annancy stories was now alive in the stage light of a theatre in New York City. Edy looked at Pamela. “How old are you?” “Nineteen. How old are you?” Edy was taken aback and Ellen laughed, patting her daughter’s cheeks. “Oh, Edy, if she is not fawning over Sir Henry, she is not one to be fawning over us!” Edy finally smiled at Pamela and sat next to her on the throne. “Yes, the fact that you would praithe his thenic dethign before hith talents ith a breath of fresh air.” Pamela thought, A speech impediment in a young actress? A lisp. How interesting! Henry and Bram suddenly appeared before Pamela and Edy, and Henry clapped his hands behind his back. “Why did you like Faust so much? Was it for the sparks and steam? Not the acting?” Pamela rose and looked straight into his eyes, “Oh, I'm so sorry, Sir Henry. I thought you knew you were a genius.” The room waited as Henry studied her. “I hear Jamaica and Manchester in your voice. Were you born in England?” “Born in London, lived in Chislehurst, Manchester, Paris, Jamaica, Brooklyn, and now, Manhattan.”

“You are an orphan? What is your age?” “My mother passed four years ago and my excellent father this December. I'm nineteen, a published illustrator, and I have fallen in love with your theatre, your Coriolanus and your cycloramas.” Ellen, Edy and Bram laughed softly. Henry turned his head, saw them laughing and started to chuckle, “My cycloramas?” “The world-famous Lyceum Theatre scenic design by Hawes Craven, T. W. Hall, Perkins and Carey…” “You certainly know of our great set painters…” “…W. Hann and J. Harker… My family took me to see the canvases being painted in the Covent Garden Opera House paint rooms.” Henry turned to Bram and nodded. He started to head offstage when he stopped and addressed Pamela again “Why the theatre?” “My mother was a painter, a stage actress and a fortune teller.” “A fortune teller? What did she foresee?” “That one day I would be part of the calcium lights onstage. Sir Henry, I have one question.” “What is it?” “We saw you in The Corsican Brothers. I was ten. We were part of the masked ball scene one night, the night the mirror broke. And there was snow. How did you do the snow? You started the duel and kicked snow out of the way, and it didn't melt on stage.” Henry Irving looked perturbed when she mentioned the mirror. Perhaps she is meant to be here with us, he inadvertently thought, but finally started to laugh, charmed at her question. Giving his attention to Bram, he barked, “Bram, it seems that we have found the replacement for the small roles slot for our upcoming Lyceum tour. Mrs. Terry, five minutes, in rehearsal.” Henry Irving started to leave, but then he returned to whisper only to Pamela: “Salt. Coarse rock salt.” The rest of the company was unable to hear what he had whispered and they strained forward to be included. Henry gave them a teasing look, held his hand to his ear and started to stride offstage. As he passed Ellen, he saw her beaming at him, a sweet unguarded smile. Only when he was visible to her alone did he tap

his right hand twice over his heart, his signal for “My heart beats only for you.” Ellen turned her head, blushing, as he disappeared from the stage, trying to collect herself. He told her once he was to be ruled only by his head, not by his heart. But she knew that if his heart belonged to anyone, it belonged to her. She carefully turned around to the sound of Bram starting to applaud. Startled, she relaxed only as she saw that he was applauding Pamela, who was doing a short, happy little dance in celebration of her being hired. Ellen did a short do-si-do with her, and Bram came over and patted her on the back. Edy turned away and sulked. And as she wore her stage costume as a Cardinal, she looked like a sad sack Hierophant. Bram’s Irish accent was now in full force. “Well now, I didn’t think it would go as well as all that. The Great Man usually doesn’t care for the young people auditioning to be part of the company, but you certainly won him over.” “Thank you, Mr. Stoker! I can never thank you enough! My father would have…” At the mention of her father the brain froze, as if the color and sound processed within had come to a screeching halt. It had been only a month since his funeral in Brooklyn; the sickness he had in Jamaica had gotten worse until he passed away at his brother’s house in Brooklyn. Having no relationship with her uncle, she felt she had no close family in New York. “Well, since I promised your father I would look after you, I’ll be Uncle Brammy to ya. But you must be punctual and reliable. We set no store by wastrels here. Edy, you’ll be her first handler.” With that, Edy groaned as Ellen teasingly whipped her hand, saying, “Edy, all I’ve ever heard from you is that you want a sister, and here she is!” Bram pulled himself up and patted Edy on the back. “Well, Edy she’s your headache now, enjoy her. She might bring some fun onboard,” as he strode backstage. Ellen continued to fuss over Pamela’s costume until she heard Bram’s voice. “Miss Terry, rehearsal right now, if you don’t mind. In the sitting room.”

As Ellen started off, she took Pamela by the arm, “What a pixie you are! There, you have a new name for the tour, Pixie! And what a fascinating wreath that is that you are wearing.” “My Obeah ooman gave it to me.” Edy intruded between the two of them and looked at the feather band, “Your who?” “My Nana, who practiced witchcraft.” “Might I see it? Edy, doesn’t this become me? If Henry sees this on me, he’ll want me to wear it in Coriolanus. Oh, and Edy, Sydney Valentine’s wife just arrived. Do see that she has a seat for tonight? Front row?” Offstage, Bram boomed, “Miss Terry! You are…!” “Right there, Mr. Stoker.” Ellen handed back the feathers and dashed backstage. The company members in the auditorium tittered as they made their way to the downstairs rehearsal room. The minute Ellen was offstage, they heard her singsong “Goodbye” to them. Pamela handed the band to Edy to examine. “And Mr. Sydney Valentine is?” “The married actor in the company Mother is trying to keep away.” “From herself?” “From me. All right, Pixie, by way of Manchester, Jamaica and Brooklyn, let’s get you thorted out here. Let’s get you backstage to see what the many, many thmall roles are that you will be filling.” On hearing Edy’s lisp, Pamela understood why the great Ellen Terry’s daughter was not destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps. They made their way backstage, past the many rows of ropes and weights, potted plants, vases and more ornate thrones placed around a table. Near rolled-up scripts, a large notebook lay open with lists of plays, roles and actors set out in a grid. Edy threw herself into a throne and proceeded to go through the lists. “All right, Pixie, since you are not here to fill the role of a great genius (that’s Mr. Irving), or a beautiful actress (that’s my mother) or useful actress (myself when not designing costumes), what are you qualified to do?”

“I hear music, see Sidhe, the invisible children of Dana, can make opal hush, that’s claret and fizzy lemonade, have a fairy for a sister, and have sold four of my watercolors at the William Macbeth Gallery here in New York! Oh, and my Annancy stories are to be published with my illustrations this year.” “Very well then, Pixie, goddaughter to a witch and thither to a fairy, you will be in charge of the costumes and the prompt book and these four roles listed. I take it Bram Stoker has explained the low pay and long hours. Or it’s now ‘Uncle Brammy’ to you?” “Yes, and he said he’s a playwright also! He’s working on a story about vampires.” “Yes. Did he tell you he’s fashioning the main vampire after Sir Henry?” Pamela’s great laugh burst forth and Edy joined in. After a hearty moment, the two girls looked at each other. Pamela asked, “Is William Terriss still part of the acting company?” “Not on this tour, he’s off trying to bring Asian sheep to Scotland, from what I hear. All right, Pixie, let’s get your accommodations set. I have a feeling I have a new roommate.” Edy was picking up material from the desk when Pamela’s attention was caught by one of the rolled-up scripts, which looked like a stage prop fashioned after a Torah. She picked it up, looked around and very quickly held a hand up to Edy as though to caution her to be quiet. Very seriously, she handed Edy the Torah prop. As Edy held it questioningly, Pamela found an odd-shaped vase and put it on Edy’s head as a crown. Edy looked at her and tilted her head. “Pixie. Cothtume design another day?” Pamela looked surprised, then laughed and removed her improvised crown. They both rose and started to leave, Edy leading the way. Pamela glanced back at the throne. The strange music that happened only when a new situation presented itself began to play. Pamela had heard this phrase before but could not place where or when. She was concentrating on finding the pulse of white light, a light that came from inside her ribcage that she had learned from her

Nana in Jamaica. When she found it, softly beating, she willed it to flutter out into the room. It landed on a coat rack where dozens of swords were hanging by their hilts. The light settled on one particular sword, Henry’s sword from The Corsican Brothers. She crossed to the rack and lifted the sword with both hands to look at it. It lit up in a spectacular way, the light coming from inside the sword, not a reflection of light from the outside. “Pixie!” Pamela strained to see more of the magic in the air, but seeing none, she replaced the sword. She turned and ran to Edy. “I’m here!” The Knights Templar Arthur Edward Waite entered Watkins Books store with the intent to find more of Eliphas Lévi’s books. He was obsessed with Lévi, a Frenchman who had studied to be a priest but found the study of magic to be much more his calling. Although Lévi’s illustrations were a favorite of Waite’s, one of Lévi’s tenets, “To practice magic is to be a quack; to know magic is to be a sage”, was not. Practicing magic was the most thrilling event of Waite’s life, although this new secret skill of building these floating stone dimensions was proving to be most vexing. Since that night when the three of them, Felkin, Waites and Mathers, had practiced magic, the three other attempts they staged to master magic had been almost as dangerous and damaging to Westcott’s back room. Waite was, by day, a clerk, by night, a misunderstood mystic. He published the Book of Black Magic and of Pacts, the best-known study of its day and he was enormously proud of it. Waite had already translated several of Lévi’s works and was beginning to translate Lévi’s best-known French book, Transcendental Magic, its Doctrine and Ritual. Waite was thrilled to be finding the original French Lévi books here at Watkins; usually he had to check them out from the Library of

the British Museum. And these books made him the expert on the subject of the Templars well-organized, comprehensive plans for the future, according to Dr. Westcott. Westcott believed that the faith, practice and secrecy executed by the Templars was a good model for the Golden Dawn group. The Warrior Templar knights had at one time owned the land on Chancery Lane where Waite was now living with his wife, Lucasta, and child, Sybil, and he took that as a good sign. As he bid hello to John Watkins, he strolled down the aisle of religious studies to the shelf where the Lévi assortment was kept, stroking his fine walrus mustache. There, leaning against the bookcase, was a young man of about twenty, clean-shaven and welldressed. Irritatingly, he was thumbing through La Clef des Grands Mystères, one of Waite’s favorites, a manuscript with beautiful illustrations that Lévi had done of Baphmet, the horned goat devil the Templars supposedly worshipped. The young man casually looked up and cheerily said, “Hello there.” “Yes, hello.” Waite tried to scour the shelves to see where the other Lévi books were and his blood started to boil – all gone! Every single one! It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach; this was his private stash and no one had ever expressed interest in the Lévi books before. He had felt that they would always be there for him to purchase whenever he could afford them. Who else would buy an obscure series of French books seen as pagan and blasphemous? He hurried to the front desk “John, where are all the Lévi books, have you moved them?” “No sir, it seems you started a movement. Why, that gentleman back there now purchased most of them last week.” With a dry mouth, Waite turned around and saw the grinning Aleister Crowley standing next to him. “Hello again.” Waite and Aleister sat across from each other in the pub, the copy of La Clef des Grands Mystères lying between them. Waite looked at the stylish Aleister, so posh with his Cambridge accent,

now preparing his pipe to smoke in the pub. Of course, the Golden Dawn is going to become the plaything of the leisure class, Waite thought bitterly. Waite had a somewhat posh accent himself, having attended St. Charles College in Baywater, but the origins of his birth were strictly secret, as he was illegitimate. He had been born in Brooklyn, New York, to a Captain in the American Merchant Marine and an English mother. His father died at sea, leaving his mother who was once again pregnant with his child, to come home to London to her parents. When it was discovered that his parents had never married, his mother’s parents disowned her, leaving her to bring up Edward and his sister in the Catholic faith and charity. Brought up by a single mother who adored him, Waite was a devoted researcher and Roman Catholic, at least for a while, until his sister died. After that, though, he still respected the Catholic faith, he was not a great follower but he became an ever more zealous researcher of the spiritual world. Ten years ago, when he married Lucasta, they had both been enthusiastic followers of the mystic movement; even now she was studying to be a Neophyte with the Golden Dawn, one of the few women. However, with a nine-year-old daughter to attend to, Lucasta’s interest was waning, especially since she could see the disrespect for her husband and her husband’s research among the top Chiefs. Aleister ordered a whiskey, Waite an ale. They sat in silence until the drinks had arrived, and then Waite said, “Well, Mr. Crowley, your name reminds me of a beer I enjoyed back in the day. Let’s drink to the Crowley.” Aleister looked deep into Waite’s eyes to see if he knew he was the son of the Crowley and lifted his glass. “To the immortal health of both our fathers”, and with that they both took a hearty swig. “Well, Mr. Waite, I see you are interested in my recent acquisitions from Watkins.” “Yes, very interested, as the Lévi books are a particular expertise of mine.” “Oh, and of mine also, I have a very keen mind for the world of the occult.”

Waite thought to himself, And stalemate. “All right then, what would it take for me to buy some of your newly acquired books?” “Oh, Mr. Waite, I’m not interested in selling them. I’d be interested in sharing them, with a fellow Golden Dawn member. Your group is looking for new recruits, is it not?” “Well, Mr. Crowley, the constricts of the group are that you have a talent to offer.” “Obviously, I read French, I could do some translating.” “And why would you want to be a part of our group?” “There is only one reason, Mr. Waite, the same as you, I would think: Magic.” With that, Waite sighed and looked away. He is going to be difficult, he thought. “The book you really ought to be reading is Karl Von Eckarthausen’s The Cloud upon the Sanctuary.” “Really? And why is that?” “In order to recruit our group, we must recognize that we are dealing with a Christian society. He veils Christian mysticism in hermetic code.” “Of course, this Von Eckarthausen’s work is in German?” “Yes, you read German?” “No.” “Isabelle de Steigner has done an excellent translation, I’ll get it for you.” “Now, why would I be reading Eckarthausen before Lévi?” Waite drew himself and began to lecture in the tones of a schoolmaster, “Mr. Crowley, Eckhartshausen was a member of the Bavarian Illuminati and left this world mentioning a ‘society of the Elect’ which originates from the beginning of time, ‘the invisible celestial Church.’ It was, according to him, the society that will be the Regent Mother of the whole World." “The Regent Mother of the whole World! That’s a tall order.” Aleister took two fingers and did a salute to Waite, who found it pompous and insulting. Aleister then took another deep drink, and slyly looked to Waite. “You know, I read your book.”

“Which book are you referring to?” “Black Magic and Pacts.” “And?” “Better than Mathers’ book, Kabbalah Unveiled.” Waite look at him for a moment and almost smiled. “Well, there’s that.” What Waite didn’t know was that Aleister had been secretly studying the demonic system of Abra-Merlin magic with a fellow Golden Dawn member, Alan Bennett. Alan was an acclaimed magician and chemist who was currently staying at Aleister’s plushy apartment at 67 Chancery Lane. Alan and he had even built two ‘temples’ or ‘vaults’ in his apartment to consecrate magic in, one devoted to white magic, the other to black magic. The magical use of hallucinogenic drugs was also introduced during the incantations, tapping into the ability to move bodies, foreign objects and to conjure energies to expel bad energies. Or going back to Aleister’s earliest learnings of Paracelsus, experimenting with the idea of ‘Evil expelling evil’. Aleister looked at the dour clerk before him and thought how tiresome it was to have this person stand in his way. Bennett had tried through Mathers to petition for him to no avail, so now his chances lay with this other Chief. Standing next to Waite, he exhaled, “So, where are we at, Mr. Waite? Am I to be admitted into the hallowed halls of the Golden Dawn?” Waite could feel the disdain and attitude rolling off the young man and thought, One more disrespectful person in my life. Looking out of the window, he very carefully said, “I’ll petition the group, Mr. Crowley. You know we need to keep control on how many people we let in.” “Yessssss. ‘A society of the Elect,’ as it were. Well, here is my card, I live here on Chancery Lane.” Waite’s blood froze to think that he would be seeing him in the neighborhood and he slowly took the calling card off the table. Did Crowley know that he lived in neighborhood also? “Excellent. I will let you know.”

Aleister lifted the Lévi book off the table. “I’ll be loaning you this when I next see you at the Golden Dawn meeting.” And with that, Waite watched the arrogant young man stride out of the pub. If I could seal his intent up with bricks, I would do it, he thought. Aleister came back to his flat on Chancery Lane to find Alan Bennett sitting cross-legged in the temple of white magic, eyes closed. Alan was an attractive young man with a huge head, ‘a horse’s head’ according to some, large soulful eyes and prominent eyebrows. He was also a trained scientist, specializing in chemistry and electricity, so his knowledge of drugs and their effects was just what Aleister needed. Bennett was also a devoted student of Hindu and Buddhism; interesting side ventures to Aleister but not as essential as his knowledge of drugs. He made himself at home for a while, hoping to rouse Bennett from his trance. He wanted to give him an update as to his entrance into the Golden Dawn but an hour ticked by and still Bennett made no sound from his temple. Finally, Aleister went and plopped himself right outside the frame of the White Magic temple and sighed. “Yes, what is it?” “Waite detests me and won’t lift a finger to help.” Alan opened an eye and saw Aleister splayed out in front of him. “How do you know he detests you?” “Because I detest him and his petty bureaucratic ways.” “All right.“ With that Bennet sighed and came out, shaking himself out of his reverie. “Let’s look at this from a scientific point of view. He has a set of energy that is impeding your progression towards the light.” “True, he is a dark cloud, that is certain.” “In the realm of learning and enlightenment, there is only one goal, ‘Let there be light.’” “So, what am I to do? I need to make him suffer until he realizes they need me.” “I do not approve of this Black Magic suffering, even if Waite himself wrote the book. Try to bend your mind around to the light.”

Aleister jumped up and began pacing. “How can I do that? How can I bend myself to his limits? How will that help me?” Bennett stood and took Aleister by the shoulder. “I will to teach you the evocation of the Spirit of Taphthartharath, but this must be for the intent of good.” Aleister’s eyes grew round. “It will be for good, I swear.” Bennett was a practitioner of white magic and decried any attempts to conjure the devil. This Spirit of Taphthartharath is the spirit of Mercury, who was his spiritual adviser. Bennett was chaste and asthmatic, his celibacy a contrast to Aleister’s continual parade of conquests, women who would come to the flat for one evening, never to be seen again. He would keep to himself in his room or the white temple, going to work as an analytical chemist for his former teacher at school on an ‘as needed’ basis. He was barely making a living and he had been living in a room with six other people before Aleister invited him to stay in exchange for magic lessons. Bennett went to his room and came back with a simple white shift and handed it to Aleister. “Put this on.” Like many of his contemporaries, Bennett was a former Roman Catholic, and although he no longer believed in the Mother Church, he was an ardent enthusiast for ceremony and ritual. As Aleister took off his outwear, Bennett went inside the white magic temple and came out with a small vial from the altar he had built. “What is that?” “Caapi, a mind-bending drug from Africa. We will be using it during the ceremony.” “And the Spirit of Taphthartharath will be in the room.” “He will, but he will need some of your blood.” Bennett passed into his bedroom, rummaged around for items and then was heard in the kitchen. He came back with salt, oil, milk and wine. He put everything between them and they sat facing each other cross-legged. He reached in the white temple and retrieved a small crystal dagger and candle and put them on the floor with the Caapi. He lit the candle and placed it to the side.

“Now we must empty our mind and heart of desire and be present. When the flame of the candle turns blue, he will be here.” Aleister leaned forward, Bennett opened the vial, motioned Aleister to open his mouth and took the dropper to place two drops on his tongue. Bennett lifted both hands upwards, breathing deeply. Aleister was mesmerized by the proceedings and started to feel his heart beat faster. “Magic is the divinity of man conquered by science in union with faith; the true Magi are Men-Gods, in virtue of their intimate union with the divine principle.” Immediately the candle flame turned blue. “On this day, we are assembled together, for the purpose of evoking unto visible appearance the spirit Taphthartharath. And before we can proceed further in an operation of so great a danger, it is necessary that we should invoke that divine Aid and Assistance, without which would our work indeed be futile and of no avail. Let us all kneel down and pray. From Thy Hands, O Lord, cometh all good!” They both knelt, then lay down on the floor, hands stretched out before them. “O thou Great Potent Spirit Taphthartharath, I do command and very potently conjure thee by the Majesty of Thoth, the Great God, Lord of Amena, King and Lord Eternal of the Magic of Light.” They both lifted their heads up; a cut near Aleister’s temple glistened, blood trickling down. “He is here.” Lyceum Electricity Ellen and Henry Irving, performing in Macbeth, were lit by the soft glow of limelight on the center stage of the Lyceum Theatre in the story of an ambitious, childless couple who commit atrocities in order to advance themselves. The play was a mixture of melodrama and horror. Pamela could never imagine Ellen Terry as a childless Lady Macbeth. “My children are those related to me by blood and

stage blood”, was Ellen’s fond saying. The frustration Pamela felt was one of the many who wished to be granted access into the inner circle of the Terry offstage family. Tonight, Ellen was wearing the famous beetle dress, the thousands of iridescent beetle wings shimmering in the globed light of the stage. Henry wore a very ornate crown and a tartan tunic with a belt shaped like an ouroboros, a snake biting its own tail. He was hunched over Ellen’s hands as their characters both listened for the knocking at the doors after Macbeth’s murder of Duncan. Edy and Pamela were both in armor, standing next to a primitive electrical light unit backstage, waiting for their entrance. Pamela kept touching the socket, the blue current running up and down her chain mail costume. Both had returned to London after touring in America and England for almost two years. London had changed a lot since they had been there. Edy’s brother, Gordon, was no longer living with Ellen’s parents but with Ellen. William Terriss had married, it was said in the company, and Henry had written him several times to return to the Lyceum to be a company member, but he was now off importing racehorses from Egypt. The sheer size of the theatre company had grown and Pamela felt the intimacy she felt with the Lyceum Theatre tour group evaporate; some people didn’t even know who William Terriss was. She still had some distant cousins who lived in Pimlico, but since the death of her parents, contact with them consisted only of casual correspondence. The only member of her family she still communicated with regularly was her Grandmamma Colman, in America, and her newly introduced Uncle Samuel, a world-famous painter. The two girls had been roommates and best of companions during this time, with Ellen acting as a sort of mother to Pamela. Edy was loathe to dine out using her mother’s name, so she went by the name Edy Craig, Craig being the name of her father, whom she rarely saw, although Ellen was friendly with all her former lovers, much to Henry Irving’s dismay. But Edy seemed to be disappearing inside herself lately, as though there were secrets she could no longer confide to her best friend or her mother.

The soirees that Pamela and Edy threw together as co-hosts, the newsletter they published with Edy’s brother, the set design, the performances where Pamela recited her Jamaican stories, all their entertaining of the Bohemian crowd was their bond. But, even with all these activities, they did not earn much more than they did from their small roles with the Lyceum Theatre. Edy, the elder, still looked after Pamela and called her by the nickname her mother gave her. Seeing the blue flame still racing over her, she whispered, “Pixie, doesn’t that hurt?” Pamela was still engrossed by the small blue flame living among the wires. “Edy, watch. If you touch this metal part, you can see. Blue flames mean a ghost is near.” “Pixie, that can't be good for you!” “Try it, it only burns a little!” Hesitantly, Edy brushed her hand against the socket, and the blue flame crawled over her armor. “OH MY MOTHER GOD!” Edy bent over, breathless, from the shock of the current. Bram, standing near the stage curtain watching the scene, shot them a deadly look. The six-foot-two bear of a man leaned toward them and harshly whispered, “Hush now! And stop playing with that electricity! They use that to cure the mentally deranged.” Just then they heard the hissing in the audience. Someone had started to comment on the scene by heckling the actors and the steady hiss started to grow among ‘the gods’, the seats in the uppermost tiers, the cheap seats. Ellen, with blood in her eyes, came to the moment in the play where she was to reprimand her husband. She took herself to the edge of the stage and looking straight up into the theatre seats known as ‘the gods’, she deliberately directed her next line. “Screw your courage to the sticking-place and we’ll not fail.” This prompted a round of applause from the audience and silenced the would-be hecklers. But there seemed to be trouble in the romance between Ellen Terry and Sir Henry Irving. Ellen, now in her early forties, had two

independent offspring, Gordon wanting to be a theatre director and Edy socializing with a Bohemian Suffragist group but no longer confiding in Ellen in the intimate way she had in the past. Ellen could see Henry was overworked, employing over two hundred people and always concerned with touring, budgets and casting. And now she could sense his devotion to her was on the wane. Her lightheartedness and mirth used to charm him, but now he seemed annoyed. When she slid down the banister and landed in front of him the first time they met, he seemed sincerely awestruck by her carefree manner. If she were to do that now, he would bring up the issues of insurance and Bram’s understudy availability. Bram Stoker was the machine that made the Lyceum Theatre hum. Totally devoted to Henry, he waited on him night and day, even sleeping in a room at the theatre, rather than going home to his beautiful wife and son. Of poor Irish stock, he had worked his way up from theatre reviewer to manager of the world-famous Lyceum theatre company. It was Bram who helped make every major decision at the Lyceum Theatre for almost twenty years. But he was yearning for his play, The Undead, to be mounted on the Lyceum Stage, with Henry Irving playing the main role, Dracula. He had already culled some of the character’s names from the theatre world, Mr. Harker, Lucy, and from his associates at the Golden Dawn, Moira and Mina. Pamela moved past Edy to try the socket once again, but she bumped into Satish standing in the wings. Satish Monroe, Henry’s latest find, was a very handsome black man from the West Indies. Beautiful and impressive, with a booming voice, he was magnetic. His parents, from the West Indies, had escaped from America during the Civil War and brought him up to study Shakespeare in London. He was dressed as Banquo, wearing an elaborate crown, a beautiful doublet and an earring. He steadied Pamela as she almost fell. “Did you feel a jolt of electricity, little one?” “I…think…I’m…” Edy saw Pamela taking him in. They had both seen him during the rehearsals and were eager to know more about him. It wasn’t

every day that a black actor performed at the Lyceum, much less one playing a major scene with Sir Henry Irving. They’d heard Henry say, “Not since Edwin Booth have I seen such a talent.” Edy pinched Pamela who was awestruck. ”I think she's feeling one now.” Satish smiled at the two doting girls and whispered to them, “This new electricity is nothing to play with. You'd best beware. There's enough magic here tonight with this play.” Pamela studied him, not placing his accent. “Are you Jamaican?” Satish smiled broadly, “Ah, little girl, more class than that. I’ll just say, somewhere in the West Indies, as it is known here. How is it you know Jamaica?” Pamela looked at him, suddenly homesick, missing the warm smiles, the big laughs from Nana. “I lived there with my mother and father.” “Do you remember anything about it?” Pamela suddenly remembered a singsong: Once on a time in Slingo Town Each child was born a poet Dashed were his wings when older got Alas! He didn’t know it And so we glided o’er the sea— Satish’s smile lit up and he seemed to recall something private, murmuring, “You are a little star.” Pamela leaned forward, “Pardon?” “I haven’t heard that poem in many years.” He looked at her and then paused. He remembered how he was given a token to wear when he was starting out. These days, he wore many tokens, necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings. Finding the chain underneath his doublet, he pulled it over his head and showed her the pendant that was lying in his hand. It was a large five-pointed yellow star set in Mali garnet outlined in black. “This is of the air, little one. It will protect you.”

He poured the chain and pendant into her hand, as her eyes grew wide. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Satish winked at her and moved away. She picked up the chain and placed it inside her left glove, clutching it tightly. Mr. Lovejoy, the stage manager, suddenly raised the checkered flag, the cue for the extras to make their entrance. Edy and Pamela stood in a line, lowered the visors on their helmets, and walked in formation as the troops come to investigate the murders in the castle. They made their promenade silently as the other actors shouted out their lines. Five minutes later, they scampered backstage for the next scene, another promenade after the battle. Afterwards, Pamela rushed to the side of the stage and watched the end of the scene, Henry performing a monologue about remorse. The next set of actors took the stage, and Henry and Ellen walked offstage to wait for their next entrance. With his chest out and head held back, Henry’s Macbeth looked fierce and full of energy, but the minute he was out of sight of the audience he went to his quick-change room and sat exhaustedly in a chair. The room was a small chamber along the backstage wall, but even it was decorated, with an oval rug, a mirror and a small table with a bowl of water. One of his dressers escorted Henry's fox terrier, Fussie, from down the hall. The little white dog came scampering to the seated Henry and jumped on his lap, licking his face. Henry scratched the little dog’s head while his tail twirled. Ellen and Bram made their way over to the little room, peeked in and entered, both petting the little dog in concert. Henry and the two others took a moment to bathe the dog in caresses. He then sighed and looked at his dearest companions. “Ah, Fussie, ready for the battle scene? Miss Terry, we will set this version of the final scene. I think it works best, don’t you, m’dear? Mr. Stoker, will Mr. Lovejoy have those limelights ready to be tested after the show tonight?” Bram looked reassuringly at Henry. “Yes, Lovejoy will be prompt this time with the cue. And we will rehearse again when the curtain comes down.”

Bram walked out to where the technicians were readying the limelight’s, and Ellen leaned against the chair nuzzling Fussie. “How can you want to rehearse tonight after the show? You look like a great famished wolf as it is.” Henry looked down, and his sadness seemed almost palpable. “You are not like anyone else, you see things with such lightning quickness.” He looked around and then quickly kissed her hand. “I’m only confused by one thing and disturbed by another, that is all.” Ellen looked at his face and straightened his crown, which was slightly to the side. He looked up at her with a slight, sad smile. She laid her hand on his. “There, my Lord, your crown, although heavy, is now straight.” Ellen and Henry almost embraced, but Fussie started to whine, jealous. Henry saw a signal outside the room from the stage managers and rose to make his next entrance. Ellen watched him with tears in her eyes but even she could not tell herself why. Standing behind the curtain, Henry readied himself. In a whisper he asked, “Mr. Stoker, all set?” Seeing Fussie still seated in his room, he motioned across the expanse of the backstage. “Go on, Fussie, exit!” Fussie, understanding his direction, scampered off down the hall to his dressing room. Ellen left his dressing room, wiping her eyes, Pamela watching her from her offstage. The curtain parted and Henry strode energetically to center stage, addressing an unseen spirit downstage. Ellen, Edy and Pamela watched him from upstage center, peeking out from behind the curtain legs. Henry as Macbeth watched the spirit float by in front of him. He then spun around, with his back to the audience, and saw it materialize before him. It was Satish, dressed as Banquo, flying on a harness above him. In his deep rumbling voice Henry railed at the specter: O, treachery! — Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly ! Thou mayst revenge. — O slave ! With those words, he then charged at Satish, who started to fly upwards, the unseen cables pulled and weighted from backstage.

He flew up and out of sight, then rested on the catwalk. As Harvey went to unharness him, he gave a thumbs-up to Lovejoy at the deck level. Then he saluted Pamela and Edy, who stood watching his every move. Onstage, Henry planted himself with one hand raised, the other down. Avaunt! And quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou doest glare with. From offstage, Pamela intently watched Henry’s scene. She felt something strange happening in her left hand where Satish’s pendant was still clenched inside her glove. She lifted her hand out to the stage, where she alone saw Henry rise, his black mustache framing his mouth, his ornate eight-pound crown gleaming, his large eyes, dark and flashing. He was a perfect demon/god – the sum of roles he loved to play, the fallen angel. The gas from the lights made his image undulate until he was a wavering mirage. She loved him so much, she wondered if she worshipped him. An actor from onstage suddenly ran by her and handed her Henry’s helmet. She looked back to Henry, onstage, carrying on with the scene. She remembered her task, to run to Henry’s quick-change room and preset the helmet for the next act. His dresser was busy on the other side of the offstage area with the end-of-show preparations. As she bent over the table with the helmet, her foot gave out beneath her, and she felt herself pitch backward, falling and hitting the wall of the little room. She sat on the floor shaking her head, trying to stand in her confining armor, when she noticed a false wall in the back of the room, opened by a hidden switch, which must she must have hit when she fell. On top of the long altar lay a burnt ebony wand, the Bertrand Sword and a stage prop chalice from The Cup. All of these things

were familiar to her from her time on tour with the Lyceum: the wand, the sword, the cup. But why were they all together on this hidden shelf? It came to her that they were there to protect Henry. But there was something missing…something. She knelt down and took off her left glove to add the star pendant and chain from Satish, carefully arranging them between the cup and the sword. Wand, sword, cup, star. There, all the tokens together. Carefully finding the edge of the shelf, she swung it back up, its sides enveloping it so that the shelf was hidden once again. She stood there staring at the false wall, a part of her knowing that her Great Man was collecting things to practice magic, just as her tokens from the King Arthur banner she had painted many years ago were protecting him. Now he needed them all in one spot. She couldn’t explain to herself how she knew they belonged together. Listening to the music of the show, and seeing she had time, she quickly made her way to the prop table. From under it she grabbed her sketchpad and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the wall under the prompter’s lamp and started to draw. Henry had taught her the Egyptian signs of protection: a pelican, a pair of walking legs and a circle with a dot in the center. Bram Stoker passed by and saw her sitting on the floor in her armor, her gloves off, drawing on a sketchpad. Quietly he stood next to her, looking at her artwork. Egyptian drawings. Then he saw her draw the wand, sword, cup and star. The magician’s suite all assembled and Bram knew immediately: It was time for her to meet the Golden Dawn. Three Witches Ada Leverson’s parlor had been transformed into a small performance space with lilies and candlelight arranged before a small stage. Seated in the third row, Pamela had an immediate sense of her stomach churning, even though she wasn’t performing her show of Jamaican characters. It was the overpowering scent of

lilies, the arrangement of the candelabra near the piano and lively hissing of the audience exchanging animated greetings to one another that brought up her pre-show jitters. My mother, the parlor actress, would have loved to perform here, she thought. Even when she was reciting her stories for the clubs and society women in Brooklyn, nothing had compared to this elaborate set-up of at-home entertaining. Ada, the hostess and one of the wittiest women in London, sat in the front row, fanning herself. Turning in her chair to talk to Aleister Crowley, she saw Ellen Terry sitting just behind them. Aleister had grown into more of a society man, taking over the role of Ada's missing friend, Oscar Wilde, who had just moved to Paris, due to his legal scandals. Ada was a writer, unhappily married, and presented herself to Aleister as family and a possible (incestuous) mother figure, but he saw her more as a society matron. Since leaving his mother’s house, Aleister had come into the money left him by his father and was now living the bachelor’s life. He wanted to lead an artistic life with a group that shared his philosophy, and through Ada, he was meeting such people from all walks of life. When he first attended Mathers’ Rite of Isis of the Golden Dawn in the back room of some coroner’s, he had determined that this group would be his first conquest. But he needed to bring funding to the table to be seriously considered by Dr. Felkin and the others, who did not seem impressed by his educated accent or his knowledge of poetry. It didn’t help, either, that he introduced himself as ‘Count Vladimir’: Bram Stoker burst out laughing, saying, “Sorry, Chap, that name is already taken here.” Even Alan Bennett had been unsuccessful in getting Aleister in, so he had to follow the route he knew best, getting women to petition for him. And what he mostly wanted were wealthy women to support and encourage him. He had seen how Ada had protected and championed Oscar, even during his darkest days. And the most popular subject among women, other than the vote, was the world of the occult. Even Oscar’s wife had been a one-time member of this start-up Golden Dawn, and now doctors, politicians, and writers all flocked to the meetings. It was whispered in the men’s clubs and the House of Commons when the

next meetings were to be held, and their exotic secrecy thrilled those invited. The high point was to watch Mathers Lévitate during one of his magic rites, something Aleister had never been invited to see, but it was the “best kept secret not kept.” He also wanted partners to experiment with, and to be free to explore the dark side of sexual congress. He had an appetite for encounters that were rough and thrilling, with both male and female partners, and he found that with his personal magnetism he could bring any number of people into his orbit once he focused on them. His ability to look at a person and make them feel as though they were truly heard and understood made him absolutely irresistible. Of course, the payment for this understanding and attention was to allow him to press his need for sexual congress through his “Sex Magick.” To the newly liberated woman, he offered encouragement to embrace the female sexual impulse and to come to grips with her urges. And taught her that it was her duty to help manifest his sexual release. He found these encounters healing and freeing, and yet was determined not be tied down to any one person, unless she had a certain status. At his age, he was ambitious but not yet fully aware of how far his domain could extend. And tonight, he was on the hunt. In the second row sat Ellen Terry, Pamela Colman Smith, and Bram Stoker, talking among themselves. Pamela laughed, a very loud squawk, now and then, causing some in the room to try and find out the source of this very unladylike sound. In the very back row sat the Golden Dawn Chiefs, Edward Waite, Samuel Mathers and Dr. Felkin, conspiring amongst themselves. As the last few stragglers came in and sat, the room was lively and filled to capacity. Ada then stood and took position in front of the dais, announcing in her plummy tones, “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Susan Strong!” On the dais, Susan Strong, the American opera singer, standing next to a grand piano played by an older woman, started to sing. Susan's loose gown and flowing hair contrasted sharply with the elaborately coiffed hair and corseted dresses of the women before her. Susan was not a thin woman, as the 1903 sketch by Sargent

shows. She was one of those sopranos with sturdy frames and she had a vitality and confidence that came from a life of luxury, as her father had been a congressman and a one-time mayor of Brooklyn, just as Pamela’s grandfather was. She and her siblings had just settled her father’s will, leaving her a wealthy woman. At twenty-two, she decided to enroll herself in the Royal College of Music in London, where on a whim, she gave a performance of ‘Elsa’ in Lohengrin that made her a star overnight. Tonight, she was singing Venus’s aria from Tannhäuser, a piece she had studied for the past five years; it was her party piece and audition mainstay. As the last note vibrated and ebbed away, all fanning and rustling ceased, and the room was still, mesmerized. A moment of hush settled over the group, Susan bowed her head and the room exploded in applause and shouts of “Brava!” and “Huzzah!” Aleister jumped from his seat and extended his arm to lead the soprano down the steps to the throng waiting to greet her. Here is my next Venus, he thought, taking in the room’s adoration for her. Appreciative, Susan looked at him as she acknowledged the room. Ada kissed her on both cheeks, taking Susan’s hand from Aleister’s and presenting her to the composer Puccini, who had rushed from his chair. With his tousled dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes, this handsome man embodied the cliché of Italians talking with their hands. “Songbird! Never have I heard such a lovely Venus! Tannhäuser must be produced this season with you in this role! You are Venus!” Susan accepted his kiss on her wrist and held him at arm's length. “Ah, Signor Puccini, I am so honored to have sung for you. I am such a great admirer of your operas.” Puccini recoiled as though he had been stabbed through the heart and took the opportunity to seize her by the waist as though he were going to escort her out of the room. “No, no, no, no, no…no ‘Signor Puccini’! Even though I was christened Giacomo Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria Puccini. You must called me Giacomo, or, as you Americans would say, ‘Joe.’ Now, let me take you into dinner so that I may be assured

that I will sit next to you and not let the others offer any other compliments other than mine.” Aleister shot Ada a disgruntled look. She stepped up with her closed fan and gently tapped Puccini, who was now trying to lead Susan into the dining room. “Giacomo, I have seated Susan next to you at supper, but you would not have her miss all the other adulation in the room, would you?” The composer stepped back and performed a courtly bow, “I will be a gentleman and share, but will challenge anyone to a duel who will not let me claim my right to the lady’s dinner companionship!” He struck a pose as if he were holding a sword towards Aleister. Ada made her way directly in front of him and gently lowered his arm. “A duel, Maestro? Let me disarm you!” and she kissed him on the cheek. Puccini immediately dropped his imaginary sword and with a flourish, pushed back his hair. Happily, he boasted, “Ah, kisses – they disarm me every time!” With that, the room exploded into laughter, and as Aleister approached Susan, a woman of considerable girth made her way to the singer’s side. Annie Horniman was not considered beautiful in the Victorian sense, but she knew how to wear attention-getting clothes; this evening it was an oriental tapestry-type caftan. Her presence commanded the room. She embraced Susan and then began to applaud, encouraging others to do so. After a few moments, she cut it off, like a conductor leading an orchestra. “Ah, Susan, so few missed notes! Such tone! Excellent! Excellent!” Aleister inserted himself into the circle next to Annie and took Susan's hand. “Hornibags, just because you found her doesn’t mean you get to keep her.” Puccini looked confused and hung onto Susan's other hand. He addressed Ada, trying not to make contact with Aleister, and said, “Our songbird is not found? I have never met a Hornibags before. Is it…?”

Ada laughed and turned to Annie and Puccini, introducing them all. “’Hornibags’ is Aleister's nickname for Annie Horniman. Giacomo Puccini, composer and bon vivant, this is Annie Horniman, producer and freethinker. And this is my find this season, Aleister Crowley, recent Cambridge graduate and poet. And this is our American opera star, Susan Strong.” Puccini attempted to kiss Susan’s ungloved hand, but she maneuvered it into a firm yet feminine handshake. Slightly taken aback, Puccini turned to Aleister, who had seized Susan's hand and was giving it a meaningful kiss while Annie rapped him with her fan. Seeing Aleister chastised, Puccini smiled at Annie. Aleister bowed to Puccini and took his elbow. “Monsieur Puccini, let us step into Madame Ada's excellent library with a few of the men to have a drink before supper.” Ada turned to face him and in a slightly tight voice addressed him. “Aleister, supper will begin in ten minutes.” He waved her comments aside. “Oh, posh, I’m sure ten minutes will be enough time for the men to refresh ourselves. And Hornibags, I know you love a good cigar too, but another time. Onward ho!” He charged out of the room, attracting the other black-attired men as a whale pulls along small fish in its wake. As he passed the last row of the seated Golden Dawn Chiefs, he stopped, performed an elaborate salute, and continued on. The three men looked at him with amusement and derision. Felkin then turned to the other two men and mouthed the word, “Ass.” Puccini twisted his neck to see Susan as he was swept along, pointing his finger at her as a reminder and exited. The bedecked women in the room tittered and moved gracefully towards the front to congratulate the singer. Susan, Annie and Ada were swarmed by their greetings. The Golden Dawn Chiefs positioned themselves along a wall to regroup and consider when they might make themselves known. Mathers, whose black eye from the magical mishap was even darker, wore baggy, dull, unadorned evening dress; with his chopped hair and sparse mustache, cut an unimpressive figure. Felkin, in the

middle, gleamed like a polished stone, his hair shining brilliantly, his evening tails fitting perfectly, and his beard and mustache beautifully groomed. Edward Waite, with his walrus mustache and shaved chin, looked respectable but not upper class. Bram came up to the three with Ellen Terry and Pamela. Ellen was glamorous while Pamela wore a conventional evening dress but with a strange combination of sticks and jeweled feathers as a hair ornament, disconcerting most who saw it. Bram presented Ellen first to the men. “William Felkin, Edward Waite, Samuel Mathers, may I present Miss Ellen Terry.” The three men excitedly came to attention, while Ellen was gracious and attentive, almost flirtatious. Felkin, typically, stepped forward first. “Mr. Stoker, I see we had not only an opera singer as our muse tonight, but now we can rejoice in the company of a star, Miss Ellen Terry. I’m Dr. Felkin.” Ellen smiled as he kissed her hand. “Dr. Felkin.” Not to be outdone, Waite did the same. “Miss Terry, such an honor. Mr. Edward Waite.” “Mr. Waite, it is an honor.” Then Mathers, with his strange haircut, dark circles under his eyes and shaking hands, simply bowed. “Www…words. Failing me.” Ellen laughed charmingly and touched him lightly on the arm. “Ah, sir, words fail me all the time. What is your name, sir?” “M-m-mathers, M-Ma’am.” Bram now moved Pamela to the front to introduce her to the three men, whose enthusiasm was tepid. “And this is Miss Terry's protégée, Miss Pamela Colman Smith.” Pamela cocked her head and smiled. “Dr. Felkin, Mr. Waite, Mr. Mathers, happy to meet you.” Not a single one of the three met her gaze and she realized that they would not respond to her as long as Miss Terry was in sight. She later told Edy that she felt like a pinecone next to a plate of delicious meat, and Edy replied, “Welcome to my universe.” The three men politely bowed, and Ellen threaded her arms between Felkin’s and Waite’s. ”Gentlemen, did you not think that Miss Strong was divine?”

Waite replied with a somewhat teacherly air, “’Divine’ is a very burdened word, Miss Terry.” Mathers started to laugh uncontrollably, “Divine? Ha! Divinity! Ahhhh…” He finally stopped and took a deep breath. The men looked askance at him. Startled, he took another deep breath and settled himself. “Yes, yes you are right, I am not accustomed to s-sspeaking in society.” Bram continued, “Miss Pamela Colman Smith is the artist I was telling you about who understands symbols and Egyptian writing.” Felkin finally looked at Pamela with interest. “Really?” “Yes, I am a novice but enthusiastic student of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Symbols from all great religions intrigue me.” Ellen looped her arm through hers. ”She is quite talented. Her artwork and storytelling are remarkable.” “Where did you study?” Waite asked quickly. “Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, with Arthur Wesley Dow.” Waite, nodded and harrumphed approvingly. “And you say you understand the Egyptian symbols? Our group is just now studying them.” A strange, quiet, clinking noise started in Pamela’s head. She tried not to blink but each time Waite spoke, she heard it. Ellen noticed her strange expression and carelessly asked, ”And what exactly is your group? Bram has not been entirely clear on its purpose.” The three men stared at Ellen and Pamela and shifted slightly. There was an uncomfortable air of calculation. Felkin finally smiled and coolly stated, “Phenomena. The world of the unknown.” Waite started to relax and joined in, “Yes, metaphysical studies.” Aleister, who had entered the room unnoticed with a drink in his hand, had been eavesdropping. He suddenly stepped into the center of the group. “Magic!” he roared. Pamela laughed her loud laugh, which disconcerted the others, except Bram and Ellen. The clinking noise in her head now gone, she watched this overdressed young man take center stage. He was

handsome and animated, stirring up energy in the group as he assessed Ellen and gave her his most intense look. He whistled in appreciation of Ellen’s gorgeous ensemble. “Mr. Crowley, let me introduce you to Ellen Terry,” said Bram dryly. Aleister performed an elegant bow, a dip at the waist, coming up to kiss her hand, and looked into her cool, even blue eyes. She seemed appreciative but not bowled over. Not impressed, he thought. Not yet. “And here is a compatriot, Mr. Crowley, Miss Pamela Colman Smith.” Aleister turned to meet her and thought what a strange creature she was! Short, gaudily dressed with some sort of chopsticks and gewgaws in her hair, she seemed more man than woman to him. He looked at her with some repulsion. In typical American fashion, she put her hand out to him first. Aleister thought, They’d better not try to partner me with this freak of nature, while smiling at her and saying, “Miss Smith. A fairly common name, no?” Pamela could see the disdain as she shook his hand firmly. “More universal, I think,” she said merrily. The candles had burned down to their last inches, as the parlor was turned into a different sort of performance area. Bram, Ellen, Pamela and Aleister gathered in the back of the room, not quite hearing what was going on in the front. Aleister was jumpy and nervous, standing up and sitting down, all the while keeping an eye on the front of the room. And in the front of the room, Dr. Felkin was speaking with Ada, Susan and Annie before the dais. Waite and Mathers stood along the side wall, their focus on the women as the speech continued. As Felkin talked, all three women turned to look at Waite, then in unison at Mathers. Felkin continued as they turned back one last time to look at him. Pamela sat in the back row, listening to Aleister recount his latest mountain-climbing adventure to Bram. Ellen was on her other side, chin in hand, sizing Aleister up, who even as he spoke

remained focused on what was happening in the front of the room. She also noticed that he was doing his best to ignore Pamela, most rudely. Her eyes met Bram’s, a signal that Bram should find out more about Aleister. Bram stood in front of Aleister, almost kicking his sprawled legs, and finally cut him off. “Mr. Crowley, I know that Miss Horniman has been interested in our Golden Dawn group for a while. How do ya know ‘er?” Bram would bring out his strongest Irish accent when riled, and it was very thick. Aleister feigned a yawn and extended his legs even more, “Ada introduced me to Hornibags. Ada knows I am interested in all things occult,” he drawled. “Ya mean Miss Annie Horniman? She’s the ‘Hornibags’?” Pamela tried to catch Aleister’s eye to no avail. But she chimed in, “And all things occult? Is that as you say, Magic?” “That’s just the start. I've had my classical training at Cambridge, so, the usual: Latin, physics, languages. Now I want to expand my mind.” Ellen leaned towards Aleister. “And this Golden Dawn group that will expand your mind is to be funded by Miss ‘Hornibags’?” Aleister stood, stretched like a cat and then turned to Ellen, full of energy. “I believe that is what Dr. Felkin's song and dance to Hornibags is all about.” Bram frostily replied, “Is it?” Pamela laughed, “Singing and dancing should be part of every group.” Aleister couldn’t stand Pamela. She was obviously an amateur and Ellen Terry’s pet, not to mention Bram’s. The fact that she seemed to be fawned over by the theatre people did not impress him. Aleister snorted, and turning to her, gave her all his full attention. “And song and dance is what you have to offer, Miss Smith? Fairy stories? Second sight? Voodoo chants? That’s what I hear is in your arsenal.”

Ellen and Bram straightened up and locked eyes. Bram moved closer to him, but Ellen raised her hand to stop him and let Pamela stand up for herself. Standing to her full height, Pamela calmly replied, “My arsenal? Oh, my gifts are not weapons.” Aleister chuckled, his voice rising, “Oh, so you are gifted! A natural!” At this, Ada, Annie and Susan arose, looking towards the back of the room, somewhat annoyed at being disturbed. Ada took a few steps towards Felkin and addressed him. “Well, Dr. Felkin, it certainly is an interesting proposal you bring us. Do you think you might give us a minute or two to talk among ourselves?” He bowed, “Certainly, Mrs. Leverson, certainly.” He bowed again and scuttled over to Mathers and Waite, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. Waite discreetly shook his hand, “Well done, Dr. Felkin!” Taking a drink from Waite, Felkin muttered, “Now, if the three witches will only open their moneybags.” Mathers looked shocked. “Really, Dr. Felkin! Witches?” Felkin replied with scorn, “Come man, a Jewess, a spinster tea heiress, and an American social climber? They need us more than we need them.” Ada turned and motioned the three men to come closer. The three women spread out before them. Taking a deep breath, Ada began, “We think your proposition an interesting one and would be willing to subsidize the headquarters and research for your team in the manner that you have suggested for the trial term of one year.” The three men exhaled and smiled, Felkin rising to shake Ada’s hand. “We knew you would find it to your liking…” Ada cut him off with a wave of her gloved hand. “The condition we require is that one of us will be in training with you to be part of the ‘founding fathers,’ as it were.” Annie stepped forward, and energetically added, “I will be a most generous founding mother.”

Sputtering, Felkin replied, “You know, really, there are other ways that we can incorporate your participation than…” “This is our money and these are our terms, Dr. Felkin. Or shall I be calling you by your nickname, Wynn?” Annie held his gaze until he looked away. After a tense moment, with only Ada’s fan moving, he finally laughed. “Mrs. Leverson, Miss Horniman, Miss Strong, we accept your conditions with gratitude and enthusiasm.” The ladies all smiled and rising, went forward to congratulate the men. Susan broke into the “Ride of the Valkyries” aria as the two groups met. Continuing her aria in full voice, she clasped Mathers’ shy and clammy hand. Ada shook hands with the determined Waite. Felkin accepted Annie’s formidable grasp as she shook his entire arm up and down. At the sound of the singing, Bram, Aleister, Pamela and Ellen moved to the front of the room. Ada greeted Aleister and brought him front and center. “Aleister, Hornibags has agreed to front your Golden Dawn group.” The men look startled and upset. Waite stomped his feet in exasperation. “What do you mean, Mr. Crowley’s Golden Dawn group?” Aleister came forward and shook hands with the three women. “Thanks, Hornibags. Oh, I see. Wasn’t it mentioned? I'm to be groomed as one of the founding fathers?” Waite, Mathers and Felkin gasped. Pamela and Ellen hardly knew what was going on and Bram looked on, uncomprehending. Mathers stammered, “W-w-why…w-w-what…?” Waite and Felkin started talking over Ada, giving the room a charged feel. Finally Ada clapped her hands to restore order. “Now, Aleister, the three of us who are funding this have had some discussion. Your role is not exactly founding father.” As Ada and Aleister went to the side to have their own heated exchange, Annie “Hornibags” gave Ellen a fawning smile.

“Miss Terry, thank you so much for bringing your protégée, Miss Colman Smith to us. Bram has been telling us so much about her. We are so pleased to be bringing her on.” Aleister suddenly appeared next to Annie, “Bring her on as what? Miss Fairy Tales?!” Bram quietly stated, “She's actually going to be tutored in exact tenets of the Golden Dawn. She’ll learn what they are so that she can incorporate them into symbols on tarot cards. By creating these cards, we will have a method of learning the twenty-two steps to fulfillment.” “What!?” All the other men exploded in head shaking. Annie appeared next to Bram and put her arms around his wide waist. “Yes, gentlemen, stage blood is thicker than water and I’ve been working with Bram on his Undead play. And my contribution to your group will mean that Miss Pamela Colman Smith will be creating the tarot cards that will be the legacy of the Golden Dawn. So, she will be the next one groomed.” The men conversed animatedly with Bram and Ada, the noise level climbing higher and higher, with Felkin barking the loudest until Annie brought them to rapt attention by simply uttering, “Gentlemen!” Susan and Ada stepped away from the men now shouting at Annie and hurried over to Ellen. Pamela had never seen women challenging grown men so much when they spoke. Her mother and Maud always deferred to a man’s opinion. For these women to be issuing decisions was new. Ada fondly tapped Ellen on the arm, moving away from the commotion. “What a wonder it was to see your Mr. Irving play the Jew in Merchant of Venice at the Lyceum. And your Portia!” Ellen started to laugh, “Yes, my Portia! The loudest Portia in a trial scene ever documented as I had found that in Mr. Irving’s portrayal, he was to be the quiet dignified opponent! That left me to bellow next to his elegant whispers or we would have been two whispering characters onstage.” “Yes, I could hardly hear him,” Ada said her eyes lit with laughter. “But how it gave us a Shylock who was a victim and not

some hated moneylender. He gave us a Jew who has now entered the national conversation as a man devoted to his sacred tribe and ancient law.” Pamela tilted her head towards Ada and asked, “Do you think that people will understand him? Shylock, I mean, not Mr. Irving.” Ada looked at Pamela. ”To my family, this understanding is as if by magic, for we learn by example and his Shylock is most vulnerable. It may make some rehabilitation in the reputation of my people. Are you our empath that Bram has been talking about?” Ellen stood behind Pamela, presenting her to Susan and Ada, “Yes, this is my Pixie, my protégée. She has been studying the Egyptian symbols with Henry Irving for as long as I’ve known her. On the train in America Henry would grill Pixie for hours on end.” Susan looked kindly at Pamela. “You’re American, like me?” “No, Miss Strong, my parents and grandparents were American, from Brooklyn actually. My grandfather, Cyrus Smith, was mayor of Brooklyn. Before the Civil War, of course.” Susan started to laugh and clapped her hands, “What are the odds of that! My father was Congressman Dennis Strong, also mayor of Brooklyn.” The two women embraced and started to talk energetically. Ellen and Ada smiled at each other and blinked a slow blink of satisfaction. Aleister found a leftover glass of something to drink and downed it. Glaring at Pamela as she basked in being the center of attention, he felt his gut seize up. Now is the time to send her all the dark energy I can muster. Looking in her direction but over her head, he manifested the whirling ball of venom inside and imagined it rising from his bowels out into the air. In his mind, he saw it swirl out over the group to Pamela’s head. With lowered eyes and a deep breath, he empowered the writhing mass to encompass her, reciting the magic he’d learned from the Thoth instructions. Pamela suddenly looked up. Though flanked by Ellen and Susan, she sensed something foul happening. She turned away from the group, a dark shot of pain started to press in on her head

and she gulped, feeling her throat closing. Trying not to panic, she scanned the room for Bram, Ellen, Edy, someone. The noise of conversation in the room continued, but she was now suspended in a web of agony and paralysis. The noise dimmed to her hard breathing. Fighting for her life, she felt her rib cage struggle to expand. It was a nightmare from which she could not wake. She could not even move to try to find the white light inside her to beat its rhythm. Suddenly, Mr. Waite was by her side, and in her mind’s eye, he stood between herself and Aleister. The clicking sound she had first heard when she met Waite was now building to a loud roar. Bricks appeared in midair and began to surround Aleister, as if he were encased in a cocoon. Waite seemed able to direct them so they completely enveloped him, the sound of clicking and clanging growing louder. Immediately, the pressure on Pamela’s head and throat let up, she took a huge breath of air and almost toppled over. The bricks were now like a fixed tomb around Aleister, the rest of the room oblivious to it. The sound ceased, and a rustling sound became the roar of fire from Dr. Felkin as a bolt of lightning issued from his hand, breaking all the bricks and revealing Aleister’s face of wonder and fury. Mathers came to stand behind Pamela, towering over her tiny form. Pointing his hand, he emitted a rumbling sound as Aleister was suddenly lifted into the air and shaken, like a cat’s toy. He was then put down, abruptly. Aleister picked himself off the floor quickly, dusting himself off. Mathers turned to Pamela and grinned slyly. “M-m-meow.” The others were unaware of what had just happened. The lively conversation in the room started to overtake the sounds of her labored breathing and Pamela relaxed, looking up into the faces of the Golden Dawn Chiefs flanking her. No roars, rustles or traces of thunder were heard, only tinkling conversation and light laughter. She found a pulse of light inside herself and sent it to them in thanks. All three, Felkin, Waite and Mathers, nodded slightly. Their lips did not move but she could hear very distinctly, “Tell No One!” Then, calmly, they turned and walked away, back to the

group of ladies laughing and talking. As they did so, she saw Bram looking at her; he lifted a finger to signify silence, smiled and continued his conversation with Annie “Hornibags.” Aleister, furious and panting, his hair falling over his face, glared at Pamela. Pamela looked back at him, out of breath, but unafraid. Part Three Tarot Incarnations Secrets of the Vault Aleister walked with a swagger through the Mark Mason Hall on Euston Road. It was as though he were back for the third year at Cambridge, his reputation preceding him, and he felt happily conscious that he was soon to dominate this young group of occultists. The headquarters were on the second floor in an open room with an enormous ceiling and four large windows, tables stacked with books, writing instruments, a globe, and maps of the world pinned to the wall. Coats and briefcases lay scattered about; it was as if his chums were about to burst through the doors at any minute and start arguing about the latest controversy in class. Aleister peeled off his coat, put down his large satchel of books and notebooks, and spotted several Fleet street newspapers on a table, all with headlines referring to the latest murder victim of ‘Jack the Ripper,’ formerly called the ‘Butcher Apron Killer.’ One newspaper had a sketch of the victim on the cover; it was Martha Tabram, his mother's former kitchen maid. He held up the newspaper and studied it. He felt totally unaffected, as if a mangy cat’s body was the killer’s victim and not a woman who had fed him and made love with him. She was just an animal, a subpar example of a life that didn’t understand how to live. An ordinary life just grubbing out a meager existence, dependent on others.

In the middle of thinking how his own life was so different, with his superior intellect and taste for refinement, he suddenly heard loud laughter and music from another room. For a moment he was furious that there could be levity during these thoughts of his. He called out, “Hornibags?” He walked to a door at the opposite end of the room and opened it. Inside inhabited the eight-foot-tall Vault, with a ladder perched next to it with Annie Horniman was standing with one foot planted on the bottom rung, smoking a cigar, wearing a red silk gown with silver threaded peonies and carnations, and an elaborate lace high collar. The seated Golden Dawn Chiefs, Waite, Mathers and Felkin, all looked up from their cigars, the smoke curling in lazy loops in the air. Seated next to the Chiefs, an attractive woman, Florence Farr, her hair tied up in a Grecian plait, wearing the suffragette uniform of a blouse and skirt, played a hand harp. All of them were watching as a beautiful woman on the ladder above painted symbols on the Vault’s exterior. Mina Bergson was applying Egyptian hieroglyphics with a careful, steady hand. Mina was delicate and tiny, with curly, light brown hair and bright blue eyes. She wore a beige painter’s muslin smock, smeared with bright colors. Taking Aleister by the elbow, Annie guided him to meet the Chiefs. “Mr. Crowley, you remember Mr. Waite, Mr. Mathers, Dr. Felkin. This is Mina painting away. We were at art school together. I was talented, although not as talented as our Miss Mina.” The men eyed him coldly, the artist waved her hand, and the harpist stopped playing and rose to greet him. Florence Farr was tall and stunning in a leading lady way, not delicate and demure like Mina, who dressed much more girlishly than the suffragette. He recognized Florence from somewhere, a play or possibly in an audience at a play, but could not place her. Annie added, “This is Florence Farr, she will be your tutor.” Felkin interjected, “When was that decided?” “It was decided, Wynn. It will be Florence’s responsibility to teach you, Aleister, what you will need to know to pass the Neophyte level.”

As she had at Ada Leverson’s soiree, Annie gave the impression of dominating any social occasion. At least with Ada, Aleister could use his beautiful manners and learned Cambridge accent and Ada responded as though he were a London native. Annie didn’t respond to his airs, and she had a confidence that came from not needing a man for money or social status. Usually it was the ‘PB’s, or Professional Beauties as they were called, who had had all the confidence in society. Both Florence and Mina could be considered ‘PB’s, because they acted and modeled for money, but like Annie, they wanted careers. Annie was determined to be in charge, and her money given to the Golden Dawn gave her an entry into the hierarchy. Aleister sputtered and crossed his arms, staring intensely at Hornibags, then at Florence. “As a recent graduate of Cambridge, I am accustomed to being tutored, but never by a woman. If anything, I should be tutoring her in languages!” Florence smiled, “Ah, how many languages do you speak, Mr. Crowley?” Somehow this devil of a woman had perceived that this was a sore subject with Aleister. He had been unable to learn four languages at Cambridge in order to qualify for diplomatic service, the career for which he saw himself most fit. He had hired younger students to translate the Greek as he followed along in the text, but could barely speak French, German, or Italian. “Three.” “Ah, which three?” “Miss Farr, I'm a poet, and I like my lies the way my mother used to make them.” Waite and Felkin laughed, but Mathers, who obviously took his language skills very seriously, frowned and shook his head. Florence smiled also, her large expressive eyes and luminous smile putting Aleister at ease. She was the youngest of eight children of a Dr. William Farr and was named after Florence Nightingale, her father’s colleague; both had been known as ‘sanitary reformers, convincing England it was dying of dirt.’ Florence had gone to the

renowned college, Cheltenham Ladies’ College, but she left preferring to educate herself. She still worked sometimes as an actress, and George Bernard Shaw was furious that she was throwing her theatrical career away to work on ‘Egyptian Moonshine’, his term for her Egyptian studies, but she loved discovering the world of the Golden Dawn. At this early stage, the Golden Dawn initiated recruits in a manner similar to the lodge system of the Freemasons, new recruits working their way up a ladder of instruction with incentives and punishments. William Butler Yeats, who fell in love with Florence on seeing her onstage, had initiated her into the group, but he was currently off working on his new theatre. When she was not instructing new recruits, she spent her days at the British Museum studying with Sir E. Wallis Budge as he set up his new exhibit of Mut-em-menu, the mummy to rival that of Henry Martyn Kennard. Florence loved all things Egyptian. She was preparing to perform rituals dedicated to Egyptian deities and writing her book, Egyptian Numinous. She was so obsessed with one of the mummy exhibits that she would sit before it for hours, claiming she was channeling the spirit of Mut-em-menu, ‘a lady of the college of the God Amen-Ra at Thebes’. But she was also a collector of people. Recently she was brought the Adept Allan Bennett, who had been able to invoke a spirit in the Vault, the first successful attempt by a Golden Dawn member. Before that, there had been a lot of fruitless activity there by the three original Chiefs; they would emerge with bruises, black eyes and cut hands but no magical manifestations to speak of. These were the adventures of the Level Two Adepts; the Neophytes were not even allowed in the Vault. Playing a quick melody on her harp, Florence coaxed Aleister, “Mr. Crowley, you are a poet, surely, but I sympathize with your dearth of languages; I know only French and some Egyptian.” Felkin chimed in, “Florence, how many languages did that fan who followed you speak? That fellow from Ceylon?”

“Oh, Dr. Lucien de Zilwa? French and German, but he also spoke fluent Tamil and Sinhala.” Waite murmured, “Tamil! Sinhala! Languages you travel the world to hear.” Mathers snorted, “N-n-not very applicable to our studies.” Annie then stood. “No, truly not. Speaking of which, we should get back to our list of new recruits, gentlemen. Shall we leave Florence here to break the news of the arduous material Mr. Crowley is to be studying?” With that, the trio stood and stretched and headed for the door, Waite giving Aleister a meager smile. Felkin would not even acknowledge him, while Mathers stood by the door to the other room, unwilling to leave. Fine, thought Aleister. I’ll learn your drivel in a week or two and then be on to Level Two in the Vault! He immediately felt hot under the collar, his heart pounding. Sensing his discomfort, Florence placed her hand on his arm and led him to sit in one of the empty chairs. In her husky voice, she reassured him, “Mr. Crowley, there is a first time for everything. Shall we get started?” She sat, motioning him to sit beside her. Collecting himself and lowering his eyes as if he were casually seeing it for the first time, he motioned to the Vault. “What is this structure here?” Mina was descending the ladder from the Vault as Mathers, still lingering in the doorway, rushed over to help her down. She passed by him, thanking him with a smile, and went to clean her brushes at a side table, Mathers following her like a hungry dog. Felkin came once more into the room and saw Mathers watching Mina. “Mathers?” Mathers turned around and left the room in embarrassment as Felkin took in Florence and Aleister seated together. She began looking over the books at her feet but as she picked up one, Felkin put his hands in his vest pocket, cleared his throat and said in a slightly overbearing manner, “Keep in mind, Miss Farr, once the Vault

is painted, it will have restricted access. Even sitting here chatting will be forbidden.” A look of extreme annoyance crossed her face, but she merely tapped her foot and waved him away. “Understood, Dr. Felkin.” He sauntered out of the room with a look full of meaning and closed the door. Aleister rolled his eyes. “Restricted access? What is this Vault all about? And what would this structure be used for? It seems large enough for several people.” In the silence, Mina continued to clean her brushes, and Florence opened several books. She finally settled on one and placed it in his lap. “Perhaps that is something you will be privy to, once you pass Level One, Mr. Crowley.” Aleister stood. Florence rose and Mina turned to watch him as he crossed to the Vault and stood next to the symbols that Mina had just painted on the outer rim. “It is extraordinary. It seems to combine converged energies of some sort.” Crossing over to him, Florence flatly stated, “Mr. Crowley, I'm sure if you pass your first level, you may be able to discover the secrets of the Vault.” “And what is it you think I'll be studying? Aren’t you working on the tarot cards with that vulgar little Jamaican girl?” Mina sensed an altercation brewing and started to gather her art supplies quickly, stashing them in her canvas bag. “The first step after passing Level One, which has four grades, is the signing of the pledge, which commits you to silence on your knowledge of the Golden Dawn.” Aleister started to wander further into the Vault as Florence called out to him, “You will be asked to select a motto in Latin.” Just then, Mina dropped her canvas bag on the way out, spilling its contents out on the floor. Aleister immediately came out of the vault and studied her as she gathered her things. “Miss Mina, what is your motto?” Mina looked up at him. “’I never retrace my steps.’”

“Ah, a wise saying. What steps are you anxious to get away from?” Mina shook her head and Aleister laughed. “Too many personal questions, I fear. And your motto, Miss Florence?” “I study Thoth, the God of Wisdom and Magic. Mine is 'Wisdom is given to the wise as a gift.’” He slowly responded, “Wisdom is a gift? Not earned? And Thoth! Are you aspiring to have intercourse with the gods?” Just then Mathers came to the door again and motioned to Mina. “Miss Bergson, may I have your assistance out here?” Relieved, she left with Mathers, acknowledging Florence on her way out. Florence stared at Aleister. “Your studies will include Sephiroth, the twenty-two paths in accordance from the Hebrew alphabet, astronomy, geomancy and astrology.” Aleister came closer to Florence. “I am willing to take you on as a student, Mr. Crowley. On your journey from darkness to light.” Aleister crossed and toyed with the collar of Florence’s blouse, unnerving her, but she did not flinch from his intensity. “Perhaps I will take you on as a student, Miss Florence, in your journey from light to darkness.” “Really, Mr. Crowley. And what would be your motto?” “’Do what thou wilt.’ Or ‘I will endure.’ I can’t decide; it’s early days.” Aleister moved closer to Florence. “’I will endure’” seems more appropriate here,” Florence said flatly, trying to deflect his nearness. “Oh, I have a feeling I will be doing what I will.” As Aleister plucked a string of her hand harp, she looked at him sharply. He held up a hand as though trying to mesmerize her, but she put her hand on his and lowered it. She then held up her own hand towards him. He felt the effect of her power and tried to resist, but her hand emitted a curious strength. Surprised, he was repelled with a force that caused him to sit. Bohemian Nights

Pamela and Edy had been staying with Ellen in Kent, two hours south of London. Smallhythe was the bucolic home that Edy had persuaded Ellen to buy before the last tour, at least that was the story Pamela had heard. Ellen was terrible at arranging for the lawns to be cut, or land to be leased to farmers, or the leaky roof to be patched by local tradesmen. But it was a lovely spot to pick fruit, cut flowers, have the musicians down to play until all hours. However, now it was time to work. After lining up whatever work they could for the upcoming theatre season, Edy and Pamela rented separate London flats, and they joined forces in renting a studio on Fulham Road in Chelsea. This studio was to host their version of the Sublime Society, a closed group that had regular dinners and entertainment at the Lyceum. The Sublime Society was a version of the Beefsteak Club, just one of the ‘men only’ clubs with after-hours entertainment, created by Henry as a gathering of actors and artists. Since this was a private event where press and outsiders were not allowed, Ellen had been Henry’s escort on a few occasions. As Edy and Pamela were not distinguished enough to make the cut, they decided to form their own version. Pamela lived in a flat around the corner from the studio, and traveled by underground subway to the Lyceum, where she sometimes joined Edy or Ellen for meals between shows. This was the first time she had lived on her own, and she thrived on the companionship of the studio gatherings, with the bonus of having her own privacy. It also meant that her closest friend, Edy, was living a life outside their previously shared routine. Their current project was the subscription newsletter, The Green Sheaf, an endeavor that several of their friends contributed to; they were determined to continue printing it until it was a financial success, despite its being constantly in red ink. They wrote plays, illustrated book covers, and designed sets for Edy’s brother, Gordon, while still performing in the ‘smalls’ roles.

Edy’s flat was in Smith Square, next to Westminster, and she was keeping company with Martin Shaw, a talented composer who was starting a musical society with Gordon. Martin was ambitious and musically gifted, boasting that he was ‘The Cockney of Purcell Opera’ because of his thick Cockney accent and his obsession with the composer. Short, busy and talkative, Martin seemed an odd match for the introspective Edy. Recently, she had also been keeping company with Christabel Marshall, a large, mannish woman who had just changed her name to Christopher St. John. Christopher was Ellen’s former secretary, an accomplished writer who had worked for a young, ambitious politician, Winston Churchill. The studio, on the second floor of the three-story building, was becoming a well-known Bohemian meeting place. Edy and Pamela had arrived at the studio an hour earlier to set up. Nona Stewart, a tall dark-haired Scottish friend of Edy’s, had come to practice on the slightly out-of-tune grand piano while Edy told Pamela about Christabel, Edy’s newest friend. Pamela wore an orange coat over a green skirt with black tassels, and the red turban on her head had several pieces of jewelry pinned to it. Edy was wearing what Pamela called the ‘wallpaper dress’, a dress with a floral print, with much more print than dress. Edy and Pamela were in the kitchen area preparing for their weekly gathering, the usual menu of opal hush, regular spirits, meats, and cheeses. The Bohemians were a group that liked to eat and drink when they assembled, but it was sometimes beyond their budget to provide much more. Pamela stared at Edy. “And so now she will answer only to Christopher?” “Yeth.” Edy’s lisp had only worsened with time, and Pamela saw behind her silence that something else was behind Edy’s words – or lack of them. “Edy, you’re living with Christopher now?” “Yeth.”

“I guess I won’t be calling her Miss Moonbeams any longer. And Martin Shaw is now out of the picture? I thought you two were engaged.” “We were engaged. Ellen pointed out that our marriage would be a long period of starving along.” “Because he’s a composer?” “Because he’s an artitht whose art comes firtht.” “Ah, but Edy, here we are trying to make money with The Green Sheaf, which isn’t making money, nor are my bookplates, nor your costume renderings, nor our posters, scenic designs or cards. And with you and Gordon starting the Pioneer Players, none of us will be making money. But that doesn’t make us less lovable.” “It’s not about money, Pamela. It’s about the freedom to fulfill my potential, not just his.” “I suppose it’s like the six baked eggs.” At this Nona stopped playing and in her Scottish accent loudly called from her piano bench, “What six baked eggs?” Edy laughed, “Oh Nona, if you ask her she cannot help but tell you. I heard this story almost every day on tour.” “Well, then, Miss Know-it-all, you can help me tell it to Nona. Nona, come here.” Nona left the piano bench and came to sit down next to Pamela and Edy, Pamela starting off the story. “First of all, it’s six poached eggs, not six baked eggs. And in a long before time—” Edy joined in, “Before Queen Victoria came to reign over we—” Pamela interrupted and continued, “A man was trabblin from one town to another and him very hungry. So him stop at a Cook Shop and they bring him six poach eggs. And he eat dem and say him don’t got any money to pay fe dem, but would come back and pay when he find his fortune.” Edy now picked up the story, without a Jamaican accent, but her slight lisp created an Irish one. “So, after twelve years, the man was riding along the road, on his way back to his own countryside, and he went back to the Cook Shop to pay him six pence for the eggs he had eaten twelve years earlier.”

“(Oh Edy, your Jamaican sounds Irish! Let me finish!) And de keeper of the Cook Shop say, not good enough, dat if de man had not eaten de eggs, de would have grown up chickens and de chickens would have been hens and de hens would lay more eggs and they would grow up do be chickens and dat de six eggs would be more than sixty pounds, not six pence! And de man say, he would not pay more dan six pence. An so de Cook Shop keeper take de man to de Judge an while de Judge was tinking, a little boy came into the court house. And him had a bag under him arm, an de Judge say,“What you got?” And de boy say, “Dried Peas, sah!” “And what you goin’ to do with it?” And de boy say, “Plant it!” And de Judge say, “But dried peas won’t grow!” An’ de boy say, “An poach eggs won’t hatch!” So de Judge laugh! An’ he never make de man pay any’ting. An, de man was so thankful to de boy, dat he took him home with him, and he grow up and get all de man money when him go away with Death.” Edy leaned forward. “And this story proves?” Pamela took over, “No catchee, no havie.” Just then there was a knock on the front door and there, posed outside the door, were Yoshio Markino, a Japanese dandy, and William Butler Yeats. Both Yoshio and William were in their twenties, but Yoshio was an old hand at making the social rounds while William was an Irish introvert who had difficulty looking people in the face. As the door opened, Pamela shrieked and embraced Yoshio and dragged him into the room, Nona’s piano again pounding out music. Yoshio slowed Pamela down. “Pixie, William Butler Yeats. William, Pixie Colman Smith.” “William, yes, yes, pleased to meet you.” Pamela hurried them out of their coats. “Miss Pamela.” “William, her name is Pixie. No one ever calls her anything else.“

“How do you do?” Edy called from the kitchen, “Is it the Birds?” Pamela called back to her, “No, it’s Yoshio.” She saw William. “And a William.” Turning to both, she demanded, “What are you drinking?” “The opal hush. Pixie, this is a clever young man who has read philosophy. And is a poet. Oh, I almost forgot, I have a gift for you.” As Yoshio threw his coat on the bed, he retrieved a small bag and handed it to her. “Oh, Yoshio, you shouldn’t have. I know you don’t have the extra coin for this.” “No, I saw this and knew you must have it.” Pamela opened the bag to find a book of Japanese woodblock prints. It was one of the ukiyo-e artwork books, the sort her father had given her when she was studying Japanese art at Pratt. Her eyes teared up and she hugged the book. “Yoshio, I can’t tell you what it means to have this book here with me tonight.” “I am so glad you are so interested in our Japanese art. I knew you should have it.” Edy came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses, which she handed to William and Yoshio. Yoshio took an enormous drink, then looked Edy up and down, and queried, “Miss Edy, whatever are you wearing?” Edy gave him a slight chuck under the chin. “Yothio. Pamela is wearing orange, green and red – a jacket, pants and a hat, and you are asking me what I am wearing? I am wearing a dreth.” “Ah, but Pamela dresses just like an English woman. You dress like a lady.” Pamela laughed. “How does an English woman dreth?” “Englishwomen spend all their money to wear everything – metal, stones, animal skins, dead leaves, dead birds. I would not be surprised if she picked up a dead snake in the field and wore that on herself.” There was another knock and Pamela dashed off while Edy handed a glass to William, taking him in. She then kindly asked, “I’m

sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” “William Butler Yeats.” His Irish accent was loud to his ears and he immediately regretted coming. “Well, Mr. Yeats, we have a tradition here: you sign our guest book, and during the course of the evening you make a contribution.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m currently flat broke, Miss..” “Oh, and here I am not introducing myself. Edy. Edy Craig. And, no, we don’t mean money. We mean a song, a poem, a dance, a sketch. Do you think you can do that?” “I can do a poem, perhaps.” An explosion of sound came from the front door, shrieks and laughter, kissing and teasing. Pamela came in with at least ten other people, Satish and Bram, Annie Horniman, Arthur Conan Doyle, and a host of people she didn’t recognize, taking off their light coats and crossing to the guest book, greeting Edy and Yoshio. The last person entering was a grown-up Maud Gonne, prompting Pamela to cry out and throw herself in Maud’s arms. It was the first time in thirteen years that they had seen one another. The five-foot Pamela and sixfoot Maud embracing made quite the sight as Pamela clung to her black fur cape. “Maud! Maud! You are still so tall! How I’ve missed you!” “Yes, my young friend, I am still so tall and you are still so dear. And it has been forever. It does my heart good to see you. Let us sit and talk for just a moment for I know your big night of hosting is here.” Maud’s face was still beautiful but now had a haunted quality to it, her eyes large, sad and slowly taking things in, it was as if she were in shock. She had even more poise and exquisitely turned-out style from living in France. What Pamela didn’t know was that Maud had had an affair with Lucien Millevoye, a married French political activist, and their three-year-old child, Georgette, had died a month ago. She had been educated to the plight of Ireland’s Independence movement by Millevoye, who hated the English with a passion. She had recently witnessed the eviction of tenants trying to ask for a fair rent in Ireland, and the starving children there had made a huge impression on her. She supported Ireland’s famine relief efforts and

furnished lending libraries with Gaelic materials to combat the English rule that was trying to eliminate their language and culture. Now, she was in London, looking for ways to publicize the conflict that she saw happening in a country where she had once lived with her father. But she was saying nothing of her relationship with Millevoye or the loss of her child. Before Pamela could get a word with her, Bram came up to Maud and they embraced. He took her aside, saying, “Pamela, Miss Maud and myself are old friends. We will be plotting for Ireland’s home rule for the next ten minutes. We could use a drink.” Laughing and crying at the same time, Pamela ran to get another opal hush and an ale and as she left them to talk about the state of the conflict, she overheard Bram say: “What a small world! What a great world!” “Mr. Stoker, I’ll be looking to you to provide me with means to infiltrate.” The sounds of pouring drinks and lively talk, with Nona continuing to play at the piano all the while, made for a din as Pamela squeezed past a group of people gathered around Satish. Pamela teased Satish, ”You look far too grand for our gathering, Sir!” Ever since he gave her the pendant, it seemed as though he had been avoiding her. She wondered if he knew she’d given it to Henry to make sure he was protected – and was offended. His dark eyes twinkled and his handsome dark head turned from side to side so that she might get the full impact of his elegant evening dress. “Darling Girls, it wasn’t just for you and your Gypsies. I had a recital of my best Shakespeare at a club this evening.” “And you came here afterwards! You are at the right place.” Moving along, she saw Yoshio trying to break into a conversation between Debussy and Whistler. Pamela took him by the hand. “Yoshio, let me introduce you to Mr. Debussy and Mr. Whistler.” His eyes grew big. In the kitchen area, Edy looked at William sideways. “Wait. Weren’t you here with Arthur Ransome last week?”

“I’m glad you remembered. I could hardly tell Miss Pixie that we met last week. But yes, we came at the end of the evening to pick up Arthur’s cousin, Christabel Marshall…” At the mention of this name, Edy looked at him to see if he knew that Edy and Christabel were seeing one another. Seeing that he didn’t, much less know that Christabel was now Christopher, she kept her composure. William continued, “…who was here last week and she said that we would meet a good deal of famous artists here so that we should come again. Yoshio insisted on it, and Christabel seemed to know both of you very well.” Pamela bounced over to them with her empty glass. “Edy, just found out the Birds have been here the whole time in the other room. We have a sword in here somewhere, don’t we?” “Yes, that two-sided one hanging there. No, you can’t see it because the piano shawl is draped over it. On the wall, there. Do you need it for the Birds?” “Yes.” Pamela raced off and William laughed. “Who are the Birds? Critics?” “Painters.” “And they need a sword for?” Edy smiled, “Well, the Benns, or ‘the Birds,’ are recently married; he’s a painter. She works with clay, wax, wire. His next painting is to be of an ancient knight looking ruefully at his armor and sword. So, I’m sure he needs the sword as a model for the painting. They’re Ellen’s new find.” Pamela sauntered over with more drinks for William and Edy and watched him take a small sip, and then she mock-hit her head. “I know where I’ve seen you! With Uncle Brammy. You’re William Yeats. Bram said you are part of this new Golden Dawn group. With Florence Farr! Oh! I want to design the set for your next play, Where There Is Nothing.” Seeming very pleased, William puffed up slightly, looking at Edy. “Yes, her brother, Gordon, mentioned that you might.” Leaning in, Pamela looked at him intently. “What is your position with the Golden Dawn?”

Trying his best to downplay his accent, William demurely stated, “I was just named Imperator of the Outer Order of Isis-Urania Temple to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.” Bursting into laughter, Pamela patted his hand. “Whatever does that mean?” Slightly offended, William looked down and blushed. “I will be taking on an important role in the leadership division.” “That I understand. Congratulations! Let me introduce you to this actress who just arrived from Ireland, Maud Gonne.” At first, William didn’t seem keen on moving, but Edy and Pamela each took an arm, “Come on, Imperial whatever you are!” “Maud!” Maud, in mid-conversation with Bram, turned on Edy’s call and regarded William Butler Yeats. As she turned her head, her beautiful black hair, pale skin and black silk gown gave her a severe look, but when Maud heard his Irish accent, her face softened. The same accent as her own, when she put it on, and as Bram’s. She embraced him. He stood as though he were being electrocuted. He stammered out, ”Majestic, unearthly – a goddess.” Bram gave a slight snort, while Pamela and Edy looked at each other and shared a signal to disperse, leaving Maud and William alone. Bram wandered off elsewhere to find Whistler. Just then, the Birds came in with the found sword and lit cigarettes, clamoring for more opal hush, and Yoshio went about tending to them. Two women in elaborate evening dresses, Lady Cynthia Garfield and Emma Dorset, marched in the kitchen demanding their cigarettes to be lit and glasses to be filled. Lady Cynthia wore a stunning yellow silk dress, its bodice sparkling with beads and musical notes embroidered in the scalloped neckline, the gauze of the three-quarter sleeves dripping with beads and gemstones. Emma Dorset’s contrasting emerald green velvet dress had sparkling gemstones set in the intricate weavings of the bodice. The height of fashion in 1904, the yellow and green apparitions proudly posed in the kitchen doorway, heads snapping and necks twisting to see the sight of high society in Bohemia.

Lady Garfield scanned the room. “Yoshio, this is quite the mishmash of people. Will the hostess be performing her stories this evening?” “Ah, Lady Garfield, she might, she might. It all depends on what mood strikes her.” Just then, Pamela passed behind them unseen and perched on a stool behind the curtain, hiding out of sight, enjoying this short break, eavesdropping. So much had happened to her outside of Edy’s world and this world, and she could no longer confide in her best friend. Edy was always out with either the composer or this new Cristabel. All the dangers and thrills that the Golden Dawn seemed to hold for her were her exotic secret. But tonight, she needed a place where her own magic would shine. Maybe her storytelling would help her feel as though she belonged to this group of people. Emma Dorset whispered conspiratorially to Yoshio, ”She’s such a strange little person. She’s not really English, you know!” Lady Garfield agreed. “Oh, yes, if you’ve heard her stories, you would know that even if she was born in England, as she claims, these stories she tells are those of a black woman.” Yoshio stepped back, confused by the vehemence in their voices. “She is an excellent mimic, that is all. It is my understanding she spent some of her time in Jamaica, where these stories originate.” “Really?” Lady Cynthia exhaled a curling wisp of smoke beautifully. “Well, I’m sure I don’t understand why she would want to do that. I’m sure it’s entertaining, but isn’t it ridiculous to put on another person’s affect? Why be a mimic?” On hearing this exchange, Pamela recoiled. There had been speculation that because she could speak with a Jamaican accent, wore unusual clothes, and had unruly hair, she was black. Not that any of these society people here tonight had ever met a Jamaican person. We are all freaks to them, she thought. Edy was suddenly beside her, her arm around her. Pamela smiled at her. “Ah, is that how they think of me? I’m an entertaining mimic.”

Adjusting Pamela’s turban, Edy handed her a glass of opal hush. “They are Bloomsbury debutantes, Pamela, nothing more. And you mustn’t be bothered by their ugliness.” “That’s true, although sometimes through ugliness, beauty is found.” They looked at Lady Cynthia and Emma slinking away with Yoshio, all three of them laughing uproariously. Pamela drew a deep breath. “And those two are beautiful. I suppose where there is beauty, sometimes ugliness is found.” Satish was making his way over to them and both girls smiled. Cheering herself, Pamela whispered to Edy, “Well, surely, it is through evil, that we realize good.” Just as he was almost by their side, Lady Garfield and Emma Dorset pounced on him and insisted on his sitting next to them. Surrounded by yards of green velvet and yellow silk, Satish was astounded by the obvious flirting of the two women. For all of their conspiratorial talk of her being black, and it possibly not being a good thing, they certainly found Satish to be the most captivating guest there. His eyes found Pamela’s and he beamed a sort of apology. She responded with a good-natured shrug. More people entered and a small crush of people gathered around the kitchen area. Pamela picked up a fork and tapped the side of her glass, calling the room to order with its ring, the piano music finally fading away. “Good evening friends. Now that we’ve met, this is the time for our contributions. Make sure you sign our guest book. We’ve had the music from Nona. Let’s show our appreciation, shall we?” The room applauded enthusiastically, as Nona half rose from her bench, blushing, and then sat back down. “And now we will hear from the rest of our gathering. I’ll go first, as usual.” The rest of group found seats and settled down. Pamela looked at the crowd, the fancy yellow and green gowns of the ladies seated on either side of Satish splayed out before her. She cleared her throat. “I had planned to tell one of my Annancy stories, but I think a song might be more appropriate.”

Nona, surprised, started to play Spanish Ladies and Pamela took a breath and looked at Satish directly. He regarded her with a concerned, almost disappointed, look. She motioned to Nona to stop playing, and his expression turned devilish, as though he could read her mind. He remained still, facing forward, but with the slightest movement, he looked to his right and left and smiled. He knew she was intimidated to tell her Jamaican story and yet he was encouraging her to be herself. The room settled in for one of Pamela’s stories, Edy and Yoshio flanking her, giving her encouraging smiles. Pamela drew herself up. “No, wait, a story has just come to me.“ “Oohs” and “ahs” emanated from those who had heard them before. Pamela sat cross-legged on the floor in front. She lit a candle and inhaled deeply, thinking of her Nana and all her stories and characters. Which one? Then it came to her. She would tell the flour barrel story. It was one of the first stories she’d learned, and she remembered the first time that she heard Death was a character. And Death pursued the spider named Annancy. “This will be the story of how Annancy cheated Death.” She started her story of Death, how he was coming after a household and the spider Annancy told the children to hide from Death in the rafters. But they could not hold on to the rafters in the ceiling, crying out to their father, “Oh, Puppa, me hand hurt me!” And one by one, the children would drop from the ceiling and Death would put them in his bag. “Oh, Puppa, me hand hurt me.” Annancy was also hiding from Death in the rafters of the house. But when he dropped, he fell into a barrel of flour and Death could not find him. Pamela’s voices – Death, the children, the father and Annancy himself – were so distinct and compelling that the entire room was still, completely entranced. Annancy got away while Death was looking for him, in vain. The last phrase landed, “An’ Death not catch Annancy to dis day!” The room broke into enthusiastic applause, Lady Cynthia and Emma clapping the loudest. Emma quietly confided to Satish, “That wasn’t entertaining, that was terrifying!”

Satish laughed. “Oh, there’s a lot of terror in here tonight.” Edy then came to the front of the room, motioning for Pamela to move to the place near Yoshio and William. Pamela sat down happily next to them and looked at the back of the room, toward Maud, who blew her a kiss. Pamela felt a hot rush go through her. The last time she and Maud had been together, Pamela had flown. Tonight, it seemed that she had flown again, in another realm. The applause died out, and after Yoshio’s affectionate embrace, Pamela laughed one of her big laughs and took a glass of opal hush from him. Edy then rapped the table to get the room’s attention. “Here, tonight we have a guest poet with us. Perhaps he will grace us with one of his poems?” William glanced down, swirled his wine glass and drained it. Edy looked imploringly at him and reached out her arms to him to call him forward, “William Butler Yeats? Will you answer the call?” After some deliberation, he clumsily rose to his feet and went to the front of the room. He saw the six-foot-tall Maud standing at the back of the room, her beauty and intensity causing his throat to close up. A smattering of applause politely started up and immediately died out. William cleared his throat, then began to recite: I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands. I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. The room applauded enthusiastically, Maud looking at him with a quiet appreciation. William sat down next to Pamela and whispered to her, “That was completely nerve-shattering. And I’m not of a mind that anyone here understood it.” Pamela patted his leg. “Quod tibi id aliis. What to yourself, that to others.” William finally started to loosen up and laughed, pushing his sliding glasses up his nose, looking around to see where Maud had gone. Pamela laughed with him, pouring him more wine. How charming he was! How adult and sophisticated this evening was shaping up to be! He then leaned into Pamela. “I’ve just met the woman I’m going to marry.” Pamela’s heart leapt, and she kept pouring his wine. Would this be an unexpected admirer? Her first beau? “Really? And who would that be?” “Maud. Maud Gonne.” Pamela looked at his sparkling eyes as he drank the last dregs of his glass and stood, smiling above her. Seeing Maud across the room, he immediately turned and made his way over to the tall, willowy Maud, now holding court with Bram and Mr. Doyle. Pamela saw Maud’s kindly eyes light up when he came to her. Like a statue

come to life, Maud tilted her head and took his hand. Yeats looked as though he were going to float away, much to the annoyance of Bram and Doyle. A slight tug came to Pamela’s heart, as she wondered if she would ever mean that much to a man. In her head for years, had she replayed falling off the bridge, clinging to Terriss, being pulled up the ladder and his saying to her that they were “So alive.” It was unlikely that she, a short, round exotic would capture the attentions of a matinee hero like Terriss, but every time she thought of flying with Maud, the next sensation would be falling with Terriss. She noticed Satish still sandwiched between the yellow and green sirens and her heart sank even further. Her orange, green, red outfit suddenly seemed garish and comical. She looked around for Edy and found her at the door, helping a mannish woman off with her coat. It was Christopher, formerly, Cristabel, and Edy seemed younger and positively giddy. To most of the theatre world, Edy was known as a dour person, but to Pamela she was a fierce companion who wilted only under the constant comparison to her mother. And now it seemed this Christopher would be helping Edy revive her spirits. All the couples, thought Pamela. William and Maud. Satish and the debutantes. All right, they were a trio. Edy and Christopher. Closing her eyes, Pamela’s inner music started, and she felt the reassuring hook of magic percolating through her blood. This was the exchange, her magic for not having what they had, a newfound identity of two. As she sat on her chair watching the room turn and weave with animated connections and seductions, she smiled. The Lovers, she thought. “You are my sacrifice.” The music inside her head grew louder, comforting her. Aleister’s Possession “What do you want?” The dark shadow formed in front of him and touched his head.

“My mind?” You want that you, Aleister, would become Anwass. That the Egyptian deity will share your body. “Share my body? How?” We will share your temple. “And if I refuse?” Why would you? “I would need to control.” There is no control. “My father! Walking with me…near the Brewery!” And then? The crows cawing at his open grave. Ambushed in the hallways…kidneys almost burst. Bullied by headmaster…. Christmas tree…shaken… The shadow lifted him up and poured itself into him. Ahmed & Pamela In the British Museum’s special artifacts room, Waite, Bram and Felkin hovered around a table as Pamela sat with her sketchpad before her. She saw that Bram was proud that she was to illustrate these new tarot cards, but what the cards were to be had not been fully explained to her. She was to receive eighty pounds, forty now and forty when the deck was complete. She began to sketch those standing around her, full-figured men, with thumbs in vest-pockets, fine beards brushed to their fullest. It reminded her of her time at the Pratt Institute, in her freehand sketch classes, where she excelled. Once again, she was the only girl in her art class, surrounded by men; it was almost a comforting feeling of competition and assertion. Ahmed came in carrying the Sola-Busca tarot cards spread out on a tray, the men standing back as he put it down before her. He was not in the typical muslin protective garb that he wore at the museum. Today, he was wearing an embroidered tunic. He was

bustling with pride and protective energy; it had taken him two weeks to get permission to view the cards, and he was beside himself with anticipation. “Here are the fourteenth century Sola-Busca tarot cards. They have been in the Sola-Busca family for over five hundred years. The museum acquired them in 1845, and we hope in the next few years to use this new form of recording called photography to capture them.” Bending over them with his hands clasped behind his back, Felkin muttered, “Speaking of capturing, how did the Museum come to own these Sola-Busca cards?” Putting the tray aside, Ahmed pointedly replied, “In the world of acquisitions, there are only two methods – payment or plunder. I believe this was for payment.” The black and white cards were spread out in front of Pamela, who sighed in delight. Putting on the archive’s muslin gloves, she picked the cards up, one at a time. “They are wondrous!” Ahmed studied her and saw her delicately pick one up. “That’s right, Miss Pamela, the Sola-Busca cards were the first tarot cards used for divination, communication and mediation.” Felkin lingered near Pamela’s shoulders. “But not invocation or conjuring?” Waite sniffed, “As far as we know, these cards were not used in magic or fortune telling.” Whenever Waite was near, the clicking noise would start again. At first, she thought it was a warning that his ability to conjure the bricks was imminent, but that didn’t prove to be the case. The sound was like having a fly buzz around you or piece of grit in your eye, annoying and persistent, but not overwhelming, and eventually she was able to tune it out. She liked Waite personally, although he had a sort of dull energy to him when he was with the other Chiefs. Here in the museum, he was relentless in his enthusiasm for the tarot cards, and especially when it came to historical research. He would leap up and almost dance when Ahmed brought out the Lévi tarot cards, cards that were drawn to help Lévi’s students’ spiritual studies. Waite

was also polite to Pamela, unlike Felkin, who always looked at her as though she were an escapee from the convent and not suitable to be around the grownups. One of the longest conversations she and Felkin had ever had was when he looked through her portfolio and saw life drawings from her time at Pratt. In astonishment he said, “You’ve drawn unclothed men!” “And women!” Pamela cheerily replied. “How is that possible?” “At the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, they have no qualms about women drawing men and vice versa. Although, I suppose that has not been the acceptable for these many centuries.” “Ah, Miss Pamela, more talk like that and I’ll think you’re a Suffragette like Miss Florence.” She picked up the Three of Swords, a large heart with three swords piercing it and a swagged wreath strung underneath. “Look at this beautiful heart. Three swords right through it. I understand.” Chuckling, Felkin looked at the tarot card. “What do you understand about the Three of Swords in this deck, Pamela?” Pamela put her gloved hand over the card and felt it. “For a woman – the flight of her lover. For a man – A nun, a rupture, separation.” The men look amused and entertained, except for Ahmed. Bram put a comforting hand on Pamela's shoulder, “Well, that was a pretty good guess. At least you didn’t say the obvious, disruptions of the heart or such. Pamela, I know the creation of this new tarot deck will be in good hands if you undertake this project.” Pamela, stung a little, turned and smiled at him, “Thank you, Uncle Brammy.” Ever since the night at Ada Leverson’s when Aleister had tried to paralyze her, she had been unable to confide in Uncle Brammy. Aleister had sent an astral attack to her in public. There seemed nothing to hold him back, no warning when he might attack again, and she felt herself to be a liability to her friends. When the Golden Dawn Chiefs had retaliated on her behalf, she wasn’t sure Bram had been able to see what she was seeing. Was he gifted as they were?

Was there a special ability that he had that he couldn’t talk about either? Was she safe by herself around Aleister? She was always with Waite or Bram or Felkin whenever she ran into him at the headquarters. Was that planned? She looked up and saw Ahmed studying her very carefully and went back to looking at the cards. Bram also was looking at her intently, but then he smiled. “Well, gentlemen, Pamela needs to get to work and I needs must get back to the Lyceum. Mr. Irving is putting in a new leading actor today, William Terriss. He’s been busy at other theatres and we’ve just hired him back. Waite, will you outline the details to Miss Pamela?” Pamela’s face went red and she kept her head down as her heart raced. She tried to keep her composure at the news that Terriss was back and at the Lyceum. He wouldn’t even recognize her. “Of course. We have a big job ahead of us,” Waite replied smartly as he stepped up to the table and started to take off his coat. “I will see you at supper, Pamela. Mr. Kamal, Mr. Waite.” Bram started towards the door. Felkin followed him. “Waite, I left the notes for the cards’ creation in Woodman’s lockbox. Ah, how our late Dr. Woodman would have loved this. Let’s take a look at his former office, shall we?” Ahmed almost said something, since the office was currently his, and his artifacts and maps were all over the desk, but it seemed disrespectful of the recently departed Woodman to deny his friends entry to his office. Waite seemed positively charged to see the former office of Woodman, and he and Felkin both trotted to the door. Felkin, wearing a beautifully embroidered vest that Ahmed recognized to be one of Woodman’s, charged through the door, leaving Waite to follow. Bram turned and gave a serious look to Pamela and Ahmed. Felkin and Waite seemed like vultures picking over bones as they rushed to go through the doctor’s former office. Something not right there, not a single expression of sympathy or grief over Woodman’s demise, Bram thought as he followed the two men out.

Ahmed stepped forward and quietly sat down next to Pamela. “Miss Pamela, you are creating a new version of tarot cards for these gentlemen?” “Yes, I have always loved symbology and storytelling and I have ability.” “Ability?” “Ability to channel. When I draw things, they present themselves to me. I taste colors, hear objects sing, or the drawing makes music. It comes through from the other side. I don’t say it is a talent or a gift, as I have practiced nothing to bring these things to me. They just come. I have learned a great deal from the stage, in fact, everything I have learned about clothes, action and pictorial gesture comes from…Sir Henry and Ellen. But now I know how to use this knowledge.” Pamela had never spoken of her ability in this way to anyone and it surprised her that she felt so at ease with Mr. Kamal. He was like Henry in that he sat a little distance away from her with his head tilted sideways, sometimes not even looking at her. Ahmed looked over his shoulder and in an even quieter voice said, “These cards will be used many times in the future. The magic in them will be quite powerful.” Pamela almost laughed and then, looked at Ahmed's face, caught herself. “These are playing cards, Mr. Kamal. Playing cards to be used for a hero’s journey. I have seen these images all my life, and now I will be able to tell a story with them. Sometimes objects speak to me and tell me that they are meant to be seen in a different way.” Ahmed seemed to want to respond to this, but instead he picked up the Three of Swords and said, in his softest voice yet, “I see now why you were picked for this task, Miss Pamela.” “Why?” “There is a tear in your reality where you see the seen and unseen come together. Languages are forbidden or lost, but images may stay long after the language is gone.” “Like your hieroglyphics?”

“Exactly, like my hieroglyphics, which were used to tell a story without the language of words. What is the first step in this hero’s journey of your cards? How does he start?” Pamela looked at Ahmed and saw that he was testing her, not in an unkind way, but firmly. “He starts as an innocent, without values or judgment.” Ahmed smiled. “When you create your cards, be sure you start the same way.” Waite came back with a notebook and rushed over to the table. He put on his gloves and clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “Let’s get started, shall we?” Ahmed looked meaningfully at Pamela. “I am down the hall if you need my assistance. In Dr. Woodman’s former office, Mr. Waite. You know where it is.” Waite grunted an answer and Ahmed continued, ”And once again, I ask you to handle these Sola-Busca cards with the utmost care.” Before leaving, he removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his tunic and placed it under Pamela’s hand. He left the room. Pamela slid the note into a skirt pocket as Waite pulled up a chair next to her. He picked up the Sola-Busca Fool card. The clicking sound in her head started up, the same sound as at Ada’s parlor when Waite was fighting Aleister. She wondered, Is this a signal from Waite or from forces because of Waite? She tried to calm herself and listen to what he was saying, but the insistent clicking kept on. “We will start with the zero or beginning card of our tarot deck. First, we should discuss the Fool, the first character in most decks. What does the Fool mean to you?” “A foolish person, someone who acts without thought. Reckless.” “Very good. Now tell me what you see.” He moved the Fool card from the Sola-Busca deck closer to her. Pamela studied the card: a man wearing a ragged costume with a large headpiece drooping with feathers and leaves, playing the bagpipes with a crow on his shoulder. “This is the first card?”

“Yes, the Fool will be numbered 0, the number of unlimited potential or complete loss. The Fool will come at the beginning of the journey.” “How many cards am I to create?” “Twenty-two. They will be in a deck showing the hero's journey and they will be major cards or as we will call them, the Major Arcana.” “Twenty-two cards depicting a hero's journey starting with the Fool?” Pamela picked up the Fool card, she turning it over in her hand. “Is it obvious? I feel no connection with this card. A ragged man with a crow? Playing bagpipes is about the only foolish thing about this.” “Bah! It is not necessary for you to feel a connection to it. You can use the Disks, Clubs, Vases or Swords in the design of it. Most of these use heroes of Greek or Roman history…what is it, Miss Pamela? You don't seem…enthused?” Pamela put down the Fool card and started to look through the other cards. “This is the wrong image for the Fool.” “What?! Miss Pamela, I don’t think you understand the nature of this job.” Pamela turned and gazed at Waite. “What is the nature of this job? Why do you need these cards?” Waite hemmed and hawed, the clicking got louder in her head, and then he examined the cards with her. “Well, our deck of cards does not need to be a replica of the Sola-Busca, only inspired by them.” “Good, Mr. Waite. What are the aspects of the Fool you are looking to represent?” Waite stood and paced in front of her. “Extravagance, lack of discipline, enthusiasm, folly.” After briefly rifling through the cards, Pamela held the Five of Cups. She showed it to Waite. “This is the Fool, a man walking along a rocky path, a small white dog at his side tugging at the slouching boots, a bundle over his shoulder, gazing up at the sky.” “The Fool gazing up at the sky?”

“Gazing up at the sky, he will be stepping off a cliff, with the little white dog at his side. This is the Fool.” Waite seemed stumped by her response, not convinced. He picked up the other cards and began to sort them. Pamela started to make some sketches in her book. “Well, it is good to get started but let's not rush to judgment here, Miss Pamela. Let me see if there is another prototype that might be more appropriate. I will give you room here, just to start some ideas.” He removed the tray of cards, set it on another table, and started to examine them, separately. Pamela turned to a new page in her sketchbook, the music inside her head starting in earnest, and she sketched with new vigor. A new pulse started inside of her that sang along with her heartbeat and the music. Many forms automatically appeared on the page: a bird, a white dog, a wand with a backpack, a handsome blond man with a flowered tunic, a mountaintop. It was Nera from Maud’s Irish folk tale. She remembered the first time she floated, and the vision of him stepping off the cliff. The music ended, the sketch was complete. She rose and brought her sketch over to Waite. “This is the Fool.” He stood, staring at the sketchpad. “Why this is the very thing! The very thing!” Sitting down next to her, the clicking growing louder and louder, he picked up the sketch in his own hands, then put it down and started making notes in the margins. “Yes, it will be a white rose for the Rosicrucians, the wand will be the stick, the backpack is one, the bird denoting the holy calling… Oh! Very good. Very good. This is the first time I’ve seen your drawings, Miss Pamela! I wasn’t sure if you were talented at all.” Her face burned and she tried to shake it off, but tears sprang into her eyes, the clicking sound becoming louder and louder in her head. Determined not to let this molten feeling overwhelm her, when she was sure he was not looking she took Ahmed's note out of her pocket. It was a chart with many illustrations, a figure eight on its side, a snake, a vulture, something that looked like a shepherd’s crook, a man sitting next to a hawk and a lion at the very end.

Written in English at the bottom was a single line: “If you understand my hieroglyphics, you will know what this note means.” She looked up, staring at Waite. The clicking stopped. Eight-pound Crown “Red-headed little devil!” As she drifted among the prop tables and costume racks backstage at the Lyceum Theatre after the performance of Macbeth, the phrase popped into her head. Even though she didn’t have red hair, during the one of the company’s transcontinental train trips, when she was laughing and running down the train corridor, she had overhead Sir Henry mutter behind his newspaper, “Ellen Terry’s red-headed little devil!” Pamela had fantasized about being the adopted daughter of Sir Henry and Ellen up until that point, and then she realized that it was only a fantasy. Macbeth’s story of sacrificing children for ambition hit a terrible chord with her tonight as she waited for Bram and company to make their way down from the dressing rooms. She looked at the prop tables, the rigging, the rows of armor hung on a special rotating rack. She held in her hand a crown she had recently made for Henry, the bowl of the helmet had two wings on top, the band around the rim embedded with gems to match Ellen’s beetle dress. The previous crown she had designed was too heavy, with its many layers of tree branches and gems, and although she had not received an official complaint, she had seen that it sometimes got in Sir Henry’s way. For the role of Macbeth, he wore a long, drooping mustache, transforming his look completely but this crown would transform his look even further. It was more authentic in Celtic and Nordic traditions, and it would give Henry an angelic or devilish look, depending on the lighting. She had worked with the stage manager, Lovejoy, and the props department for a month to create it. Pamela had recently decided to leave the Lyceum Theatre as an employee and this new, improved crown was to be her parting gift to Sir Henry.

Ever since she had discovered the altar in Henry’s quick-change room, with the Wand, Sword, Cup and Star now nestled together, she had a feeling of estrangement from her theatre family. There were worlds of secrets backstage, onstage and all around her and she now knew she would never be in the inner circle of Henry, Ellen or Edy’s life. But she was sure the tokens hidden in that room were some sort of magical talisman to protect the Great Man. She wandered along the back rail and looked up to see the many canvases hung in a row in the fly space above her. The last canvas next to the wall was for King Arthur, a show that had been out of the rotation for years. She leaned her head back and saw the scenery from Cravens, the painter of castles and scenery for Henry. Then she saw something that made her heart lurch. “That’s my banner!” she thought. As a young girl with Craven by her side, she had painted the four symbols that now flew above her, the tetramorph. Later, on tour, these very symbols would be taught to her by Sir Henry: the winged ox (a symbol of St. Luke, the sacrifice of Christ), the Eagle (the ancient symbol of the beginning of youth, initiation and new visions), the winged lion (the Holy Orders of Knighthood by the Lion of Judah), and the winged angel (the cherub with his four wings blowing out the sounds of devotion, with his horn). She wondered if she’d ever told Sir Henry she had contributed to the painting of this canvas; it had been brought out of storage for a revived performance of King Arthur. She hadn’t seen it in over a decade - not since when she was at the Covent Garden paint room with her parents and grandmamma. She walked out further onto the bare stage of the Lyceum and gazed up at all the empty tiers and box seats. On the stage itself, all that was left was the throne from the show and a lit gas lamp. She went to the throne and sat on it for a moment. She heard the sounds of light clicking on the floor and before she knew it, Fussie had come out from backstage and leapt into her lap. Fussie was an affectionate and spoiled dog who lived up to her name by refusing to sleep on any floor, always on a bed with a scarf of Henry’s. The animal sniffed the new crown and then set to work licking Pamela’s hand thoroughly.

Henry Irving came out from backstage in formal street clothes, exhausted and preoccupied, and saw his dog with Pamela. Yet another one to take care of, he thought. He was going through the most demanding period of his life. His Lancelot in King Arthur had seriously injured himself, and a new actor in the company, his old friend William Terriss, was taking over the role right before a very important opening. The theatre had become a giant machine with huge responsibilities and budgets. Henry was responsible for the pensions of some forty older actors, the payroll for the backstage and front-of-house staff, numbering 350, and the casts for his shows, sometimes numbering over two hundred. And what the world didn’t know was that he paid Ellen Terry, £200 a week. Tomorrow night, he was hosting a supper for the opening of the restaging of King Arthur in the area of the theatre that was called the Beefsteak Club. The event would include a who’swho of London society, including the Prince of Wales. His patroness, one of the wealthiest women in England, the sixty-seven-year-old Baroness Burdett-Coutts, would also be in the audience tomorrow night. She had been his longtime advocate, but her new husband, the twenty-seven-year-old William Bartlett, who had done charitable work for her, was now influencing her to invest more in hospitals and the Columbia Flower market than in the Lyceum. Henry would have some serious work to do to compete with those humanitarian organizations. Then there were his obligations to his clubs, the Savage Club, the Garrick Club, the Green Room and the Marlborough Club, where he went to glad-hand and socialize with the men of the day. Not to mention buying the rights to scripts, whether he intended to produce them or not, but showing enough interest to keep the likes of Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde supportive of his theatre. And the likes of George Bernard Shaw were making his life hell. Madly in love with Ellen, Shaw was a critic for the newspaper The World and constantly harping on the fact that Henry had no interest in Shaw or Pinero or any of the other playwrights who wanted to shine a light on the darker side of society. Henry’s vision was to

restore Shakespeare and the classics to the masses, not produce ugly stories about venereal disease or social injustice as entertainment. Like a magician who must keep practicing his routine in order to keep on top of his mastery, Henry shone when his roles depicted him as the “Sacred Monster.” Some roles he performed eight hundred times, to what he saw as a demand from the audience. This clamoring for the ‘new theatre’ was driving him mad. He had enough to do to keep the factory of the Lyceum producing plays that the middle class wanted to see, could now afford and could now attend with the sanction of the church. In fact, in his everyday dress, Henry looked more like a typical Victorian deacon than a Sacred Monster: with his long hair, pincenez glasses, and a long frock coat; he was taking on the appearance of the Methodist minister his mother had wanted him to be. And his mission was to be of service to this theatre and keep it the London institution it had become, with almost a religious following. His followers, the Irvingites, were young men who grew their hair down to their collars, wore the same glasses as he, and claimed to have memorized Shakespeare’s entire canon. And his relationship with Ellen was at odds with his responsibilities to his theatre. Ellen needed to have people around her constantly, her children and admirers and people representing the causes she was currently supporting. Henry lived a very simple life, in spare rooms near the theatre with farmer fare food and an occasional cigar while he and Bram directed the course of the theatre’s unforgiving daily schedule. And then there were the society women who fawned over him and sent him on cruises and holidays and dedicated fountains and schools in his name, anything to have a day trip with the Great Man. In comparison, Fussie demanded the right amount of attention and gave total devotion. And Henry’s stage innovations were drying up, as he was caught in a cycle of staging the favorites with the same tricks, the same special effects with lights and salt, and the same attempts to make fog onstage without creating a toxic blend of charcoal and fanning. It was years since he’d been willing to gamble on new

effects, as the same repertoire determined that people would come back to see the beautifully painted sets, some two thousand painted flats now stored outdoors near a railway line, as there was no room at the theatre to keep them. Pamela actually cried when she heard the flats were being stored exposed to the elements, but Bram told her that when decent and affordable warehouse space became available, they would they would be moved back to the Lyceum. And now Pamela needed special consideration, just when Henry’s two sons were clamoring to be actors at the Lyceum, much to the furious reaction of their mother. Laurence would go on tour with Henry at the end of the season, and Harry made it known that once he completed school he would like to be in the business too. Pamela was constantly asking Bram if she could design sets or costumes, but she never submitted the proper sketches for consideration and Henry couldn’t use her work when his trained scenic designers had all gone to London art schools. Pamela’s gifts were more along the lines of posters and cards, while large-scale scenes had complex proportions to consider, and Henry was not convinced she could handle the job when there were so many skilled hands ready to do exactly as he bade them. While tutoring Pamela on tour, he found her to have a quick mind and good ability to draw, sketch, recite and entertain, but she was a noisy imp, ready to get into mischief with Edy at a moment’s notice. In a child of twelve it would have been charming, but Pamela was eighteen. Ellen brought her into their lives and coddled her, but in his mind, Pamela did not fit well in the demands of his business. She needed to go somewhere to freely express herself without trying to fit into Henry’s world of classical theatre repertoire. This new group of Bram’s might be just the ticket. He stood for a minute watching Fussie demand his petting from Pamela and then went over to her. She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes and he kissed her on the head. She put down the dog from her lap and ran to embrace him. She was one of the few people outside of Ellen who could show her affection for the Great Man, although he would roll his eyes when others saw her bounce around

him like a Labrador puppy. Secretly pleased with her carefree expressions, he tried to tone down her exuberance. Tenderly unwrapping her arms from around him, he chucked her under the chin. “Miss Pamela, I understand this is to be your last day with us?” A slight sniff from Pamela, who brought out the crown to show him. “Yes, Sir Henry. I wanted to see if this new crown I designed for you is lighter.” She shyly displayed it. He held it up to the stage lamp, turning it around. As he took in the artistry of her crown, she saw his gaunt face, the beaked nose, the ever-more-greying hair, the large brown eyes that could be cold hard magnets or burning embers. As the most famous thespian of the day, he was to be the first actor to be knighted. The Lyceum would be touring again in America this next year, but this time without Ellen. It was rumored that she would be in a new show that George Bernard Shaw had written for her. Henry handed the crown back to Pamela, nodded, and sat on the throne for Pamela to fit it. Fussie immediately jumped up onto his lap and curled up. When Pamela crowned him, he turned his head from side to side to test its fit, smiling wryly. “Yes, uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” “Especially an eight-pound crown.” “Especially an eight-pound crown. This feels more like a fivepound crown. Excellent.” Removing the crown and holding it, he leaned back and gazed at Pamela, still very much a schoolgirl with Ellen’s air of gayety and naïveté. He noticed on the top of the crown, a pair of wings flanking the sides. “Wings, Pamela?” “Yes, the demonic and the angelic have wings, Sir Henry.” As he returned the crown to her, a smile crossed his face and he looked away. “Has your theatre life been all you had hoped? Learning the ways of stage and magic?” Pamela hesitated and busied herself with the crown, then started her large laugh. Henry joined in. “Pamela, no one here, not even your beloved Ellen and Edy, wants you to squander your gifts. Creativity is magic and you must put your name to it.”

“You see, I’ve been offered a big job for little money. Designing cards. Using the knowledge of the Egyptian symbols, too.” “So Bram tells me. If it's a big job, you don't do it for money the first time. You do it for the experience.” “I start fully committed with them tomorrow.” “Ah, I see.” With that he woke the now-sleeping little dog, rubbing her ears and setting her down, and rising to his great height, said, “Make magic, Pamela. You are still under my protection, don't forget that.” “Yes, Sir Henry. You taught me so much, sir. Goodbye.” Henry took her by the shoulders, looked at her and tenderly embraced her. Pamela became teary-eyed but Henry held her at a short distance and held up a finger, moving his hand like a magician pretending to gather her tears and throw them away. Pamela laughed and collected herself, taking a deep breath. He looked at her to make sure she was settled and then turned and started to leave. “Come on, Fussie, home to supper.” As he started out, he heard the laugh. Ellen was coming out of her dressing room talking baby talk to someone unseen, and then she appeared on her side of the stage in a beautiful violet dress holding a little version of Fussie, who was whining at being held and seeing the bigger dog. Henry stopped and turned around to see Ellen starting to cross the stage. She stopped and gazed at him, totally oblivious to Pamela now sitting on the throne. The two stood immobile, each on one side of the vast Lyceum stage. She finally put her hand to her cheek as though caressing it, and with an open hand waved it toward Henry, as though sending him a caress through the air. With his free hand, he pantomimed catching it and putting it in his pocket. He patted it as though to keep it safe and gave her a nod, then turned and disappeared. Ellen and Pamela both watched him make his way out. Ellen then spotted Pamela and saw the crown in her hand. She and the little dog made their way to the throne. “Did he approve of your new crown?” The little dog in her arms started to yip with excitement and tried to nuzzle Pamela. “Yes, I think he did. But who is this?”

More noise and chatter echoed down to the stage and William Terriss, Bram Stoker, Satish and Edy came out from the wings in their formal street clothes. “Pixie, this is Drummie, just a little version of Fussie. Henry got me this sweet little fox terrier. He knows I am so low because you are leaving us.” In Ellen’s arms, the fox terrier held out a paw and the approaching group laughed. Pamela looked over at the cunning little dog and clutched her heart playfully. Satish teased her, “You’ve been replaced by a dog!” They all laughed again, Pamela included. Ellen embraced her while still holding the dog. “No, darling Pixie, you can never be replaced, even by a little Fussie! But enough about my dog. You must tell us everything about your new job! But first, here is one of our first company members come home, William Terriss.” William, an Adonis, stepped forward to meet Pamela. His beautiful profile and blond hair was exactly as Pamela remembered. He was wearing an enormous coat, balancing a stage sword on his shoulder and had the jolly energy of an American. He stopped before her and the music in her head started, a new melody she had never heard before. “Hello.” He looked curiously at her. “Have we met?” She stammered, “You saved me.” He looked at her more closely and exclaimed, “The little girl from the bridge!” There had been moments in Pamela’s life when people, objects, motions burned themselves inside of her like Ezekiel’s vision of burning coals of fire. This was one of those moments. Although William was standing there in front of her, another form of him seemed to step forward. It was Nera, the Irish explorer who was trapped in the síd, stepping off the cliff with the dog by his side, the wind blowing in his hair, the wand in his back sack, the image of the hero that Maud had told her about all those years ago. This ancient image of Nera seemed to lie over the image of Terriss and become translucent as his sword became the wand, Ellen’s dog transformed into the little white dog, and his frame became one with the Nera.

Looking past him, Pamela saw the canvases hanging above, her banner flying over the castle of Camelot. Embedded in the artwork, her winged figures started to writhe, the Tetramorph that she first created with the scenic painter, Craven, all crawling and wriggling. Suddenly, the four creatures lit up and flew out from the very fabric of the canvas over her head, coming back to float above William. Her winged cherub, the winged lion, winged ox and eagle were all buzzing and darting around him, inspecting him and then looking back at Pamela. So he looks like my Nera Fool card, she implored the flying creatures silently. What more is there? The winged, small beasts circled around his head and then flew straight up into the fly space of the theatre. Two words popped into her head. Beware Anwass. She didn’t even know what that meant. “Pixie? Pixie?” Are you all right?” Ellen was shaking Pamela by the arm. Bram came near her and looked up into the fly space, only seeing the catwalk that crossed over the stage above the proscenium arch. He turned to her and inquisitively looked into her eyes, his bulky frame towering over her. “What were you seeing there, my girl?” Gulping, Pamela choked out, “Flies.” Terriss smiled at her. “Yes. It was as though we flew.” Her hands clenched as she brought them forward, almost as in prayer, and felt a swoon inside her rib cage, a warm melting away of not belonging, of not being special, of not being worth saving. She stood before him, basking in the joy of knowing that she was worth rescuing. Devil Incarnate In a rage, Aleister continued to throw books off the desks in the main room of the Golden Dawn. Florence followed him and picked

up the books as quickly as she could; they continued to hit the floor at a steady pace. Annie ‘Hornibags’ stood in the doorway at the end of the room, both hands clutching the sides of the entryway. It was late at night, and they seemed to be the only people in the headquarters, where his quick steps sounded like a hammer pounding, with punctuations of landing books. He raced around a desk and double-backed to Florence, slapping the pile of books out of her hands. “Denied!” he roared, “How dare you deny me access to the Vault! Florence stood still, her workday outfit of a white blouse with a man’s tie and full skirt completely disheveled. In a quiet voice, she addressed him as she straightened her tie, ”Aleister, Level Two and the access to the Vault are off limits to you. We’ve had too many complaints about your methods.” Stopping dead in his tracks, he growled, “Who? Who dared to complain about me?” Slowly walking from the doorway, Annie, wearing an emerald green day dress with embroidered dragons, approached Aleister. “The identity of those who have come forward must be protected. Aleister, we have warned you before about using the methods of the Golden Dawn as a means of sexual seduction.” He started to laugh, then became furious. “This knowledge is mine, do you hear? It is hard won and hard earned through the dark nights of experimenting and courage. I can use it on whomever I please.” Annie flinched. “Courage? Humiliating someone is courageous?” “It’s Elaine’s mother, Alice, isn’t it?” he asked. “She has this absurd idea that I visited her daughter in her bedroom in astral form. If you must know, Hornibags, it was the much more attractive footman from downstairs who rumpled the sheets.” Annie kept to her course. “Aleister, you have been overheard boasting about your Sex Magick. Your amorous conquests are not what the Golden Dawn was created for!”

“Of course not, Hornibags! You would never be open to Sex Magick in your lifetime! But others are, and it’s a potent magic, I tell you.” Florence tried to get Aleister to sit, to no avail. “In all the philosophies embraced by the Golden Dawn, Christianity included, the tenants of kindness, goodness and the pursuit of all good karma…” He now exploded, “To hell with Christianity, Rationalism, Buddhism – all the lumber of the centuries. I bring you a positive and primeval fact, Magick by name! With this I will build a new Heaven and a new Earth. I want none of your faint approval or faint dispraise; I want blasphemy, murder, rape, revolution, anything, bad or good, but strong!” Annie and Florence stood closer together, Annie taking the lead. “That is quite enough, Mr. Crowley. Your focus on these matters and your intention to use the Golden Dawn’s resources as means of seduction will not be tolerated.” He angrily replied, “No, enough! It is me who won’t tolerate you!” Annie put out a hand to turn him back and he lurched forward to grab the tie around Florence’s neck, strangling her as he dragged her along. He drew her forward like a yoked animal as he made his way to the other side of the room. He finally threw her down, and Annie caught Florence as he disappeared into the other room, home of the forbidden Vault. The eight-foot-tall temple-like structure of the Vault was set up on a dais, with ornate astrological and alchemical symbols dictated by Yeats and drawn by Moira, painted in a gold leaf so that in the low light, they sparkled like jewels. The door to the temple was shut but Aleister jumped up to throw the door open. Inside the Vault, Mathers was Lévitating, the sphinxes flanking him. As the door opened, Mathers crashed to the floor, and the sphinxes disappearing. Mathers dusted himself off, furious, and turned on Aleister. “You. You. You. No right! No right!” Aleister pushed past him and started to throw the notebooks, candles and canvas bag Mathers had with him out onto the floor. “Out! Out, you idiot! I will be using this now!”

Felkin, in his typical elegant attire, appeared before the Vault calling out, “Really! What is going on here?! You don't have permission to be in here, Crowley!” Sputtering, Mathers joined in. “This. Is. Not. T-t-t-tolerated! In the vault, when I was practicing!” Bram, Waite and Pamela entered the outer room, Pamela carrying her book bag and sketchpad. They saw the distraught Florence being helped up by Annie, Florence uncharacteristically shaken, and heard shouting from the Vault room. Bram ran to Florence demanding, ”What’s happened here?” Annie gulped, “Aleister Crowley has lost his mind! He was told he was not permitted to go to Level Two and he attacked Florence! Now he’s gone into the Vault!” Bram and Waite led the way into the room with Annie, Florence, and Pamela on their heels. Inside the Vault, Aleister saw Pamela and charged out of it towards her in a rage, slapping the sketchpad out of her hands. Turning on Felkin he bellowed, “You give the assignment of the creation of these tarot cards to this simple girl, when you have one of the greatest minds of this century before you!” Felkin sprang into action to steer Aleister away, as Pamela retrieved her fallen sketchpad. “Mr. Crowley, Miss Pamela has an extraordinary ability to draw and an extremely deep knowledge of symbols, both talents you do not possess.” Annie joined Pamela, adding, “We have a very exact directive that we are following in creating these tarot cards, Mr. Crowley.” Waite sneered, ”Yes, Crowley, you are not meant to create this tarot deck.” “Oh, yes! You, Mr. Waite, a clerk with no formal training! You, who have put this project in her very ill-prepared mundane hands! If you really understood Lévi's version of magic and tarot, you would see that even your understanding of the pentagram is incorrect! You don’t understand that the pentagram reversed represents evil, not good. You are blind! You are all a molt of muddled middle-class mediocrities!”

Annie sidled up to Aleister and stood before him with Felkin. “Aleister, besides your hot temper, you show no sense for pure magic; this is why you will not be graduating to the second level to practice magic.” Pamela also approached him and tried to touch his arm, but he violently jerked his arm from her and moved away. She still persisted in trying to soothe him, “Aleister, that's Irish for Edward, isn't it? Not your given name, is it?” Seething, he placed himself directly in front of her, “Damn my given name. My real name is Beast666.” Trying to send a pulse of healing magic from inside her, Pamela moved even closer to him as he heaved before her. “We are kindred spirits, Aleister.” “We are not! I long for illumination, for perfect purity of life, for mastery of the secret forces of nature. You are children playing with fire.” Aleister's left hand began to glow, and he started pacing in a more maddened tempo. The group backed away from him as he stepped back into the Vault. Once inside, his face transformed into that of a golden goat with large horns, and his body became that of a naked satyr with cloven hooves. Sputtering and cursing, invoking an incantation that none of them understood, he writhed until his feet were pawing at the floor. Bram tried to reach through the door to grab him and then backed away, shocked. Huge vampire bat wings now attached themselves to Aleister’s shoulders and he grew to fifteen feet tall. The fingertips of his left claw began to ignite like a torch, and his naked body sprung forward on his powerful haunches. He pawed himself out of the Vault, destroying the structure. He now towered over them, his eyes transforming into golden embers. The room cowered under his wings as his hand now ignited into a blazing torch. The upside-down pentagram etched on his forehead was now smoking. He held the torch over them all, keeping its flame over Pamela’s head. His voice was now unrecognizable. “You are all caught in your own chains of imprisonment and powerlessness. I leave you to them.”

He hovered over Pamela, his torch arm almost grazing her face. “I will destroy you and your name.” As he charged out of the room, they heard a windowpane break. The room stood in shocked silence. Pamela looked at the members of the Golden Dawn and backed away.

PSC – Magic The last few chimes of the clock rang out as the group remained huddled over teacups and whiskey glasses in Ada Leverson’s parlor. Bram’s Irish accent broke the silence. “Ah, midnight, the witchin’ hour.” Felkin, studying his fine profile in the reflection of his half-empty whiskey glass, was perched between Annie ‘Hornibags’ and Ada. Annie was still wearing her green dragon day-dress, Ada resplendent in her Worth evening dress, the bodice constructed as a dragonfly with its wings encasing her bosom. Waite stood complacently behind her, watching Pamela drift around the room. Mathers and Mina, in deep conversation on a nearby settee, looked more like lovers than comrades in their non-blinking concentration on each other. Ada watched Bram down his glass of whiskey. “You are sure Aleister was focusing on only Pamela in his threats?” Pamela paced around the finely appointed room, looking at the artwork on the walls, her mind still reeling from Aleister’s transformation at the Golden Dawn meeting room. Desperate to be with Edy and Ellen, who had been notified that Pamela might be in danger, she tried to calm herself until they arrived by looking at scenes of French countryside and wet boulevards. In the weeks since she had been working on the tarot card of the Fool, she had hardly seen Bram, except when he was escorting her from the British Library on a day off. She had never spent so much time solely in the company of men, and it was a strange time of isolation for her. Waite would meet Pamela at the Library’s drawing tables to instruct her as to the creation of the cards. But it was Mr. Ahmed Kamal, in the artifacts room, who felt like her true companion in understanding the characteristics of the cards. When Waite would disappear, which he did quite regularly, Mr. Kamal would bring her esoteric manuscripts with symbols from all the great cultures and religions, and they would silently acknowledge something appearing

in one image and reappearing centuries later in another. Sticks would become wands in some tarot cards only to become swords or batons in others. The early Italian Triumph engravings of Love, Chastity, Fame, Death, Time and Eternity would evolve into single cards of the 1450 Tarocchi deck. Waite would drone on and on about the Lévi French illustrations, but it was the Marseille and Sola-Busca tarot decks that spoke more eloquently to her. She thought of the simplicity of meaning that she’d been taught at Pratt and how Dow, her teacher, would be over the moon to see some of the artifacts Mr. Kamal had let her handle. And now this horror show that Aleister had just put on was echoing in her mind. Where did he get the power to transform himself? she thought to herself. From Nanny, she had learned of the Jamaican voodoo magic and the way evil transformed itself there, witches stealing babies and Death hunting you down like Annancy. But Aleister’s form was huge and vicious, his hatred almost a palpable thing. She had been chosen to design the tarot cards and that seemed to set his fury off to unimagined depths. Pamela felt an icy patch of fear inside her, not only for herself but also for her future hopes. “I knew at first sight not to trust him!” Waite exclaimed as he clenched down on his cigar. Bram and Felkin puffed on their cigars and took more sips of whiskey as Ada sat closer to Annie. “I knew that Aleister was talented in those ways, but what you are saying is truly astonishing. Are you sure you didn’t all ingest a drug for a group ceremony and experience a hallucination?” “Ada. You know me,“ Annie recoiled. “And talented? More like deeply disturbed. Florence thought his intent to acquire Level One was not to be trusted, and it turns out she was right.” Felkin sat back in his chair, blowing smoke. “The dilemma now is that we need to limit his access to the Vault and to its powers. He obviously has the talent for group hallucination. Or manifestation.” Mina and Mathers stopped talking among themselves and came over to the group around Ada.

“D-d-deeply skilled in ways we are not,” Mathers jealously murmured. “He has spent time in a Vault somewhere and has learned h-h-how to invoke spirits.” Felkin frowned. “Who do you suppose has been teaching him how to call them forth? Certainly, none of us have been tutoring him.” There was silence as they all mulled who among them was most likely to have betrayed the group. The Golden Dawn’s rituals were among the most coveted secrets, and it was not unthinkable that one of its members would try to seize control by divulging secrets. Bram then blurted out, “Well, it’s not Yeats. He’s in Dublin with Maud Gonne doing his singsong theatre.” Felkin then sighed and relaxed. “Bennett. Allan Bennett. He’s been going through a bad time, and I heard he had stayed with Crowley for a while.” Waite looked up and then hit his forehead. “Of course! He’s a Buddhist now, he says, so he wouldn’t even charge Crowley for the knowledge, just hope that he would use it for good. Well, we’ve all seen how that worked.” The butler entered and bowed. “Miss Ellen Terry and Miss Edy Craig.” Ellen, carrying her dog, and Edy rushed into the room, and Pamela ran to embrace them, the dog licking Pamela’s face. Bram ambled over and hugged them like a big bear. The group made its way to the others at Ada’s table. Ellen still wore her stage makeup, but somehow it didn’t look coarse or bizarre; it only heightened her features in the dimly lit room. The men were rapt with attention as she approached. “Miss Terry, Miss Craig,” said Ada, “thank you so much for coming on such short notice. Our Pixie has had a most trying day.” Ellen linked arms with Bram and squeezed Pamela’s hand. “I understand, that is to say, not that I understand what’s happened. Oh dear! Running on! I only hope you truly are not in terrible danger.” Pamela laughed but it was a pale imitation of her usual laugh. “Miss Ellen, I am fine.” Felkin blithely interjected, “You see, she’s fine, Miss Terry. You needn’t have been disturbed.”

Edy grimaced and then demanded of Felkin, “What did happen tonight? What was this ‘danger’?” Felkin rose from his seat and elegantly posed in front of Edy. “We sent word for you because one of our members seems to have had a nervous fit and threatened Pixie.” Edy stood toe to toe with him. “A fit? Threatened?” Ellen tried to defuse the standoff by coming to Edy’s side. “Ah, Dr. Felkin, was it Mr. Crowley?” Felkin went back to his whiskey, “Yes, he had some sort of mental delusion. It could very well be depression or some sort of temporary mania.” “But he threatened Pamela?” “He threatened all of us, but Pamela seems to be his focus.” “How will you thwart him? Do we need to notify the police?” “NO! No. The police are not necessary at this point. If he does more than boast, than we will have grounds to contact the police.” Felkin puffed furiously on his cigar. Bram then attracted attention by swinging his large boxer’s arms to bring back circulation and moving his head back and forth to loosen it as though he were ready to step into a boxing ring. He then sparred with an imaginary opponent for a few swings. The conversation in the room came to a halt as the others watched him go at it. Seeing their reaction, he dropped his arms, gave a slight chuckle, and with his Irish accent in full form, said, “Sorry, ladies and gents, I was just thinking on how I would like to take that Cambridge dandy on. But here’s the thing: he can’t touch us when we put our minds and energies to it. I feel the responsibility for the safety of our Pixie, since I’m the one who brought ‘er in. For the next few days, Miss Ellen, perhaps she could stay with you while we sort out what we need to do?” Ellen gazed at Bram in a new light. Not just Henry’s valet. Interesting, she thought. She put an arm around Pamela. “She shall be well looked after.” Felkin put his hands over Ellen’s, in an attempt to touch the grand lady. “Very well, then. We shall send Mr. Stoker to retrieve her

when this whole breakdown business of Mr. Crowley's has been addressed.” Ellen smiled and retrieved her hands. ”Excellent. Send word. We shall be at my lodgings, Bram. Good night, all.” Pamela turned to the group as she started to leave, “Good night, all. I hope Mr. Crowley recovers himself.” Pamela, Edy and Ellen were starting out, when Waite came and took Pamela by the elbow. Smiling, he quietly talked to her. “Just a quick word, Miss Pamela. I'll send her out to you, Miss Terry, in just a moment.” Ellen and Edy studied Pamela, who nodded, and they made their exit, Bram and the others sitting back down around Ada. Waite stood a few feet from Pamela and let out a small breath, his brushy mustache moving back and forth. “Miss Pamela, you have seen the depth of Crowley's power. You must keep what you've seen to yourself, if you care about Miss Terry and Miss Craig.” Pamela’s mouth twisted as she tried to say that she would not tell them, but the words would not come out. “Until we discern Crowley's condition, you must not tell them what you have just seen. Do you understand me, Pamela? It would only endanger them.” “You think he would harm Miss Ellen and Edy? They have nothing to do with the Golden Dawn.” “We will devote all our talents to making sure that you are all protected. But we are dealing with a madman who obviously has great abilities. Don’t be frightened, we will do our best. Now, go with your beloveds. In a few days, Bram will come by and fetch you and let you know where we are.” He added, “And Pamela, when you go to the Museum to study with Mr. Kamal, don’t go there alone.” Waite looked at her almost fondly. “Remember, not a word.” Pamela stared at him, trying to read his energy. She saw it was a blank wall. He smiled a weak smile. “As you say.” Slowly she turned and saw Bram mid-discussion with Felkin. “Good night, everyone.” They rose and bade her good night, Waite strolling back to the group with a decanter he picked up off the buffet. The others swarmed around Waite as though he were honeycomb.

At the door, she pivoted and glanced at Waite in the center of the group. He seemed to stand out from the others in a strange light. In the back of her mind she felt the pulsing of the clicking she experienced when Waite was around. He was now gesturing with his hands to Bram and Ada, while a dark mass started to emanate from the top of his head. It formed letters from a typewriter, and the clickclacking started to pound like a drum as they escaped from his head. The keyboard letters flew and swirled like insects. They began to course around his head until they materialized as a small tornado, the music in her head pounding, the throbbing beat in time to the soaring letters. Suddenly three letters floated up and away from the swirling mass: P C S. Her initials! Saving the Fool Ahmed sat back in his chair in the borrowed office at the British Museum. Lord Compton would ‘let’ Sekhemka live in Northampton. He read the letter again: “Spencer Compton, second Marquis of Northampton, who took possession of the statue of Sekhemka in 1850, has left it to his son, Lord William Compton. Rather than return the statue to Egypt, Lord Compton has agreed to donate it the Northampton Museum.” He wondered what the Egyptian ambassador had received in exchange for this. During this time of the British Occupancy or the ‘veiled protectorate’ in Egypt there were many under-the-table negotiations. Ahmed’s job was to come to England and track down and procure the ‘wandering’ artifacts that were leaving his country for the new museum that his ruler, Khedive Tawfiq, was building in Cairo. And Sekhemka was to be a major exhibit. In pristine condition, this magnificent two-and-a-half-foot sandstone statue from the fifth dynasty depicted the royal chief and judge Sekhemka with a scroll on his lap, and his wife, Sit-Merit, sitting at his side. The statue had been found near the Giza pyramids, at the archeological site where Ahmed had worked during

his tenure at the Giza Museum. How this statue had made its way from Giza to Northampton – rather than to the Museum in Giza where Ahmed worked – was a subject of much debate and some heartbreak, at least in Egyptian circles. How would Sekhemka, royal chief and judge, rule on this case? Ahmed wondered. Would he say it was better that this statue be in a museum for the public to see rather than in a private house as a rich man’s plaything? Just as the Westcar papyrus is to be left in the museum in Berlin thousands of miles from the ancestors who created it. Or should it be left in the unguarded vaults of my people in Egypt, possibly plundered by the next regime or impoverished workmen? As he sat there wondering what his course of action should be or even could be, he saw through the windows in his office, the small frame of Pamela Colman Smith dazedly coming down the hall. She is not your typical Englishwoman, like Miss Farr, he thought. Florence Farr would come and sit next to one of the mummies while Sir Ernest did his tours. She played a small hand harp and claimed to be having silent communion with Mut-em-menu, the mummy of a young student from Thebes. It was so curious that these English people, with an army of saints to worship, found the mummies from his homeland more compelling. Florence was knowledgeable about Egypt, she lectured on it and knew its history. It was only a real Egyptian person that seemed to confound her, as Ahmed had tried on several occasions to start a conversation with her, only to have her defer to Sir Ernest. Ahmed couldn’t tell if she was being demure or polite to the older Englishman in acknowledging Sir Ernest over himself, but he found it odd that she had not a single question for him about his homeland and traditions. “Here is Egypt!” he had almost said to her the last time she avoided asking him a question. Pamela was different: she would look at him with widened eyes and ask repeatedly for stories, personal stories about how he came to speak English and French, about how he’d taken part in the excavations at Dayr al-Barsha and the Nile Valley. How he wrote eight encyclopedias and hoped to start schools and a council of his

country’s antiquities. And the stories of the Gods – she most loved the story of Osiris, which was depicted on several stelas and altars that they looked at together. Osiris ruled on earth as the all-powerful king, until the jealous god Set murdered him and took over his throne. Osiris’ fall set in motion a drama of rivalry and revenge in which Set was finally defeated and Osiris restored as king. “Only through the return of the king can order be restored to Egypt,” Ahmed told Pamela, the story of Osiris taking on a new meaning for him. She especially loved the moment in the story when Osiris rises from the dead and the Kings of Egypt inherit with him eternal life through imitative magic. But mostly, she loved the tradition of honoring Osiris’ murder, when they reenact the battle of his enemies resulting in his being hacked into several pieces. It was his resurrection by his wife, Isis, who assembled his discarded body parts, which delighted Pamela. And in the story, all his body parts were found except his male member – that was never found. Pamela would laugh her loud laugh at this and think it was the funniest thing. English women! These tarot cards they were commissioning her to draw were very troublesome to him. They wanted her to pick the icons from different cards and cultures, the Sola-Busca, the Marseille deck, the Lévi illustrations and now Egyptian symbols. It was a tower of Babel, with none of the cultural integrity of what these symbols represented or the context of the stories they came from. Pamela was different: she was not willing to draw anything on the card just to please Waite, who seemed more interested in looking through the private, exclusive research materials than concentrating on what these tarot cards were to accomplish. And their purpose was something Ahmed had yet to draw out of any of these Golden Dawn people. But Pamela seemed to understand that uniting select symbols from across cultures might create a cohesive image and message, if the images were truly related. Ahmed approved of her ability to find the universal link in the images she drew. Today, Pamela seemed very different and distant. Usually they met in the artifact recovery room, but now she had come straight to

his temporary headquarters, Woodman’s former office. She came in and sat down, looking very perplexed. She had never seen him wearing his fez, or his black formal coat instead of the muslin overcoat. He looked like a University teacher instead of Mr. Kamal. She sat staring at him, as though he were from another world. After a minute he greeted her. “Miss Smith.” She looked up at him, clutching her satchel in one hand, her drawing pad in another, and softly said, “Mr. Kamal.” He glanced at her drawing pad and saw a figure of a robed man, holding a small staff upward with his right hand, his left hand down, and a simple band crown around his head, with the figure eight of the lemniscate, the figure of eternity, above his head. On a table were the tools of his trade, the sword, cup, wand and star. “I see from your sketchpad that you are drawing another tarot card. The Magician?” “Yes. He is next.” Pamela brought out his note from her coat pocket. It showed the bird, the sideways figure eight, and the lion. “The genius of creative utterance needs help from evil.” “Do you need my help?” “Yes.” She paused for a minute, then said, “I’ve had a scare. But I’m not supposed to tell anyone or it will endanger people I love.” “Ah, and what danger can they do? Except to scare you?” Pamela looked at his kind eyes and wondered if she should trust him. She couldn’t tell Ellen or Edy. Waite had made it clear that she was not to tell anyone. But Ahmed seemed to know that there could be evil associated with these tarot cards. Ahmed cleared his throat and softly asked, “Are your gentlemen from the Golden Dawn playing with fire?” “You could say that. One of them…turned into or rather, he… revealed himself to be…a demon. The Devil.” Ahmed stood up. “Ah, The Devil. What did he look like?” From her sketchpad, she took out Lévi’s devil card, the goatfaced demon with bat wings. “The French cards you showed us, the Lévi tarot cards, this demon was what Aleister turned into.”

Ahmed looked up quickly, Aleister? he thought. Ah, so not one of the Golden Dawn Chiefs, but someone else. This could be bad. “Tell me the story of what happened, from the beginning.” As Pamela looked doubtful, he leaned forward and gently said, “You will have no worries about my knowing, I promise you.” With that, Pamela finally relaxed, removing her coat and beginning with the story of meeting Aleister at Mrs. Leverson’s soiree, where he paralyzed her. Then she spoke of the second meeting at the Golden Dawn, the experience at Mrs. Leverson’s house with the sounds of the click-clacking in her head, and the vision of letters above Mr. Waite’s head. Ahmed slowly paced back and forth as Pamela recounted all that had happened to her, how it all seemed to escalate once she agreed to illustrate the tarot cards and she was no longer with her Lyceum Theatre friends. He only had a few questions to put to her. “What was this Vault?” “Who has been claiming to make magic?” “Have you done any incantations?” Then came his final question, “Do you know why these gentlemen want you to design these cards?” “Mr. Waite says it is for meditation on a hero's journey.” “Meditation! These are amateur magicians, the most dangerous kinds, Pamela! They have every intention of using whatever passage to the other side that your cards will provide.” Pamela put her materials down on a table away from Ahmed's work. “And they are not to be trusted?” Ahmed took a moment and looked at her. “What do you think, Miss Pamela?” “I don’t know.” “Exactly. That is why, if you allow me, we can safeguard some of the magic your tarot cards will create.” “Why does my magic need safeguarding? I’ve always channeled my magic to come out as whatever it wants. I’ve created these cards with good intent – I think of the good that is in them all, of the power that they will represent and I know it will make the world better!”

“Miss Pamela, you do realize that on the other side, there are just as many spirits and energies as there are here? Would you present yourself to any common crowd and invite them to come home with you and live inside your head? Or an undead who does not realize they are dead and wants to attach itself to you? No, you must learn to discern which spirit has good intent. This Aleister may have invited a very evil spirit to live inside his vibrations.” “My cards could be used for bad intent? But how am I to control that? Should I not continue?” “I am not saying to discontinue. I am saying you must use every means of mindfulness to instill the power of good symbols along with the bad, for the bad will drag them down to their level and you must keep the intent up, higher.” “Surely through evil, we realize good. Life when stifled creates an unkempt roar – full of life, force, energy!” “So, roar, Miss Pamela! But be aware there may be evil energies trying to attach themselves to your interpretation.” Pamela stopped to think for a moment and, hearing her music starting with a drumbeat, softly whispered, “I think there already is.” Ahmed took in what Pamela was saying and sat down and thought, So, this child-woman has already brought in the energy from a god. “Mr. Kamal?” “Yes?” “I think my Fool card has already come alive.” “What makes you say that?” “Because I met him.” In the Egyptian Sanctuary’s Monumental room, an empty sarcophagus stood against the wall, skid marks on the floor showing it had been pushed from the middle of the room. Ahmed and Pamela entered with a lit candle and saw the marks like claw marks on the floor. They gazed at a sandstone stela on the wall, four winged creatures on it, a man, oxen, lion and an eagle. He motioned her to sit on the floor as he removed and unrolled a piece of cloth from the satchel he was carrying. He placed a small metal dish in front of him,

poured in some powdered incense and lit it with the candle. He then gestured to her and she quickly found her Fool tarot card. She put the card on the cloth and sat cross-legged before it. Ahmed started to chant, turning his body in all four directions. Pamela closed her eyes and in her mind’s eye she saw her beloved backstage of the Lyceum Theatre. It was dark, but she began to see activity on the stage. The dress rehearsal for King Arthur was underway. Ellen and Henry in all their finery were assembled next to the throne as everyone's attention was concentrated on the very high bridge that spanned the set. William Terriss, who was waiting in the wings to make his entrance on the bridge, was stationed some twenty-five feet up, dressed as Lancelot in a floral tunic and boots. And he was the very reincarnation of Pamela’s Fool card. Her head jerked back as in her mind she saw William crossing the catwalk. “He’s crossing!” she cried. “Crossing what?” Ahmed shot back. “A river? A mountain? To the other side?” “A catwalk!” “A catwalk? What is that?” “A crossover ladder above the stage!” “So, you are at the theatre?” “Yes! I’m in the Lyceum Theatre fly space, looking down.” “And this ‘he’ is the Fool? Your incarnate?” “Yes. He is crossing over on the catwalk.” Ahmed promptly sat down cross-legged opposite Pamela. He placed the incense holder on the floor and pressed his palms together. She watched him as he lifted both arms straight up, looked at her and motioned for her to do the same. Then, he closed his eyes and she followed. When she next opened her eyes, Ahmed lowered his arms and motioned for her to pick up her Fool card. As she touched it, the clicking sound she had heard around Waite started to grow in volume. She put her hands over her ears. Ahmed, obviously also hearing it, closed his eyes, shutting the noise out. The incense smoke wavered over the Fool card, the smoke itself starting to tumble and roll. It became a mass the size and shape of a person, a tall person, then, clearly, a male person. Then before them

appeared the billowing form of William Terriss, transformed into a life-size portrait of William, a hologram undulating between Ahmed and Pamela. At the Lyceum Theatre, the evening technical run-through of King Arthur was just starting. Sullivan’s music picked up from the orchestra pit when suddenly Henry strode out from the first leg of black curtain. Henry paused at the edge of the stage looking down at the full orchestra in full throttle of displeasure. “Sir Arthur, I thought we’d cut that phrase?” The entire company waiting in the wings uttered a silent groan and looked to Lovejoy, their stage manager. He gave them the cutoff motion with hand to settle them down. Off-duty police officers and military men hired to be soldiers in the pageant scene were standing in the back and now went to slump against the furthest backstage wall. In circumstances like this usually Ellen would rally the troupe with a quick jig, or tease one of the older actors about his costume, but tonight she just stood looking straight ahead, oblivious to the building restlessness of the cast around her. The musical phrase in question was played over and over while Henry and Sir Arthur negotiated. Ellen looked around for Edy and then remembered, Edy no longer worked there. Edy was with Christopher St. John, creating the Pioneer Players, a small repertoire group working out of her flat. Pamela was also gone, working with Bram’s group, always industrious, always drawing, and creating something. “Excellent, Sir Arthur, just the right length. All right, Mr. Lovejoy, let us set up for the top of the show.” Henry took long strides back to the closed-curtain backstage, putting on his helmet as he walked. The backstage crew and cast stood at attention, and the great velvet curtains began their long sweep to reveal the stage to the house. The painted canvas, done by Cravens, Harker, and a Miss Pamela Colman, shimmered with a painted castle and forest. The lighting came up, and Henry moved to his place in front of his army to begin the knight’s promenade to the stage for the first

scene. A whistle from the stage crew notified everyone that it was ‘heads up’ for all onstage. The entire cast and crew craned their heads upwards to see on the catwalk a person cautiously walking along to make his entrance on the rocky set’s precipice. It was Terriss, playing Lancelot, preparing for the first scene. Ellen was very impressed with this new re-hire and old friend of Henry’s; she had done shows with him years ago, but their paths had hardly crossed until now. Of course, Charles, her husband at the time, was furious that Henry had hired Terriss instead of himself; at home, it was becoming exhausting trying to placate him. Now she and Terriss were to be part of a ‘second company’ of the Lyceum Theatre tour. It was to include shows Henry had picked for them to tour independently; the regular Lyceum tour heading out would contain no roles for Ellen. She knew that Henry was exasperated that she kept suggesting that he produce plays by Shaw, Ibsen and other ‘naturalist’ playwrights, or, as Henry called them, ‘socialist’s’ plays. Henry had been discussing with Bram what programming would still please the audience that had grown up alongside with him these eighteen years and that wanted to see him play the roles he was known for. He was the first knighted actor, and it meant a great deal to him that he had been recognized for adding to the English national pride in creating roles like King Arthur. And King Arthur was one of his favorite roles, although the stage battle scene with broadswords was truly beginning to be a challenge for him to perform full out. But for now, it was still the time for this king. Ahmed and Pamela were both standing in the Monumental room, the mass of incense smoke between them becoming more defined as a body, their arms lifted straight up, the Fool card in Pamela’s hands. The click-clack of the Waite sounds pounded continuously. The smoke wisps seemed to paint the form of a man on a tightrope wire, balancing one way and then the other, almost toppling. Pamela’s eyes suddenly opened wide. In her mind, she saw William with one foot hanging over the edge of a cliff, his body

starting to sway dangerously. She put her hand over her mouth, stifling a cry. Ahmed looked at her through the smoky form between them as she shook the Fool card in her hand. Waite’s clicking sounds now shifted to a strange rhythm. They became a roar, taking over take the room. Just as Pamela was about to drop her arms and put her hands over her ears in a desperate attempt to block the noise, Ahmed pointed to the ceiling. Pamela looked up. Three letters appeared and started to drift down. Each letter swirled like a snowflake at the end of a storm and eventually they intertwined, the three letters forming a cross. It floated in front of them, formed out of the letters, P C and S. The cross of letters roamed all over the Fool card still clutched in Pamela’s hand until it settled on the lower right-hand side of the cliff in the drawing. The expanded cross initials glowed like embers and burned itself into the card. Pamela’s head jerked back as she saw William Terriss was preparing for his big entrance in the King Arthur scene, putting one foot in front of the other on the shaky catwalk, Ellen's dog began to bark. He looked down, his body tilted forward, and he caught himself with a lurch. It seemed he over-corrected his balanced but then he leaned too far in the other direction. His foot slipped forward and he was suddenly mid-air. Yes, he was falling. Ahmed and Pamela reached out to the hologram of the lifesized Fool to steady it as it began to writhe and twist. A flutter of tarot cards formed like shingles on the ceiling and began to stream down on them, like rain coming from the heavens. As the streaming cards became a deluge, they began to slice Ahmed and Pamela. The two tried slapping the raining cards away from them, their sharp edges making little cuts in their hands and faces. The balancing man in smoke form now started to spin, the incense from Ahmed’s burner spinning with him, doubling and tripling in volume until both became a whirling vortex. The black smoke overcame the room, and a dull, ghastly sound came from the floor, like a dog moaning, until it built to a howl, the wind whipping them

both with piercing cuts from the cards. Out of the smoke, a pair of golden eyes appeared in a monster’s face, then ram horns, a lit torch for a hand and then, the cloven feet of the devil. It was Aleister, in his monstrous form. He blew the cards every which way and lit them on fire with his torch. He screamed and wailed as the wind kept slashing them, the cards sharp as razors slicing their clothes. Pamela struggled to keep both hands clamped onto the life-sized Fool card; it took all her strength in the wind to hold on to it as it was torn and fluttered in the fury. The devil was now floating above them, exhaling toxic fumes. Ahmed grabbed a stick of burning incense from his burner as it flew past him. The stick turned into a full flame and in the melee on the floor he drew a circle of flames around Aleister. The flames licked up Ahmed’s circle as though climbing the sides of a greased wall, containing Aleister inside the orb of the fiery, roaring enclosure. The cards were no longer attacking Pamela and Ahmed. There were only the flames consuming Aleister inside the burning circle. Sharp coyote moans and growls came from his snapping snout, then an otherworldly sound was heard as he gradually turned from bright red to black and white, and then to grey, and finally dust fell, rendering him invisible. In a sharp intake of breath, Aleister’s traces disappeared, leaving only a wisp of smoke in his wake. Fire had consumed fire. Aleister was gone, the only remains in the room were the smoldering black mounds of the burnt tarot cards glowing on the floor. Pamela still clenching her Fool card, threw it up to the ceiling with both hands, crying out, “Fly, Fool!” Just as Pamela threw up her card in the air at the Museum, at the Lyceum stage Henry looked up and saw William start to slip off the catwalk. The small staff in Henry’s right hand began to heat up and he raised his arm. He felt a surge leave his raised hand and the cast and crew were now frozen in place. In Henry’s quick-change room along the backstage wall, the altar latch opened and out fell the altar holding the wand, sword, cup

and star necklace. They flew out of the room onto the stage and soared upwards, high above, until the sword ripped open a big burlap sack at the end of the catwalk. Out disgorged something like snow; it fell like a stream from the bag. The floating cup positioned itself to catch the white stream and then proceeded to dump it furiously into a mound on the stage floor. The necklace with the star caught William’s feet and held him upside down, he was arrested in mid-air. The tools of the magician floated all around him, the wand, star, cup and sword and guided him as he landed on the floor softly. The wand signaled to all the other objects to vanish back to the quick-change room. They flew like diving birds back to their nesting place. William’s face was totally contorted, his eyes closed, his arms crossed against his chest. The cross-shape made up of three letters was still visible, lighting up behind his eyes, the music now deafening in his ears, he was in a void. Suddenly, he felt his body jerk upwards, as though a rope had grabbed him by the midsection and lifted him. Then, a great breath swelled underneath him and he felt his body make contact with the floor. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was lying on the ground floor of the stage among a mound of stage snow, rock salt, with a burlap bag directly underneath him. As he watched William starting to come to, Henry cast his eyes over the rest of the assembled actors and crew, standing in repose in various frozen forms. He took a deep breath, waved his small staff over the group and saw that the spell had been revoked. He quickly put the staff back into his King Arthur robe and rushed to William. The room slowly shrugged back to life. The actors shook their heads, and soldiers rubbed their legs as if they were feeling the prickly sensation of falling asleep. Then, as if by a group cue, the actors onstage were suddenly aware of William struggling to raise himself from a pile of snow with Henry’s assistance. They ran to him, Lovejoy and the other stagehands, joining them from offstage. The actors around them watched as Henry and Lovejoy lifted William from the burlap bag and stood him on his feet. They began to applaud and cheer, Ellen’s dog barking madly, with cries of relief

and amazement echoing through the house. Ellen was the first to embrace him. Henry turned to William after the third embrace by yet another comely actress. ”That was the most foolhardy thing I've ever seen. How you survived that, I have no idea.” William laughed and shook himself. “Yes, I am a Fool.” Ellen ran between them, once more inserting herself next to William to brush the remains of salt off him. “Oh, Henry, thank God that bag of rock salt fell at the same time!” Bram jumped onto the stage from the house. “How on earth did that bag fall?” Harvey, the prop master, came forward and he and Lovejoy examined the salt pile. Looking up at the catwalk, Lovejoy picked up the bag, saying, ”When the catwalk broke, the bag must have fallen with it.” Harvey examined the tear, “Sure, metal of the bridge must have torn it. We always store the snow for The Corsican Brothers up there. Never been a problem!” Lovejoy threw the bag down, “Another thing fiddled with here! Let’s go see to that catwalk.” Lovejoy and Harvey went off, fighting among themselves as they raced one another to inspect the catwalk. Harvey insisted it must be ‘theatre ghosts.’ Ellen went trotting after them. “Ghosts! In our theatre?! We have a theatre ghost? Oh, Mr. Harvey, you must tell me!” Bram stood very close to Henry and William, speaking in a low voice so that no one else could hear. “It was almost as if it happened by magic.” Henry’s large, dark eyes studied Bram. “Almost.” Bram turned to William. “You all right, Terriss?” “Unbelievably, yes. Of all things, only my ear burns.” They looked at his right earlobe. It had a faint tattoo of a cross, formed from the letters P C and S. Henry instantly put his hand up to his right earlobe. Bram and William looked at Henry: the same tattoo. Bram whistled and then chuckled. “Well, gentlemen, you’re marked men.”

Pamela’s Fool card slowly drifted down from the ceiling and dangled between them. Ahmed and she both had scratches like paper-cuts across their faces, their clothes shredded by the tarot cards that nicked them mid-flight. They stood panting, looking at one another and the ribbons of fabric that once were a sleeve or a pant leg. His beard and her hair were indented with small cuts and Pamela looked at the tiny trickles of blood on Ahmed’s forehead and nose, then touched the wet on her own cheek. Everything was shredded, their clothes were reduced to flapping rags. They looked like living mummies. The Fool card continued to spin like a globe between them until it was life-sized and then stopped. On his tunic, the ten circles continued to spin, casting off a sparking gold. The Fool stepped off the cliff on the card into the room, standing four feet above them and looked down at Pamela and Ahmed, his little dog coming to life, jumping off the card, and barking excitedly. The three figures stood staring at one another, the little dog dancing down to them and racing back up to Fool, bridging the space between them. She heard a familiar voice from far away. “Fly!” Nera, the story of the mortal trapped in the fairyland, was the story that first set her adrift in the world of the other, and now she was living in it. She felt her feet grow light and her body slowly rose up to meet the Fool mid-air. She dangled like an outstretched angel, rising up to meet her Fool. The ten circles in the design of the Fool’s tunic were still spinning but finally stopped, sending out golden rays that reached out to the wounds on Pamela’s face and hands, instantly healing them. She looked down and saw Ahmed still on the ground, but the rays were reaching him as his wounds closed and his bleeding stopped. Suddenly, the card became a regular-sized tarot card in Pamela’s hand. Pamela, opening her eyes wide, saw William being supported by Henry. “I see the Fool alive. It is Mr. William Terriss.”

Popping into space right next to the Fool, the Magician tarot card started to appear, the same design that she had been drawing on her sketchpad. The tarot card finished materializing and dropped into Pamela’s other hand. She then dropped down to the floor, the mirage of Fool and Magician melting into the darkened air. She up stood fully, clutching her two tarot cards and stumbled the few steps to Ahmed. He caught her by the arm to steady her and looked at what she was holding. “Pamela, it seems that your tarot cards are now coming to life on their own. Once you opened this Pandora’s box, they found manifestations on their own. Or perhaps they were here all along and waiting for a source to inhabit.” Pamela studied the Magician card. “But who is the Magician? How did he come to life? How did the Fool come to life?” Ahmed picked up her hand holding the Magician card. “Ah, Miss Smith, you know who your Magician is, don’t you? The person with the most magic in your life?” In her card, she saw it: the four tools, the wand, cup, sword and star. The symbols she first painted in the canvas in the paint room for the Lyceum Theatre as a child. “There’s The Corsican Brothers sword, and the Cup from the night the big mirror broke, the wand that Henry keeps in his altar and the star from Satish’s necklace. My Sir Henry Irving! My Magician! He first taught me how to transform sorrow, joy, fear.” As she peered at her Magician card her initials, PCS, were glowing in the corner of the card. She stood there, dumbfounded, looking at the Magician and Fool card in each of her hands. The P C and S in the Fool card was also glowing. “What have I created?” Ahmed came up next to her, and gently reassured her, “You have called in energies from the other side that were already there. They obviously know that they will be needed for some sort of grand battle coming up. You will be in charge of the order in which they are to be created.” She looked at Ahmed, overcome with the feeling of ownership and responsibility. “And the progression of the cards is to teach the

hero’s journey?” “It is if you make it so. Here are your Magician and Fool. Who will be next?” Pamela looked at him. ”Mr. Kamal. It will be…. a High Priestess.” Ahmed could not keep the joy from spreading across his face. “Yes, Miss Smith, a High Priestess! What next?” Pamela began to recite the Major Arcana, the deck of major cards in her yet-to-be-created tarot deck: “Empress, Emperor…” As she intoned, the mounds of burnt tarot cards on the floor began to light up as if snow infused. A creeping movement began in the piles and Pamela and Ahmed jumped up to see what was crawling around their ankles. The cards were reforming from molten mounds of ash to became their former glossy card-like state. Like confused snowflakes, the cards dreamily shook themselves and began to course upwards in a slow, swooping dance. The figures of the lovers, children, moons and suns began to twist and turn as they swam upwards. The room was now filled with the twenty-two cards of Pamela's Major Arcana tarot deck, brought to life, drifting about in the air. Pamela called their names, “Hierophant, Lovers, Chariot, Justice…” The cards swirled between Ahmed and Pamela, presenting themselves before them when the card was called. “Hermit, Wheel of Fortune, Strength, the Hanged Man…” A roll call of images presented themselves as they floated in the air between Ahmed and Pamela. Each one paused in acknowledgement and continued to dance its mid-air dance. “Death, Temperance, Devil, the Tower…” They looked as the shimmering arc of twenty-two cards, transparent and glistening between them, turning, gliding. “Star, Moon, Sun, Judgment.” The last card flew up between them. “The World.” The cards aligned themselves to form an arc as the Fool and Magician cards floated up from Pamela’s hands to join the rainbow-

like arc. They stationed themselves at the very beginning of the floating parade and suddenly, all at once, they lowered themselves all together to be within reach. They were twinkling and pulsating like animated stars. Ahmed stood and held out his hands, feeling the cards lightly graze his palms. “You have found the first incarnates of your cards, Pamela. It will be up to you to create the next pathway so that these cards do not fall into evil.” Pamela edged closer to the cards, looking at their progression, the children she was to create. She saw in the transparent film of her Fool card, her initials in the cliff’s surface barely legible. She moved to the next card and fondly gazed at the shimmering Magician, her initials, intertwined with the graphic design of the flora and fauna of the Magician’s garden. Her fingers lightly grazed the initials, which lit up and started to throb, almost like a vein in a child’s wrist. The clicking noise started up but instead of a torment it soon transposed itself into a heartbeat. A soft beat that throbbed in steady time. “A heartbeat! That’s what the clicking noise was telling me – to safeguard my name! I thought the clicking was the sound of Waite’s power.” Ahmed looked at her, amused. “Waite’s power clicks?” Pamela’s great laugh rang out. “When he conjured the bricks to protect me from Aleister, I heard clicking. And every time he was around me, the sound drove me mad! But the clicking was telling me to own my work. With my name, my Father’s name, and my Mother’s name – which will live through my initials. P C S. Pamela Colman Smith. On each tarot card.” Ahmed softly whispered, “These cards will be your legacy, Miss Smith. What do you have to say to them?” She felt a rush of maternal love, so many things she wanted to say to her children, her offspring. Reaching up with both hands, she felt an embrace from her family of cards. Her throat closed up in emotion and she tried to keep her voice steady. “Learn from everything, see everything, feel everything! And make everyone feel everything too!”

She suddenly felt a warm hand on her shoulder from an old friend and smelled her violet perfume. She called out one more command to her army of cards. “And Fly!” ABOUT THE AUTHOR Susan Wands lives in New York City, where she has worked as a writer, playwright, producer and actor. A practitioner of tarot cards, she has used them as a resource for inspiration and guidance for thirty years.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Foremost thanks to Stuart Kaplan, former president U.S. Games, Systems, Inc., who generously shared his time and collection of Pamela Colman Smith artwork and letters. Also thanks to the staff at U.S. Games Systems, Inc, Bobbie Bensaid, and Lynn Aruajo. This labor of love would not be possible without the support of Robert Petkoff and Cynthia Wands. Special thanks to: Debbie and Larry Freundlich, Deb Brody, Christina Burz, Gillian Burz, Margaret Emory, Krystal Kennedy, Karen McKendrick, Kent Meredith, Ryan Brown, Joel Jones, Maria Pastel, Seth Jones, Eve Luppert, Joel Patterson, Diana Bloom, Nikki Saunders, Mary Greer, Sasha Graham, Holly Webber and Jennifer Pooley, editor and champion.

The story continues with the second book. Here is a short introduction to: High Priestess and Empress Pamela pressed her face against the cold glass windowpane of the carriage, snow streaking by like miniature albino comets. Snow was a rarity in London in early November, and the slushy rut their carriage followed was no reassurance that their horses would be able to keep their balance. As they rounded a corner, Pamela slid next to the man on the bench next to her, as the woman sitting across from her strained her neck to look out the window. “Ah! There he is!” the woman cried. Big Ben began its sonorous tolling of the twelve beats of midnight and the street corners were now lit with gas flames sputtering from tall lampposts. New-fashioned cars dotted Old Brompton Road, their headlights toddling one after another, their lamps dimly illuminating the streaks of the blizzard, and in front of them, the helpless travelers scrambled across the street. As Big Ben tolled, the night-goers leaving Victoria Station met the unexpected snowstorm with the stomping of feet and the clapping of hands for carriages. This cacophony of noise created a free-for-all with the chaos of divergent, horn-blaring cabs diving in to feed on the waiting customers. Their carriage made another hard turn. “Where is he?” Pamela shouted as she scrambled to hang onto her seat and look out of the window at the same time.

The street sparrows, young boys who would manage pedestrians from curb to curb, were like lit buoys of the ocean, their coal-lamps dangling from their arm, grasping their stumbling charges with their free hand. The street was a menagerie of light and dark, swirling snow alighting on black overcoats and hansome cabs. But then, she saw him! Right in back of them - a blur launched forward from the middle of the street! The medium-sized, white terrier with dark spots was yipping and trying to bite the tires of the horseless carriage coming in the opposite direction. As he bolted to confront this strange beast of a car, he made a graceful leap in the arc headlights and he stretched out in full flight. Ellen Terry quickly took off her gloves, and with two fingers positioned in her mouth, whistled so sharp and so loud, that it cut through the snow-deadened air. Hearing his mistress’s call, he turned his head with a sharp snap, and forgetting his plans to attack the horseless machine, dashed towards her carriage, merrily dashing alongside, giving little yelps of joy. Once he was safe, having held Ellen’s gaze, he left her to dash forward of the carriage, giving the horses a run for their money. The carriage jolted forward as the horses tried to keep apace. “Ho, there dog!” and “Look out” and “What in God’s name!” rang out, as Ellen Terry switched sides of the bench to see her dog prance ahead in the snow. The man on the bench let out an exasperated sigh and said, “You will lose him one day!” She laughed merrily and replied, “Oh, no! He follows my carriage everywhere, day or night, going to the theatre or leaving it, strange town or otherwise. Especially since I have this.” Pamela looked at the floor of the compartment to where she had motioned, a small square piece of patterned carpet lay at their feet. “Yes, that is his. He lies upon it in my dressing room. Sometimes, just as we are leaving for the theatre, my maid pretends to forget it. But Mussie will dart back up to my room and bring it, dragging it downstairs into the street and only dropping it by the carriage door. He will look for it when we arrive and insists on bringing it up to my dressing room.” Bram Stoker sighed, his large frame taking up almost the entire length of the bench. In his Irish accent he complained, “And don’t ya

know, every extra and walk-on thinks they’re entitled to keep a goat, pig or monkey in their dressing room now.” The carriage jerked again, causing Bram, Pamela and Ellen to lose their balance and smash them together in the center of the compartment. Bram’s top hat, Pamela’s crow-feather turban and Ellen’s bonnet flew off and only the insulation of their winter coats prevented them from serious harm. As they disentangled their limbs from one another, Ellen playfully took Pamela’s feather turban and placed it on Bram’s large head, his full, red beard and mustache sprouting below. Her bonnet was placed backwards on Pamela’s head and his top hat was rakishly tilted on Ellen’s soft curls. The three looked at one another and burst out laughing. Pamela Colman Smith looked back, out through the backseat window to see if her trunk was still strapped to the carriage and sighed with relief to see it was still attached. At twenty, she was a seasoned pro at traveling, especially at transatlantic journeys, but this particular return had been trying. Bram and Ellen had come with her to an earlier soiree in Chelsea after her ship had docked but it had been a dizzying twenty-four hours. The chaos in trying to find her trunk on the London dock almost made her late for her performance at the townhouse parlor. In the late afternoon, a gathering had been arranged and was packed with people for her one-woman show posted as ‘Gelukiezanger’, the Jamaican folktale storyteller. She would conjure up characters in her lilting Jamaican accent, taught to her by her former Nana, a witch of St. Andrews. As she sat before three lit candles with her stuffed alligator Albert by her side, she captivated the crowd. Albert had died at a young age and was brought along for luck, good and bad, or so she said. As for the audience, it wasn’t every day London society witnessed a young woman decked out in what they considered ‘tribal fare’: a turban, bracelets, scarves, fringed shawl and accompanied by a taxidermied reptile. That afternoon’s fare centered on Annancy, the spider who dressed up in a coat of tails, tricking old Grannie Fish into thinking he was a doctor. Through much foolery, he ate Grannie Fish and escaped on the back of an alligator. Only one young lady seemed as though she would faint, but it was revealed that that was the result of a tight corset in a close room rather than the story of a fish-eating

spider. Mr. Stoker had promised an ‘exotic’ storyteller and they got ‘exotic’ although several people in the room whispered it was her connection with the Golden Dawn sect that was more scandalous than her Jamaican folktales. The nerves from the day of travel and the performance dissolved as she looked at her two dear friends, her ‘Uncle Brammy’ and Ellen Terry, the most celebrated actress of her day. Here they were, in a blinding snowstorm, posing for one another in their hats. With no parents or family in London to arrange her homecoming, such companionship soothed away the anxiety she felt about returning. Her trip to New York City had included the showing of her artwork to a gallery on Fifth Avenue where a promised future exhibition was now possible. Her illustrated stories of Annancy, reviewed as ‘Suitable For Children’, had also just been published. The publisher thought the supernatural specter of Death, Duppies and otherworldly evils in her stories were more along the lines of the Grimm Brothers tales than Beatrice Potter. He still felt there was a paying audience for young people’s fables and published them, although under very meager terms. Her hopes were high, now a published author, that perhaps the Golden Dawn would give her more authority in the design of the tarot cards she had been commissioned to create. It was determined she would living with Ellen in Barkston Gardens until she sorted out where she would be staying next. Bram Stoker, surrogate uncle and protector, had introduced her to Ellen and the Golden Dawn, and was in the throes of writing something himself. But after three years with the Lyceum Theatre on tour to America and England, working as an extra, an uncredited costume designer and illustrator for their publicity pamphlets, it was time for Pamela to branch out and make her mark as an artist. Bram took off Pamela’s feathered turban off his head and kindly handed it back to Pamela. “So, child, with your time off, did you consider finishing the tarot deck while you were visiting the land of your parents?” “I have been considering it.” “You’ve had three months to consider it and now Annie Horniman has offered to pay a living stipend if you will consider the

next two cards as women. She says she has had conversations with you before about such a thing.” Annie Horniman was the richest heiress in England. Signs advocating the purity of Horniman’s Tea were one of the first adverts that Pamela had seen as they were driven by Victoria Station. Annie was a leader at the Golden Dawn and had been hoping to be a part of the creation of Pamela’s deck, although A.E. Waite, another Golden Dawn chief, had been assigned her collaborator. There had been much angst and dark magic in the creation of her first two cards, The Fool and The Magician, and the aspects of continuing to create the twenty-two-card deck seemed overwhelming. Especially since Aleister Crowley had been dead set against her being the artist chosen to bring the cards to life. Most of the members of the Golden Dawn had no idea how ‘to life’ the cards had become or to what extent Pamela had been in danger creating them. The sounds of Mussie barking up a storm echoed from the street and the three looked out the window to see a great bonfire in the middle of a cul-de-sac adjacent to the road. It was so massive that it lit up the entire corner, the horses rearing up so that the carriage jolted backwards. After a few moments the driver calmed the horses enough for him to shout down, ”There’s a bit of a standstill, you might want to get out and see!” Pamela jumped down first, not waiting for the small step unit to be brought to the side of the carriage, and landed off-balance with a gasp, Ellen following close behind and Bram’s large frame gingerly stepping in the sloppy mess of snow and slush. A dozen other carriages and cars had stopped and a small crowd was forming around the flames. The crackling of the firewood broke the silence of the snow falling through the night sky. The three of them made their way to the massive fire in the middle of the street, a shape in the center suddenly bursting into a brighter burst of flame. Mussie advanced to the fire with cautious steps, his head jutting out, ears folded back and tail drooping between his legs, then yelping when the outburst of fire belched forward. He barked at it and then, spotting Ellen, ran to her, wiggling under his mistress’s embrace.

As the blaze started to swirl within itself, Pamela began to walk closer, Ellen and Bram staying behind near the carriage, conferring between themselves with Mussie whining at Ellen’s hold. In the deep heart of the bonfire, a dark form began to emerge, the outline of a large box- shape, almost like a coffin. But it soon became apparent that it was a multi-sided structure, at least eight feet tall, like a huge cabinet. The cabinet didn’t seem to burn down but rather seemed to be the source of the roiling, yellow flames. She could feel the heat of the flames on her cheeks; the flickering deranged tongues of fire overhead seemed to stretch towards her like arms. A hypnotic pull began to propel her as she stared into the roiling bonfire. Where had she seen this shape before? A strange dread filled her as she realized what it was; the Vault from the Golden Dawn headquarters where Aleister Crowley had appeared before the group as a terrifying demon in fire. Looking closer, within the smoke and flakes, one of seven sides of the Vault began to open up. A golden goat appeared, its large horns disappearing as they curled upwards into the dark night. It stepped out of the box, its cloven hooves a gleaming ebony and its writhing, naked torso undulating in the flames, now more Satyr than goat. The sounds of Mussie barking, the horses whinnying and the exclamations from the milling spectators all seemed to die away and only a large hum reverberated in her head. The Satyr reached for her, his claylike hands on fire. A scream started to rise in her throat and she felt strong arms around her as she tried to bat away the fiery apparition coming towards her. She heard Bram’s deep Irish voice command her. “Think of your Magician and Fool!” She shut her eyes and in the blackness burst forth the Magician and Fool images from her tarot deck. Her first two cards, modeled after her beloved Sir Henry Irving and William Terriss, the fool balancing on a cliff, the magician summoning unseen forces. The fire suddenly dimmed in intensity. The vault, the satyr’s body, and all the fire disappeared except for the golden eyes, still gleaming in the coals. Something popped within the remaining fire and a live coal exploded and flew out towards Pamela, barely missing her. She rushed forward and began kicking snow at the last

glowing coals, Mussie and Bram by her side. Mussie’s back legs churned up snow as he helped to bury the embers. Pamela threw one last mound of snow onto the hissing flames. All nerves and expectations of the day were released in a fury of spastic charges, the thrill of boots stamping out evil coursing through her blood. The others standing around the bonfire came forward and joined in, in a frenzy jostling of limbs. There were grunts, hissings, and shouts of command as the blaze began to drown in snow. As the wooden casement collapsed into itself, the last vestiges of flames became a glowing mound. Pamela, Mussie and Bram turned to run back to Ellen. “Uncle Brammie! Did you see it? Did you see the goat man inside the fire? It was Aleister, wasn’t it?” “We’ll be talking about this later.” He stopped suddenly in the snow, and taking her arm, gently turned her towards him. “But not in front of Miss Ellen, mind you.” “But why?” “I’ll be telling you soon enough. But Miss Smith, seriously, not a word.” They arrived back at the carriage, Ellen was already seated within and Pamela climbed up into the compartment next to her. Bram lifted the Jack Russell terrier up onto his carpet on the floor, where he immediately curled up and began rubbing his face against his mistress’s boot. Bram lowered himself next into the cab, slamming the carriage door shut, causing the entire carriage to shudder and sending shoulders of snow into the snowy street. The horses, frightened by the commotion, took off at a charge as Pamela steadied herself, Bram watching her with a stern look. Ellen wrapping herself up in her shawl, merrily said, “Well, Pamela, I didn’t think your welcoming committee had a bonfire on the agenda.” She felt a huge lump in her throat, her exhaustion almost giving way to tears or confession, as the pace of the horses settled to a slow clip clop. Bone weary, she rested her head back and for a brief moment, her second sight flashed an image before her eyes, it was the still the smoldering ruins of the fire. But in the center, remained

Aleister’s red eyes, open and blinking. Was this her second sight? Her second sight, or her condition when her brain sometimes crosswired, was seen as her artistic weakness. She tasted smells, heard colors and saw numbers float before her, but now she smelled something else rather than the smell of fire that chased away the specter’s golden eyes in her mind. The smell of violets wafted in the air and she heard the voice of her childhood friend, Maud Gonne. In a moment, she was ten years old. Maud had just said goodbye to her and was walking away as Pamela was left in a carriage. “You have me here and with your second sight, you can always see me.” Her eyes shut tight, Pamela saw Maud right outside the carriage. Maud. Six feet tall and wearing a black dress with wings of victory on a black hat. She was floating, looking in on them and now she began a stately rise in the air until she was floating at least eight feet above the carriage. Looking down at her, with the kind, beautiful smile on her face she commanded, “And remember…you can fly!” She smiled, opened her eyes, and Maud was gone.